In Germany, winter nights fell early. By four or five in the afternoon, the sky was already dark and heavy. Snow had started drifting down again outside, and beneath the high-rises, people in overcoats hurried through the wind and snow with anxious, hurried steps.
The weather perfectly matched Ying Yin’s mood.
According to the schedule, Anna would come take her out for dinner – or arrange for hotel dining – before heading to the airport to meet up with Shang Shao. After tossing and turning on the bed while watching five episodes of SpongeBob SquarePants, Ying Yin finally heard Anna ring the doorbell.
“Miss Ying, the car is waiting downstairs. We’re going out for dinner tonight.”
Ying Yin climbed reluctantly out of bed, hugging the blanket around herself. The moment she opened her mouth, her voice came out soft and nasal with grievance. “I’m so miserable.”
Anna had grown up in Germany and couldn’t immediately tell what she meant. “Miserable emotionally, or physically?”
“Both emotionally and physically.” Ying Yin sniffled, her hair a messy tangle. “I want to roll around in the snow.”
Anna advised tactfully, “That probably isn’t a very good idea.”
Ying Yin got out of bed, nudging her feet into her slippers with her toes, then sat there blankly in sorrow for a while.
She never should’ve handed him her passport. At least then she could still have run away…
“Put on a little makeup,” Anna suggested. “It might cheer you up.”
Ying Yin currently looked like someone at death’s door, so she just obeyed whatever she was told. After washing her face with warm water, she sat obediently before the vanity mirror, dusting powder and drawing her brows stroke by stroke, distracted the entire time.
“I brought you a new outfit,” Anna said evenly, hanging up a full set of clothes on hangers.
Straight-cut dark blue jeans, brown pointed-toe heeled ankle boots, a black turtleneck layered under a buttoned earth-toned cardigan, and over it all, a sharply tailored black lapel overcoat with a structured silhouette.
It was a very French-chic outfit – formal enough, but not stiff.
Ying Yin rarely had to think much when someone was taking care of her food, clothing, and daily needs. She ate whatever she was given and wore whatever was prepared for her, never picky.
After finishing her makeup and changing clothes, she didn’t even ask why yesterday’s elegant socialite style had suddenly become today’s polished urban professional look.
“Miss Ying, put your hair up.” Anna advanced cautiously step by step, holding a hairpin in one hand and a claw clip in the other.
Ying Yin: “…”
After concentrating for all of two-tenths of a second, listless but obedient, she took the tortoiseshell-colored claw clip.
She really was easy to coax, so much so that Anna had to turn her face away to secretly laugh.
Once Ying Yin had changed, Anna gave a thumbs-up. “You look gorgeous. Chairman Shao is a lucky man.”
Ying Yin still didn’t want to hear his name.
She swallowed the pills she had to take before meals, then, accompanied by the dizzy, drifting strains of imagined erhu music and a stuffy nose so severe she could barely breathe, floated downstairs after Anna as though walking on clouds.
It was nearing the end of the year, and even the cold, dignified business hotel had been decorated with Christmas touches. Ying Yin walked past the reception desk draped with green wreaths and string lights, and the very next second after Anna pushed open the glass doors, she saw the man standing beside the Maybach’s door.
Seven o’clock at night in Germany. City lights glittered brilliantly through the rich winter darkness, neon hues spreading softly across the streets. Shang Shao, touched by wind and frost, leaned against the car door, cupping a hand around a cigarette as he lit it.
At noon, Ying Yin had been too consumed by the violent pounding of her heart to notice what he was wearing. Now her footsteps stopped abruptly as she finally saw it clearly: black waistcoat, suit, and overcoat – sharp and immaculate, yet somehow gentle at the same time.
A quiet, profound air of nobility.
Fine white snow settled on his shoulders and cuffs. One arm was folded loosely, one hand shielding the flame, the other pressing the lighter, and tucked in the crook of his arm was a lavish bouquet of flowers.
When he lit the cigarette, he had looked entirely casual and absent-minded. But the moment Ying Yin entered his line of sight, he straightened slightly.
White smoke curled around his fingertips. Through the revolving glass doors and the passing travelers, Shang Shao smiled at her.
She had already come this far – there was absolutely no way she could turn around and go back now. Ying Yin hesitated every three steps she took, yet still walked straight into his trap.
Put on light makeup. Change clothes. Tie up her hair.
In that instant, she understood everything.
By the time she reached the car, the doorman had not yet come over. Across that small distance, she watched Shang Shao place the bouquet into her arms.
“The florist didn’t have these flowers. I had my assistant drive around looking for them for a long time before finally finding them in an elderly German lady’s glass greenhouse.”
Soft white-pink petals cradled tender blush-colored centers. The blossoms were lush and full, their dark green stems straight and elegant, wrapped layer upon layer in translucent paper. As she accepted them, the fragrance drifted through the snowy wind of late November.
Holding the bouquet, she lifted her eyes. “Why are you giving me flowers?”
