The night city gleamed like a river of molten gold, weaving lights into intricate patterns against the deep velvet sky. From the window of his penthouse office, Gu Chenyan stood like a statue, silver hair glowing under the cold reflection of the city's lights. His tailored black suit fit him perfectly, the tie neatly knotted, not a thread out of place — just like the man himself: precise, controlled, and untouchable.
Only when his gaze landed on her did that icy exterior crack.
Lin Nian'an stood across from him, the reflection of the neon lights dancing across her crimson hair and the delicate line of her exposed shoulders. She wore a simple yet stunning backless red dress, elegance and seduction woven seamlessly together. Her beauty was not the loud, dazzling kind; it was silent, chilling, and inexplicably intoxicating.
They hadn't spoken for a long moment.
The tension in the room was thick, so heavy it pressed against Lin Nian'an's lungs. Her fingers clutched her small handbag tightly. She had come to negotiate—cold, rational, prepared. But now, facing Gu Chenyan's silent stare, the words she had prepared dissolved into the air.
"You've changed," Gu Chenyan finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse, as if dragging from the depths of his chest.
Lin Nian'an tilted her chin slightly, her expression cool. "People do."
"You shouldn't have," he said simply, each word dropping heavily between them.
The memories of their youth—sunlight filtering through trees, laughter shared in quiet corners—flashed through her mind like cruel illusions. But she pushed them away mercilessly.
"We both grew up," Lin Nian'an said, voice steady. "And we made our choices."
Gu Chenyan moved then, a slow, deliberate step forward. Lin Nian'an instinctively stepped back, bumping lightly against the glass wall behind her.
"No," he murmured, his hand bracing against the glass beside her head. "You didn't choose this. You were forced."
His proximity made it hard to breathe. The smell of his expensive cologne, fresh yet masculine, surrounded her. Lin Nian'an fought to keep her composure.
"I'm not a child anymore, Chenyan," she said softly, eyes meeting his without flinching. "I don't need your protection."
"Then what do you need?" he whispered, his eyes darkening.
For a brief second, Lin Nian'an saw something raw and devastating in his expression — vulnerability, desperation, longing — before it was buried under his usual indifference.
"Nothing from you," she lied, even as her heart pounded violently against her ribs.
He smiled then — a sharp, humorless curve of his lips.
"You've always been a terrible liar, An'an."
He leaned in closer, their faces inches apart. Lin Nian'an froze, the warmth of his breath brushing her skin. Her instincts screamed at her to push him away, to run, but her body refused to obey.
Gu Chenyan reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a violent shiver down her spine.
"I won't force you," he said finally, voice rough. "But I won't let you go either."
The city lights outside blurred as her vision grew misty.
"I have my own life now," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
"And I will be part of it," Gu Chenyan replied without hesitation.
Lin Nian'an closed her eyes briefly, trying to gather herself. When she opened them again, her gaze was clear and resolute.
"Then you'll have to earn your place."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face — the kind that was dangerous and thrilling.
"I intend to," he said.
Without warning, he stepped back, giving her space. The sudden loss of his warmth made her sway slightly, but she caught herself.
"Tomorrow night," he said casually, adjusting his cufflinks. "Have dinner with me."
It wasn't a question. It was an order disguised as an invitation.
Lin Nian'an lifted an eyebrow. "And if I say no?"
"I'll wait outside your door until you change your mind," Gu Chenyan said smoothly, his tone light but the determination in his eyes unmistakable.
Lin Nian'an gave a soft, incredulous laugh. "You're impossible."
"And you're mine," he said, almost to himself, before turning away.
She watched him walk back to his desk, the lines of his back stiff with restraint. For a moment, she allowed herself to remember the boy he used to be—the boy who used to chase after her, carrying her books, waiting outside her classes, protecting her from bullies with awkward bravery.
That boy had grown into a man who could command boardrooms and empires, yet still faltered when it came to her.
And despite everything, despite her own stubborn heart, a tiny, reckless part of her whispered: Maybe he always would.