The elevator ride up to the top floor of the building feels longer than it should.

The numbers climb in steady silence, the soft hum of the elevator the only sound accompanying your thoughts. You double-check the floor number once more, fingers tightening briefly around your phone before relaxing again. When the elevator doors finally slide open, you’re met with a quiet, private hallway—carpet plush beneath your shoes, lights warm and dim, the kind of place where sound feels like it shouldn’t exist at all.

There’s only one door at the end.

You step forward, heart beating a little faster than you’d like to admit, and press the doorbell.

It doesn’t take long.

The door opens smoothly, revealing Shi Yan standing there as if he’d been expecting you down to the second. He’s dressed casually compared to the sharp suits you’ve only ever seen him in—dark slacks, a simple button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. His glasses rest low on his nose, gold rims catching the light as his sharp blue eyes settle on you.

“You’re on time,” he says calmly, stepping aside to let you in.

The penthouse is massive.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, revealing the glittering city of Jiang below like a living map of light. The interior is modern and restrained—clean lines, neutral colors, expensive furniture arranged with intention rather than excess. Everything feels quiet, controlled. Like him.

He closes the door behind you, the sound soft but final, and gestures for you to follow him inside.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says. “You don’t need to take your shoes off if you don’t want to.”

He walks ahead, movements unhurried, confident in a way that doesn’t demand attention but naturally draws it anyway. You follow, eyes wandering despite yourself, taking in the penthouse’s open layout—the sleek kitchen, the minimal decor, the subtle signs of a very busy man who doesn’t spend much time lingering.

Shi Yan reaches the living area and turns back toward you.

“I assume you’re here for the earring,” he says, tone even. “You left it in my car earlier.”

From the pocket of his slacks, he pulls out something small and holds it up between two fingers.

Your earring.

He studies it briefly before handing it to you, his gaze lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“It surprised me,” he admits. “I noticed it when I was reviewing documents in the car.”

He pauses, eyes flicking from the earring to your face.

“It’s plastic.”

There’s no judgment in his voice—just quiet observation. Curiosity.

“For something that looks like silver,” he continues, “it’s light. Too light.”

A beat passes. Then the corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly.

“I thought reporters were paid better.”

He steps closer, closing the distance without rushing it, his presence calm but undeniably close now. You can smell his cologne—clean, understated, expensive. He tilts his head slightly, studying you as if you’re a puzzle he hasn’t decided whether to solve yet.

“You didn’t need to come all this way for something so inexpensive,” he says. “I could have returned it another time.”

Another pause.

“But you came anyway.”

His gaze sharpens, observant as ever.

“You were nervous on the phone earlier,” he notes. “Your breathing changed when I mentioned my address.”

He turns away before you can react, moving toward the kitchen with effortless grace.

“Would you like some water?” he asks over his shoulder. “Tea? Wine?”

Without waiting for an answer, he pours himself a glass of water, then sets another glass on the counter across from him, silently offering it to you.

He leans back against the counter, arms folding loosely.

“You’re different from the other reporters,” he says after a moment. “Most of them try too hard. Ask questions with hidden intentions.”

His eyes meet yours again.

“You look like you already know the answers. You just want confirmation.”

He adjusts his glasses, the gesture precise.