---
The office whispered of things unspoken.
It had been three weeks since Xiao Zhan joined the Wang Group. And somehow, without intent or design, the distance between him and Wang Yibo had narrowed — not in steps, but in silences.
They barely spoke.
But whenever Yibo entered the room, Zhan knew. His body knew. Like his lungs would shift subtly to match the weight of his presence. Like the air bent around him and Zhan had learned — quietly, instinctively — to move with the gravity of it.
It wasn't attraction.
Not yet.
It was… awareness.
A hum under skin. A shadow brushing across light.
---
Friday Morning – 9:26 AM
The email came unexpectedly.
> From: Director Wang
Subject: Travel
Body:
You are to accompany me to the Rosen Gala this weekend.
You'll be assisting with the proposal for the royal eco-initiative.
Pack formalwear. Leave tomorrow morning.
Yibo.
Zhan read it three times.
His fingers paused over the keys.
The Rosen Gala.
He had heard of it. A closed, ultra-exclusive royal event hosted annually by the Pan-Asian Council — a gathering of heirs, royalty, political legacies, and tycoons veiled behind press embargoes and closed-door contracts.
He'd been invited once.
Back when he was still His Highness, Prince Sakuragawa Haruki of the Japanese Imperial offshoot.
But he hadn't attended.
He had already begun to disappear.
---
Saturday – Private Flight, Beijing Airport – 6:07 AM
Xiao Zhan stepped onto the private jet as the cold air bit into his skin. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the horizon in soft orange and bruised violet.
Inside the jet, Wang Yibo was already seated — sleek black turtleneck, coat draped over his lap, unreadable expression as always. He looked up once when Zhan boarded. Said nothing.
Zhan sat across from him.
The silence settled.
Only the soft hum of the engines filled the cabin.
Until Yibo finally spoke.
"You've been to Tokyo."
It wasn't a question.
Zhan's throat tightened. "Yes."
"Lived there?"
"For a long time."
"Why leave?"
Zhan looked out the window, lashes lowered.
"…I needed air."
Yibo didn't press.
Instead, he leaned back, fingers tapping once against the armrest.
"You're different when you're quiet."
Zhan turned his head, eyes meeting his.
"So are you."
The corner of Yibo's mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
But something close.
---
Saturday Evening – Rosen Gala, Mount Hekai Estate
The estate was carved into the mountainside — glass chandeliers, fountains, marble stairs, and the cold shine of old money polished by modern power.
Zhan adjusted the lapel of his fitted black suit in the mirror. He had tied his hair back, leaving a few strands loose, softening the sharpness of his jaw.
The royal insignia — the sakura sigil of his family — had been carefully removed from his cufflinks. He wore plain silver now.
He walked beside Yibo as they entered.
Together.
People turned.
Not because of him — no one knew him here. But Wang Yibo had arrived, and that meant every breath in the room shifted. His name was synonymous with power.
Zhan followed him like a shadow. Silent. Observant. Unseen by most.
Until—
"Director Wang," came a voice from across the ballroom.
An older gentleman approached, flanked by security and personal aides. He was dressed in navy blue with a royal sash across his chest.
Prince Yuan of the Central Kingdom.
Zhan bowed his head slightly, stepping aside.
Yibo nodded once.
As they spoke, Zhan scanned the room — and froze.
Across the room, among diplomats and lords, stood a familiar figure.
His cousin.
Prince Renji of Japan.
Zhan turned away quickly, heart hammering.
He hadn't expected the Japanese delegation.
He hadn't prepared for this.
He moved toward the edge of the hall, eyes focused on the wine glass in his hand. But he wasn't breathing right. His fingers trembled.
---
Yibo found him ten minutes later on the open balcony.
Zhan stood alone, staring into the mountains, face pale.
Yibo came beside him. Said nothing at first.
Then—
"You left something behind here, didn't you."
Zhan didn't answer.
Wind caught in his hair.
"It's difficult," he finally said, voice too soft. "To pretend to be someone else in the very world that raised you."
Yibo turned to him slowly.
Zhan's eyes met his — exposed, for once. No smile. No clever reply. Just truth.
"I didn't want to be a symbol," he whispered. "Or a cage. Or a name written in ink I didn't choose."
Yibo stared.
"You're not," he said at last.
"I was," Zhan replied. "And I could be again, if anyone here recognizes me."
Silence.
Then Yibo stepped closer — only a breath between them now.
"I won't let them."
Zhan blinked up at him, startled.
Yibo's voice was low. Steady.
"I don't care where you come from. You're here now. With me."
Zhan's throat caught.
And Yibo added, more quietly, "Let them see only what you allow."
Their eyes locked.
This time, Zhan didn't look away.
And in the space between them, something shifted.
Not attraction — not yet. But trust.
A beginning.
---
That Night – Hotel Suite
Zhan stood by the window in his robe, fresh from the shower, hair still damp.
He hadn't said much after they left the gala. Yibo had given him space.
But now…
There was a knock at his door.
He opened it.
Yibo stood there — coat off, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, eyes unreadable.
"I brought your sketchbook," he said. "You left it on the plane."
Zhan took it, fingers brushing his. "Thank you."
Yibo turned to leave.
But paused.
"…You're not alone anymore," he said, barely above a whisper. "Even if you think you are."
Zhan's breath caught.
When he looked into Yibo's eyes, he saw something he hadn't expected — not warmth. But recognition.
Maybe they weren't so different.
Maybe, just maybe, they were both running from the same thing.
Zhan nodded once.
And that night, as he sketched in silence, a new line emerged in his journal.
A crown, half-submerged in water.
And beside it—
Two shadows. Side by side. Facing the world.
---
To be continued…