Snow flurried outside City International Airport, soft flakes swirling beneath a dull-silver afternoon sky. Lin Nian'an stood just beyond the arrival gates, one gloved hand wrapped around her suitcase handle, the other buried in the pocket of a cream cashmere coat. Six years abroad had taught her to hold her shoulders high, but the moment the automatic doors hissed shut behind her, the weight of old memories pressed in like cold air through a cracked window.
She was back.
Back in the city that crowned Gu Chenyan emperor of steel and glass—back in the place she'd sworn never to see again until she no longer bled at the thought of him.
A uniformed driver hurried forward. "Miss Lin, Chairman Gu asked me to receive you."
Chairman. Not Young Master. A reminder that the boy she'd left was now the man who ran half the skyline. She nodded, slipping into the back of a black Maybach. As the car merged into arterial traffic, she pulled a dog‑eared envelope from her handbag—no name, no stamp, just the smear of ink she'd pressed into paper before fleeing the country.
If one day you look for me and I am gone, know it was not because I stopped loving you but because I could no longer survive loving you in silence.
She'd never mailed it—and he'd never chased her. That single fact had once felt like death. Tonight it tasted more like unfinished business.
⸻
The House That Waited
Dusk hovered when the car rolled past wrought‑iron gates into the private Gu estate. Frost‑brittle hedges lined the drive; a fountain slumbered under crystal glaze. Inside, soft chandelier light greeted her along with an elderly housekeeper.
"Miss Lin, your suite is ready. Master Gu is still at headquarters."
"I won't impose long," she murmured.
Her old guest room—unchanged ivory curtains, art‑book shelf, the tiny ceramic rabbit—felt like a museum of a life she'd left. Her phone vibrated.
Gu Chenyan: Welcome home, An'an.
Heat pricked her eyes. She set the phone facedown and breathed until the sting eased.
⸻
First Contact
Morning light spilled through tall windows when she ventured downstairs, wearing a beige wool coat over tailored slacks. Halfway through a cup of jasmine tea she did not like, the front door clicked.
Footsteps—measured, authoritative.
He entered.
Silver hair, charcoal suit, winter‑pale eyes: Gu Chenyan radiated control as effortlessly as he breathed.
"You're still a morning person," he said.
"And you're still punctual," she replied, standing.
"I hoped I would be here when you woke."
"I didn't come to stay," she reminded him.
"I know," he answered, taking two deliberate steps closer yet leaving space—like approaching a skittish deer. "But you came."
A slim folder appeared between them—documents stamped and cleared. "Let Gu Group sponsor your exhibition," he offered.
She folded her arms. "My investors are sufficient."
"Not for customs clearance in forty‑eight hours." He held her gaze. "Let me help."
The brush of his fingers as she took the pen sparked an old ache she refused to name.
⸻
**Airport Rooftop, Six Years Ago (flashback)
"Choose Paris," he'd urged under February stars.
"You can't even choose me," she'd replied, pressing the unstamped letter into his palm before walking away.
⸻
Present Evening — Fault Lines
At the gallery, deadlines threatened to unravel months of planning until customs paperwork—mysteriously expedited—arrived with Gu Chenyan's signature already inked.
"You can't keep swooping in," she warned when he appeared by the loading bay.
"Then call it silent sponsorship," he countered. "No press releases. You hold full creative control. My price is a single dinner after opening night—talk or don't talk. That's all."
Pride said no; necessity and a betraying heartbeat said yes. "One dinner," she agreed.
Snowflakes drifted past the streetlights as their hands brushed in passing—the first fragile thread of a story neither of them was finished telling.