The council chamber had more windows than people.
Lin Ze noticed this as he took his seat at the long oak table, polished smooth by decades of elbows and expectations. Light streamed in, illuminating motes of dust and the profile of each academic like an oil painting. The portraits on the walls watched them all with the serene disinterest of the long dead.
He had attended meetings here before, but never one called at such short notice and with such pointed purpose. The placards in front of each seat bore names carved into brass – names that had presided over budgets and curricula long before his name appeared on any list.
Professor Qin Ruo sat opposite him, laptop open, glasses reflecting the light. She had brought no coffee, no snacks. This was not a comfortable discussion. This was a review.
The chair of the council, a man whose career spanned as many administrations as it did fashions in ties, cleared his throat.
"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," he said. "We convene today to address the ethical ramifications of external funding influencing academic policy. Specifically, we address the clauses in the Harbor Private Trust agreement and their precedent."
Several heads turned toward Lin Ze. He leaned back slightly, hands folded in his lap, expression composed.
"Mr. Lin," the chair continued, "you insisted on unprecedented transparency in scholarship selection and audit processes. While some see this as noble, others worry it could set expectations that cannot be met across other programs. Would you like to elaborate?"
Lin Ze nodded. "I didn't insist on transparency because I wanted to appear noble," he said. "I insisted because it's the only way to ensure money doesn't become a silent partner in student futures. If every donor, including myself, can see where their money goes, then favoritism becomes harder to justify."
A woman three seats down tapped her pen. "What about donors who prefer anonymity?" she asked. "Many philanthropists donate precisely so they can influence quietly. Your clauses could deter them."
"Then their philanthropy is transactional," Lin Ze replied calmly. "And we should call it that. Transactions are business. They should not hide behind the language of goodwill."
Murmurs. Some nods. Some frowns.
Another professor spoke. "You're new to this," he said, not unkindly. "Perhaps you don't understand that academia has always relied on a balance between donor expectations and institutional autonomy. Too much transparency can scare away money."
"And too little," Lin Ze countered, "scares away students who can't compete with donors' children."
Qin Ruo didn't intervene. Not yet. She watched him, as promised, across the table. When he glanced her way, she met his eyes briefly and then looked down at her notes. A signal: You're doing fine. Or: I'm still evaluating.
The chair raised a hand. "We are not here to admonish Mr. Lin or praise him," he said. "We are here to ensure that this university remains independent. Mr. Lin, if another donor insisted on complete opacity, would you refuse their money?"
"Yes," Lin Ze said without hesitation.
That answer froze the air.
"You would turn down millions of yuan if it required secrecy?" the woman asked, eyebrows rising.
"I would turn down billions," he replied, "if it required sacrificing the integrity of a student's merit."
Qin Ruo's mouth twitched. Approval. He could see it in the slight softening around her eyes.
The chair nodded slowly. "You understand, then, that by setting this precedent, you will be expected to uphold it in other contexts," he said. "Even when it disadvantages your trust."
Lin Ze inclined his head. "I understand. And I am prepared to be consistent."
The meeting continued for over an hour. They debated specifics: how to anonymize students without anonymizing criteria; how to audit without shaming recipients; how to handle private donors. They questioned his age, his experience, his motives. He answered each with the same calm frankness that had disarmed or annoyed them before. He didn't argue. He didn't defend his ego. He defended his principles.
When it ended, some members shook his hand. Others avoided it. Qin Ruo gathered her laptop and papers, nodded to him, and said, "You held your own."
"As you predicted," he replied.
"No," she corrected. "As I hoped. Prediction breeds complacency. Hope keeps me curious."
He smiled faintly. "And you enjoy curiosity."
"I enjoy accurate expectations," she said. "Speaking of which, your fitting is in twenty minutes."
He blinked. "How do you know my schedule?"
"Because I stole it from Su Yanli's assistant," she said, deadpan. "Go. You don't want to make your tailor angry. They hold grudges through seams."
The tailor's studio was an oasis of calm in a city of noise. Cream-colored walls, mannequins draped in half-finished garments, a faint scent of cedar and fabric. A man in his fifties with silver hair and measuring tape around his neck greeted Lin Ze as if they were old friends.
"Mr. Lin," he said, a hint of French in his accent. "Welcome. Please, stand here."
Lin Ze stepped onto a low platform surrounded by mirrors. As the tailor adjusted his sleeves and shoulders, he felt hands move with the precision of someone who had measured presidents and actors and men who liked to pretend they were both.
