When Wen Yin finished speaking, Xiu Xiu froze in place as if struck.
She lowered her eyes, trying clumsily to hide the panic running across her face. She knew, better than anyone, what that incident meant for their label. But the offer Shao Yuanjia had put on the table was impossible to refuse.
Xiu Xiu ground her teeth, forced herself to look up and speak. “Ms. Wen, I— I know I was wrong. Please, just give me one more chance.”
The plea landed like a flare of ridicule in Wen Yin’s gaze. She tapped her long, delicate fingers against the desk with slow, precise strokes.
“I don’t think I made myself clear just now,” she said. “Someone like you doesn’t deserve to be at Caiyi.”
Her voice was level, but the chill in it might as well have been ice. “You don’t need to wait until tomorrow—pack up and leave now.”
Wen Yin’s face remained impassive, but her words were final and ruthless. Then, as if something else occurred to her, she looked up again.
“And tell Shao Yuanjia this: I welcome healthy competition. But if he keeps pulling tricks like this, I can’t guarantee what I’ll do.”
Xiu Xiu’s color drained fully at that. She had worked at Caiyi long enough to know Wen Yin’s temper. Wen Yin could seem distant and gentle at once, but no one who’d ever seen her anger up close would underestimate it. Xiu Xiu knew she’d crossed a line.
She left with the color gone from her face. Coworkers who saw her hurried over, alarmed, as she gathered her things, but she didn’t want more ears to hear about the mess she’d made. Besides—her pride wouldn’t let her explain it now.
After it was over, Wen Yin kept rubbing her temples, exhaustion settling into the bones of her face. She hadn’t known about this at first, but the more she thought, the more uneasy she’d felt. A quick audit had revealed the mole.
Jiu stood there, hesitant, wanting to say something and yet afraid. She’d seen Wen Yin’s wrath before; she knew how terrifying it could be.
Wen Yin glanced at her coolly. “If you have something to say, say it.”
A flush of shame crossed Jiu’s face. She bowed, contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t keep a close enough eye on my team.”
Hearing that, Wen Yin understood the root of Jiu’s hesitation—guilt over letting Xiu Xiu slip through. Wen Yin didn’t want to punish the innocent, so she softened her tone.
“It’s not entirely your fault. Yuanjia covered his tracks well; it took me a while to figure it out. And honestly, this isn’t really on you.”
After a moment of reassurance, she left the studio.
At home, Shao Yinan had already finished packing her favorite dishes and was waiting. Wen Yin collapsed into his arms the moment the door shut behind them.
“I’m exhausted,” she murmured, eyes closed, letting his thumb press soothing circles against her temples.
“If you’re tired, rest,” his deep, velvety voice said at her ear. “You don’t have to push yourself so hard. I can watch the patisserie—take two days off.”
The question at the end of his sentence rose into something teasing; his eyes, warm and indulgent, held a softness she never saw at the office. Here the man who elsewhere could be cool and unrelenting was all ease and care.
She draped herself over him like a languid cat and shook her head. “No. I’m just tired of all this fighting. It wears me down.”
She sighed. “Xiu Xiu had the best talent among the new designers. It’s a shame to lose her like this.”
Shao Yinan, who’d also learned there’d been a leak and that Shao Yuanjia had been involved, bristled inwardly at the collusion. But Shaohua—the old family firm—was already in decline under Yuanjia’s leadership. Shao Yinan didn’t even need to lift a finger; Yuanjia’s standing with the patriarch would sink on its own.
“She’s got no scruples,” he said, trying to soothe her. “No company would keep a mole. If she trusts Yuanjia so blindly, let her go to Shaohua.”
He smiled, the corner of his mouth curving with a touch of icy amusement. “None of that’s our problem anymore.”
He pinched the tip of her nose lightly. “So when are you going to eat? Your food’s getting cold.”
His prompt finally made her aware of a hollow, nagging appetite. Wen Yin brushed a kiss across his mouth. “Now.”
But the small movement darkened and sharpened something in him. As she began to rise, he pulled her back into his arms.
“I planned for you to eat first,” he murmured, voice low and cello-deep near her ear. “But I suddenly discovered something far more delicious than dinner.”
His words were warm and slow, dropping like honey. Wen Yin blinked; her clear, doe-like eyes found his, and for a heartbeat they were caught in that sudden, serious want that lived in his gaze.
She felt, almost ridiculously, that the kiss had flipped a switch. Aware of what might come, she tried to stammer and push him gently away. “I—maybe we should eat first. The food will—”
Her protest was muffled. A strong hand covered her mouth, another covered her eyes. Between kisses, Shao Yinan’s voice slipped through the small gap.
“Not yet. There’s something more important than eating right now.”
One hand shaded her eyes; the other found her fingers and braided them with his. With her sight obscured, the rest of her senses sharpened until every touch, every breath was magnified. A soft sound escaped her throat—a plaintive little whimper—and like a match to tinder, it drew him on.
He kissed her until she was dizzy. The sensation was disorienting and strangely foreign, yet somehow natural, the rhythm they’d fallen into after that other night. One hand fisted at the hem of his shirt; his palm roamed with confident, greedy familiarity.
Wen Yin felt adrift—an untethered boat on a soft, rising tide—lifted and lowered by the press of him against her. A quiet, catlike sound slipped from her lips, fragile and utterly compelling.
He smiled into her mouth, and everything else fell away. The urge to stop vanished; desire folded over itself until wanting became uncontainable, irresistibly so.