Shang Shao exhaled a stream of smoke and smiled lazily. “If you’re apologizing, it only counts as sincere if there are flowers.”
She knew he still had meetings and social obligations that evening. This trip back to the hotel had been made solely for her – a completely unbelievable lapse of distraction and longing in the middle of his disciplined professional life.
Ying Yin turned her face away, lowering her gaze to the flowers. She blinked once, impossible to tell whether she was happy or upset.
Today she was dressed in a sleek, stylish outfit. The loose strands of hair falling over her forehead accentuated the pallor of her face, giving her a kind of fragile stubbornness.
“You don’t like them?” Shang Shao asked softly.
Ying Yin found herself imagining him flying all the way to England to coax some other girl, probably looking exactly like this – casual and effortless, touched by wind and snow, impossible not to fall for.
Winter nights in England were even darker, deeper. The flowers there would look even more lush and delicate in the night. He must have done this so smoothly, so naturally.
A repeat offender, truly.
But thinking that way already felt like overstepping, so she couldn’t possibly say it aloud.
Knowing better, Ying Yin hugged the flowers and got into the car, refusing to admit defeat. “Even with flowers, I’m not forgiving you. Besides, you already saw everything anyway.”
Once inside, the driver – someone arranged by the event organizers – didn’t need Shang Shao to give directions and drove straight toward the destination.
Only after the Maybach circled past the fountain roundabout did Shang Shao speak leisurely.
“Did I ever say I was apologizing for that? I’m apologizing for what happened on the plane. As for seeing everything last night… I’m afraid that can’t really be considered my fault.”
Ying Yin glared at him, then glanced at the driver.
“He can’t understand Chinese.”
“If it’s not your fault, then whose fault is it? Mine?”
“You were sick and drunk, throwing yourself into my arms without a bra on. What exactly was I supposed to do?”
“You could’ve not looked!”
“How was I supposed to take care of you without looking?”
“Then you could’ve pushed me away and stuffed me under the blankets.”
“I tried.” Shang Shao’s tone remained calm. “But all you wanted was to sit in my lap. The moment I let go, you started crying.”
Of course Ying Yin remembered how miserably she had cried. In her drunken haze and discomfort, she had only felt that sitting in his lap was unbearably comforting, so she had pressed his hand against her waist and demanded that he hold her tighter.
She had been drunk, aware of nothing.
But Shang Shao had been painfully aware of everything – of the way he swallowed again and again against the tightness in his throat, of the self-control pushed to its very limit, and of the reckless desire he had nearly given in to.
She had absolutely no idea where the danger lay, nor how close it had come, and was still innocently fixated on exactly how much of her he had seen.
Ying Yin’s face flushed scarlet as she desperately tried to save face. “Th-that… that’s just how I act when I’m drunk. I’m like that with everyone.”
Shang Shao narrowed his eyes slightly. “Really?”
Ying Yin immediately sensed the icy undertone in the air. Her heart tightened, and, being perfectly capable of bending when necessary, she quickly admitted, “…Not really.”
Then she stuffed the flowers back into his arms. “Take them back!”
Petals fluttered down in soft rustling waves, their fragrance overwhelming.
Shang Shao: “…”
Never in his life had he imagined there would come a day when he couldn’t even successfully give flowers away.
He laughed softly, taking the bouquet back, somehow even more capable of compromise than she was. “Fine. I’ll take them back. Don’t forgive me, then.”
The greenhouse-grown Queen of Sweden roses held their lavish pink heads high in full bloom.
The car moved smoothly through the streets, glass skyscrapers on all sides reflecting black skies and white clouds. Staring out the window, Ying Yin muttered gloomily, “Such a loss. I can’t even look back to make it even.”
Shang Shao nodded. “True enough.”
Ying Yin suddenly realized she was about to sneeze. She hurriedly grabbed a tissue to cover her mouth and nose.
“Achoo…”
Her eyes turned watery as she pitifully complained, “Mr. Shang… workplace injury…”
Shang Shao looked at her without speaking, his gaze unhurried, heavy with implication.
“Shang Shao… workplace injury…” Her congested voice came out soft and adorably nasal.
“What do you want?”
“I want… one of your secrets.”
Shang Shao lifted a brow. “My bank card PIN?”
Ying Yin was extremely flustered and insisted stubbornly, “…Don’t think you understand me so well!”
Shang Shao suppressed a smile. “Alright. What kind of secret?”
“One that only I know.”
“What for?”
“To hold over you – for future blackmail and extortion.”
“…I do have a secret. One that no one in this world knows. But I’m afraid it’s not very valuable for blackmail. Want to hear it?”
Ying Yin held a crumpled tissue, trying to look properly attentive, as if she were all ears.
Shang Shao thought for a moment.
“I am the eldest son in my family. From the very beginning, my fate was already decided. Where I would go to school, what kind of friends I should make, what ambitions and ideals I should have – there was never any uncertainty. For thirty-six years, the path in front of me was clear. There was never any possibility of deviation, nor any unfamiliar branching roads.”