"Relax your arms," the tailor murmured. "If you tense, the suit will think you are always tense. Clothes remember the first fit."
Lin Ze exhaled, letting his arms hang loosely. "I didn't know clothes had memory."
"Everything has memory," the tailor said. "Fabric remembers stitches. Stitches remember hands. Hands remember bodies. It is all one long story."
He smiled despite himself. "What story do you think mine tells?"
The tailor considered him in the mirror, head tilted. "Your shoulders are not as rigid as your jaw," he said. "It means you are willing to carry weight, but you have not decided if you like it."
Lin Ze laughed quietly. "Accurate," he said.
As the tailor worked, his phone buzzed against his thigh. He resisted the urge to pull it out. Instead, he asked, "Do you often get messages while fitting clients?"
"Everyone does now," the tailor replied, not missing a beat. "The world is loud even in quiet rooms. But I always encourage my clients to ignore them. A suit does not care about notifications."
Lin Ze smiled. "I'll try."
When the fitting concluded, the tailor stepped back and clasped his hands. "Perfect," he said. "You will move like you own every table you sit at. And everyone will wonder if you do."
"That's the goal?" Lin Ze asked.
"No," the tailor said. "The goal is to make them ask what else you own."
Lin Ze thanked him, paid, and stepped outside into the afternoon light. As soon as he did, he checked his phone.
Two messages. One from Su Yanli.
: "Don't forget dinner." : "He'll call you before you arrive."
The second from an unknown number. He recognized the cadence.
: "Mr. Lin." : "Coffee at five isn't coffee." : "It's tea." : "Suite 18B."
He considered the wording. "At five isn't coffee" meant: he didn't drink coffee. Or he didn't like being predictable. "Suite 18B" indicated he wasn't meeting in the lobby. Private space. Controlled environment.
He typed a response.
: "See you at five." : "I prefer tea."
No reply came. He pocketed the phone. It was nearly four. He had an hour to decompress, prepare, or panic. He chose the first. He walked to a park near the river, sat on a bench, and watched the water. The city's reflection shimmered. For a moment, he could have been anyone. A student, a tourist, a tired businessman.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was Lin Meiqi.
: "Good luck." : "Don't let his suit intimidate you." : "Yours is better."
He smiled. "She must have eyes everywhere," he thought. He typed back, "How did you know?"
Her reply came seconds later.
: "Women like him have a scent." : "Expensive but predictable."
He shook his head, chuckling softly. She turned the world into poetry and posts. It was a skill. It was a weapon.
Five o'clock approached.
Suite 18B was on the eighteenth floor of the Peninsula Hotel, down a corridor lined with muted art. It was quiet. Too quiet. He could hear his own footsteps on the carpet.
He knocked.
The door opened instantly, as if someone had been watching him walk down the hall. A man in his thirties stood there, dark hair brushed back, suit tailored to perfection, smile polite but calculated. Han Yuchen looked exactly like his pictures—and nothing like them. Pictures made him seem two-dimensional. In person, he had presence.
"Mr. Lin," he said, extending a hand. His voice was warmer than Lin Ze expected. "Thank you for coming."
Lin Ze shook his hand. Firm. Dry. "Thank you for inviting me," he said.
Han Yuchen stepped aside, gesturing toward a seating area with floor-to-ceiling windows. Tea steam drifted from a porcelain pot on the table. No coffee in sight.
"Please," he said. "Have a seat. I hope you like oolong."
"I do," Lin Ze replied, taking a chair opposite. The view was breathtaking—river, skyline, sunset. The kind of view people took pictures of to prove they'd arrived. He didn't let it distract him.
Han Yuchen poured tea with practiced ease. "Yanli speaks highly of you," he said.
"That's because I make her money," Lin Ze replied.
Han laughed softly. "Direct. I like that. Yes, she appreciates results. I appreciate information. So perhaps we can help each other."
"Information about what?" Lin Ze asked.
"About her," Han said, pouring himself a cup. "About her moods, her ambitions, her… investments."
Lin Ze studied him. "You're engaged to her," he said. "Shouldn't you know her already?"
"Oh, I know her business plans," Han said. "I know her family's holdings, her future projects, her board positions. But I don't know who she talks to at midnight or what she thinks about at three AM."
"That's because those things aren't for us to know," Lin Ze said. "They're hers."
