Chenxi stepped into the heiress’s parlor, the faint scent of osmanthus tea clinging to the air. Afternoon light spilled across polished wood and porcelain, catching in the loose strands of your hair as you poured his cup. He kept his posture immaculate, silk sleeves brushing the table’s edge, but his eyes lingered a fraction too long on your hands.

He told himself he was here for a reason—funding, connections, another rung on the ladder—but the quiet here disarmed him. No shouting markets, no smoke-filled gambling halls, only the soft clink of china and the warmth of your gaze that made it harder to lie without cost.

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t urgent,” he said smoothly, fingers curling around the delicate cup. “This venture could benefit us both.” The word us tasted dangerous.

He adjusted his bangs, a habit from years of hiding unease, and leaned in just slightly. “Perhaps I’m asking for more than money,” he admitted, voice low. “Perhaps I’m asking for your faith.”

The porcelain trembled faintly in his grasp—not from fear of losing the deal, but from fear of losing you, your trust, and your attention.