The lights in the auditorium were dimmed, with only the spotlights above the stage remaining on.
Chu Yiran walked quickly along the left aisle toward the front section, keeping her footsteps as light as possible.
A video was playing on stage, and everyone’s attention was focused on the large screen. No one noticed the gray figure approaching from the side.
She kept her head down, moving along the aisle behind the second row of seats until she reached the small table on the right.
The empty kettle was there. She bent down, swapped it out, and placed the full one in its place—her movements swift and silent.
The entire process took less than twenty seconds.
Just as she straightened up to retrace her steps, a hand reached over and lifted the lid of the new kettle.
Chu Yiran froze in place.
The hand extended from the direction of the first row. Long fingers held the lid as it poured half a cup of water.
Then the lid was placed back.
Everything was quiet, natural—as if it were just an ordinary gesture of fetching water.
But Chu Yiran’s back was already drenched in sweat.
Because in the first row, only one person was seated on the right side, near the aisle.
She didn’t dare look up.
All she saw was that hand, a glimpse of a dark gray patterned shirt cuff, and a cufflink of exquisite material, its brand almost indiscernible.
The familiar woody scent lingered in the air.
Chu Yiran clenched her jaw and bent slightly at the waist.
Then, she turned and walked away.
Her pace was neither fast nor slow, her spine rigidly straight.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught one detail.
The moment she turned, that person’s gaze shifted away from the water cup in hand.
It swept briefly in her direction.
When Chu Yiran returned to the backstage area, she was still holding the empty kettle.
She set it down, leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths.
Her heartbeat was so loud she could hear it herself.
The briefing ended at 9:45.
Chu Yiran waited until she was sure Shen Yu and the senior executives had all left before emerging from backstage to clear the teacups.
Lin Yuan was already collecting materials in the rear section. Seeing her approach, he casually asked, “Why do you look so pale?”
“It’s too cold backstage—the air conditioning is blowing right on me.”
“Oh, wear more layers.”
Chu Yiran didn’t explain further. She lowered her head and placed the teacups one by one into the tray.
When she reached the seat on the right side of the first row, she saw a half-finished cup of water and a pen placed beside the coaster.
A black fountain pen, slender in body, with no brand logo on the cap.
It must have been left behind during the meeting.
Chu Yiran hesitated for a moment, picked up the pen to examine it, then placed it in the tray.
This pen would need to be handed over to the administrative department’s lost-and-found, following the standard procedure.
She absolutely would not return it herself.
Before heading upstairs, she stood in front of the mirror in the first-floor restroom for two minutes, confirming that her complexion had returned to normal, her shirt collar was neat, and nothing seemed amiss.
Only then did she step into the elevator and press the button for the thirty-fifth floor.
Back at her workstation, Chu Yiran placed the pen on the corner of her desk, waiting for Lin Yuan to return so he could help deliver it to the lost-and-found.
“A pen needs to go to lost-and-found?” Lin Yuan took it and glanced at it. “This pen looks pretty ordinary.”
“Found it in the front row—might belong to one of the executives.”
“Alright then.” Lin Yuan casually slipped it into his pocket.
She remained in a state of high alert all morning, only gradually calming down during the lunch break.
The cafeteria was crowded. Carrying her tray, she found a seat in the farthest corner. As she chewed on the rather bland stir-fried shredded potatoes, she replayed every detail from the morning in her mind.
Shen Yu had looked at her.
Even if it was from the shadows, even if it might have just been a casual glance.
But he had looked at her.
This fact made her eat an extra bowl of rice at lunch to steady her nerves.
The afternoon work proceeded as usual.
With the summit preparations piling up, Chu Yiran was so busy that even finding time to drink water felt squeezed in.
Sun Wanqing was unusually quiet today—she didn’t cause any trouble for Chu Yiran, not even calling her into the office once.
By 5:30, Chu Yiran had already organized the materials needed for the next day, ready to leave as soon as the clock struck.
Just then, Lin Yuan walked over from the other side and placed something on her desk.
It was that pen.
“The lost and found said they don’t accept items without labels and told the person who found it to handle it themselves.”
“What do you mean, handle it themselves?”
“That means you’ll have to ask around yourself—which leader lost a pen.” Lin Yuan shrugged. “They’re just lazy.”
Chu Yiran stared at the black fountain pen on her desk, a thin layer of sweat slowly forming on her forehead.
She reached out, picked up the pen, and tossed it into the deepest corner of her drawer.
That pen could stay in her drawer until the end of time.
At eight in the evening, Chu Yiran finished her day’s work and returned to her apartment.
She kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling for three minutes before remembering something even more critical.
S hadn’t replied to her messages.
Her excuse about being hospitalized and unreachable could only hold up for one more day at most.
If she continued to disappear, given Shen Yu’s personality, he might actually use his connections to comb through the hospitalization records of every hospital in Hecheng.
If he found that her name wasn’t in any of them, she’d lose even her last shred of dignity.
She had to take the initiative to contact him and maintain this facade.
Chu Yiran sat up, opened her phone, turned off the “Do Not Disturb” setting, and tapped into S’s chat window.
Two unread messages lay quietly there.
She began typing.
“Brother, sorry for not replying these past couple of days. I’ve been getting injections, and with the IV in my hand, it’s been hard to type.”
“The doctor said it’s an immune system disorder triggered by allergies, so I need to be monitored for a few more days. I’m feeling much better now.”
After sending that, she added another line: “I really miss you, but I don’t want you to see me like this.”
The message was sent, but there was no immediate reply from the other side.
Chu Yiran slumped back on the sofa and waited for five minutes before her phone finally vibrated.
“Glad you’re better.”
Chu Yiran quickly seized the moment while the conversation was still fresh, hoping to smooth things over with some sweet talk.
The problem was, her own romantic experience was practically zero.
She had picked up a few lines of the original owner’s coquettish phrases, but they were all straightforward lines like “You’re amazing, brother” or “I miss you.” Using those too often would surely raise suspicion.
She needed to switch to a different style—one that seemed deeper and more heartfelt.
So, she made a very risky decision.
She went online to search for romantic lines.
In the browser’s search bar, she typed five characters: “high-level romantic lines”.
The results flooded in.
“What you are is the direction of my heart, please guide me for the rest of my life, I want to give you the best of everything in the world”—the screen was filled with such cringeworthy, glowing lines.
Chu Yiran scrolled for a long time before choosing one that seemed the least cheesy.
“Did you know, after meeting you, I feel like the world has become much softer.”
Copy, paste, send.
The other side was silent for ten seconds.
Then came a reply: “Who taught you that line?”
Chu Yiran froze.