Han smiled. "And yet you seem closer to those hours than I do."
Lin Ze sipped his tea. "Am I?"
"You're with her often," Han said. "You dine, you negotiate, you… accompany. People talk."
"People talk about you and her too," Lin Ze countered. "And yet here we are having tea."
Han's smile widened. "Touché. I like you, Mr. Lin. You don't get flustered."
"I get flustered when I'm lied to," Lin Ze said. "So let's be honest. Why am I here?"
Han set his cup down. "Because there is a narrative forming in the city," he said. "It says: Su Yanli has two men. One will inherit her. One will devour her. I'd like to control the narrative before it controls me."
"And you think talking to me helps you control it?" Lin Ze asked.
"Yes," Han said. "Because you can either be part of the narrative or remove yourself."
Lin Ze leaned back. "Remove myself," he repeated. "Why would I do that?"
"Because," Han said, "there is a way for all of us to win. You keep your trust. Yanli keeps her reputation. I keep my alliance. The world keeps gossip at bay. But that requires boundaries."
"What boundaries?" Lin Ze asked.
"Public distance," Han said. "No more dinners photographed. No more meetings without an intermediary. No more rumours that give people leverage. Keep your relationship with her behind boardroom doors. Let the world see me at her side."
"And what do I get in return?" Lin Ze asked.
Han's eyes narrowed slightly. "I asked myself the same thing," he said. "Why would a young man with newfound power step back? Then I realized: because stepping back doesn't mean losing. It means choosing your battles. I can help you expand your trust's reach. Shipping, logistics, infrastructure. Your investments will yield returns you haven't yet imagined."
"You're offering me partnerships," Lin Ze said, unimpressed.
"I'm offering you protection from my shadow," Han corrected. "Because if you don't agree, I will not politely disappear. I will fill every headline with my image next to hers. I will buy ads if necessary. I will make your name the footnote. Not out of spite. Out of necessity."
Lin Ze set his cup down. "So this is extortion," he said. "With tea."
Han chuckled. "It's business," he said. "With porcelain."
They looked at each other for a long moment. Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow over the river.
"You think you can control the narrative," Lin Ze said quietly. "You think you can shape opinions by being visible. But you underestimate two things."
"Enlighten me," Han said.
"One," Lin Ze said, "people like stories more than facts. And stories about secret dinners and academic scandals are more interesting than pictures of an engaged couple smiling for the camera. You could stand beside her every day and they'd still whisper about the man who isn't you."
Han inclined his head. "And two?"
"Two," Lin Ze said, "Su Yanli doesn't like being managed. By me. By you. By anyone. If she wanted to keep me invisible, she would. She doesn't. That's a choice."
Han's jaw tightened. It was subtle, but noticeable.
"You're right," he said after a pause. "She doesn't like being managed. She does like being strategic. And she understands that my board doesn't like surprises. They will not tolerate… dual headlines. If she wants to preserve our alliance, she'll persuade you."
"And if she doesn't?" Lin Ze asked.
"Then perhaps our contract will need revision," Han said, voice light but eyes dark.
They sat in silence, the weight of possibilities settling between them like dust.
Finally, Lin Ze stood. "Thank you for the tea," he said. "And the warnings."
"Think about my offer," Han replied. "There's room for all of us. In different rooms."
"I'll think about a lot of things," Lin Ze said.
He walked to the door. Before he opened it, he turned back.
"You asked me to help you understand her," he said. "Here's something free: she respects strength more than compliance. Be careful who you try to bend."
Han's lips curved. "Duly noted."
Lin Ze left.
The evening light was fading as he stepped out of the hotel. The city's neon signs flickered to life, reflecting in puddles and windows. He inhaled deeply, letting the air fill his lungs, then exhaled slowly.
His phone buzzed. A message from Su Yanli.
: "How did it go?"
He typed back.
: "He offered me partnerships." : "I declined." : "See you at dinner."
Another message came before he pocketed the phone.
: "Don't be late."
He smiled. "She doesn't ask, she commands," he thought. Then he thought of Han's controlled smile and Qin's quiet testing and Meiqi's loud loyalty. Each person had their own way of gripping him. Each asked for different parts of him.
He glanced up at the sky. A full moon was rising, clean and bright. It reminded him of a phrase his grandmother used to say when he was a child: "When the moon is full, shadows hide beneath it."
He wondered which shadow he was standing under.