He paused, then called her name.
“Ying Yin, it might be hard for you to imagine this. I may seem decisive and in control, but in all these years, I’ve only ever done one and a half truly rebellious things.”
“One and a half?”
“Yes. One and a half.” Shang Shao smiled faintly in silence. “The other half failed, so I don’t really want to mention it. The remaining one is very small.”
He turned to look at her, the streetlights outside the window reflecting in the depths of his eyes.
“I have a tattoo.”
Ying Yin froze. “A tattoo?”
She clenched the tissue tighter, the tip of her nose still red, her whole face written with disbelief.
“You have a tattoo?”
This man, from head to toe, carried an air of refinement and nobility. He seemed untouched by worldly smoke and fire – someone who studied philosophy, avoided romantic entanglements, exuded ascetic detachment and aristocratic aloofness. Even during brief moments in the car, his way of relaxing was reading Hegel, and even the casual shawl he wore had to be made of a specific kind of lambswool.
He wasn’t “picky” – rather, everything in the world was something to be carefully selected, from what entered his mouth, to what met his eyes, to what reached his ears, and even what touched his heart.
Someone like that, as though he drank morning dew and stood above the dust of the world – how could Ying Yin ever have imagined that he would allow something to pierce his skin and leave an indelible mark?
Seeing her so shocked, Shang Shao couldn’t help but laugh softly. “I did say it was a very small thing – but it’s already the biggest and most successful act of rebellion I’ve ever committed.”
Ying Yin thought for a moment. “Was it your ex-girlfriend’s name?”
Shang Shao glanced at her. “That’s not rebellion. That’s just boring.”
“Then what is it?”
“I only promised one secret. You’re asking about another.”
Ying Yin said, “…You’re lying to me. How could a tattoo be known only to me? No one else knows it? Do you never go swimming?”
“It’s placed somewhere you wouldn’t see even if I did swim.”
Ying Yin immediately understood the answer. After a moment of silence, she said mournfully, “Mr. Shang, I feel… secondhand pain for you.”
Then she thought: no wonder you have functional issues. If you’re not dysfunctional, who is?
“Ying Yin,” Shang Shao said, exasperated, word by word, “…it’s not there. Stop with your terrible assumptions.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Ying Yin lowered her head, then suddenly became sharp again. “But… your ex-girlfriend… she never saw it either?”
Yu Shasha indeed didn’t know, because they had never been that intimate.
As for why he hadn’t shared it with her… before today, Shang Shao had never thought this was something worth sharing. It simply existed on his skin. The moment the needle pierced and ink settled in, the small act of rebellion from his student years had already been completed, and the matter had lost any further significance.
“She didn’t see it,” Shang Shao confirmed briefly.
“You two…” Ying Yin lifted her face, pressing her lips together tightly, as if she wanted to say something but held back.
Yet her eyes were far too bright.
Shang Shao glanced at her sideways and immediately saw through what she was thinking.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile slipped into his breath. He reached out and lightly tapped her forehead, absentmindedly. “Shh.”
The car stopped in front of a hotel. The concierge opened the door and welcomed the guests inside.
Ying Yin followed Shang Shao out of the car and into the lobby, where another man in a suit approached them. He wore a badge on his chest – likely official staff from the summit.
“Mr. Shang, and this is…” she asked in German, her gaze briefly and politely resting on Ying Yin.
Shang Shao also replied in German, “My accompanying assistant.”
On the way into the restaurant, guided all along, Ying Yin asked in a low voice, “What did you two say?”
“She said you’re beautiful.”
“Did she check my identity?”
“She did.”
“Then who am I?”
She sounded almost delighted. Even though she had a tall, graceful figure and wore stylish, elegant clothes, moments of girlish excitement kept slipping through.
Shang Shao lowered his gaze slightly, resisting the urge to call her “little girl,” and laughed softly instead. “What do you think?”
Ying Yin covered her mouth and whispered, “Do you think I can be your assistant?”
Shang Shao affirmed it. “You can.”
“Will I cause you trouble?”
“No. You just need to keep smiling.”
“Then why did you bring me here? Don’t you have an assistant?” Ying Yin suddenly grew bold and self-righteous.
“I don’t have an assistant as beautiful as you.”
“Oh,” Ying Yin said meaningfully. “Your ex-girlfriend wasn’t pretty, so you didn’t let her be your assistant.”
“First, I’m not that superficial. Second, when you get back, tell Anna that the company forbids spreading gossip about colleagues. Ask her to write me a self-criticism report.”
“…”
The doors to the venue opened. Shang Shao paused slightly, adopting a polite, gentlemanly inviting posture.
“Any more questions, Assistant Ying?”
“One,” Ying Yin raised her hand. “Boss, what exactly do I need to do?”
Shang Shao’s smile was casual. He adjusted his watch, and before stepping into the venue, said to her:
“Stay by my side – until I take you away.”
