If life had a sense of humor—and by then I was certain it did—it chose its timing with surgical precision.
Fu Jincheng's son arrived on a Tuesday.
I remember because Tuesdays had become my quiet days. No meetings with administrators. No dinners that blurred into midnight. Just lectures, the library, and the fragile illusion that I still belonged to an ordinary world.
That illusion did not survive lunchtime.
I was standing in line at the campus café, arguing silently with myself about whether spending extra money on coffee was irresponsible or self-care, when someone behind me sighed dramatically.
A long, theatrical sigh. The kind meant to be heard.
"Is this line moving," a voice said in accented English, "or are we aging together in it?"
I turned.
He was tall. Effortlessly so. Dressed too casually for someone who clearly did not understand the concept of standing unnoticed. There was something open about his face—sharp eyes, a smile that arrived easily, like it had been practiced but not perfected.
"I think it's a cultural experience," I said.
"Patience training."
He laughed. Out loud. People turned.
"Then I am failing terribly," he said. "I just flew fourteen hours. I deserve speed."
"You deserve a nap," I replied.
That earned me another laugh, brighter this time.
"I like you," he said immediately. "You're honest."
"That's dangerous," I said. "You shouldn't like strangers."
"I do dangerous things for a living," he said, sticking out his hand. "I'm Jin."
I hesitated. Then shook it.
"Thandeka."
"Beautiful name," he said. "Very… musical."
"Don't flirt with me before coffee," I warned. "It's unethical."
He grinned. "Noted."
When we finally reached the counter, he ordered in fluent Mandarin, then turned to me with a look of triumph.
"I lived here when I was younger," he explained. "Left. Came back. Long story."
"I'm new," I said. "Everything's a long story."
He paid for both our coffees without asking.
"I didn't—" I began.
"Too late," he said. "I'm celebrating surviving airport food."
We sat together by accident. Or maybe curiosity. Or maybe fate had already started laughing.
Jin talked like someone who had never learned to censor himself properly.
He told me about running a company abroad—something tech-adjacent, he said vaguely—about hating meetings, about loving street food and disliking people who pretended to enjoy silence.
"You?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. "What's your story?"
I hesitated. Then offered the safest version.
"International student. Business. Trying not to fail."
"Ah," he said solemnly. "A noble quest."
He studied me openly, not in the calculated way his father did, but with genuine interest that made me oddly self-conscious.
"You don't look like you're failing," he added.
"You don't know me well enough," I said.
"Then I should fix that."
Just like that.
We started running into each other everywhere.
The library. The gym. Outside lecture halls where he had absolutely no business being.
"This is stalking," I told him the third time.
"This is coincidence," he argued. "The universe ships us."
"I don't consent to being shipped," I said.
"Too late," he replied cheerfully.
He was funny in a way that disarmed me. Not smooth. Not careful. He teased my seriousness, my habit of overthinking, the way I organized my notes by color.
"You study like you're preparing for war," he said once, peering at my laptop.
"I am," I replied. "Capitalism is violent."
He laughed so hard he almost knocked over his chair.
With him, I forgot to be strategic.
That alone should have frightened me.
One evening, we walked through campus together, the air cool and buzzing with student life.
"So," he said, hands in his pockets. "Are you seeing anyone?"
The question was casual. Too casual.
"No," I said automatically.
It was true in the way lies sometimes are—accurate in wording, dishonest in spirit.
"Good," he said. "That would have complicated my plan."
I stopped walking. "What plan?"
"To be your friend," he said. "Obviously."
I narrowed my eyes. "That sounded like a backup answer."
He smiled. "You're sharp."
The drama arrived quietly.
One afternoon, Fu Jincheng mentioned his son again over tea.
"He's settled in well," he said. "Too well, perhaps."
"That's good," I said carefully.
"He's… distracting himself," Fu Jincheng continued. "Social."
I thought of Jin's grin. His easy laugh. The way he leaned too close when telling stories.
"He sounds nice," I said.
Fu Jincheng watched me for a long moment.
"Yes," he said. "He is."
Something about the way he said it unsettled me, but I couldn't place why.
It happened a week later.
Jin invited me to dinner.
"Nothing fancy," he said. "I want to show you the best dumplings in Beijing."
"Bold claim," I said. "You're asking to be challenged."
"I live dangerously," he reminded me.
The restaurant was small, loud, alive. We ate with our hands, argued about chili oil, laughed until my cheeks hurt.
"This," he said suddenly, gesturing between us, "is nice."
I nodded. "It is."
He hesitated, then added, "I'm glad I met you."
I felt it then. The shift. The subtle tightening of the air.
Before I could respond, his phone rang.
He glanced at it and groaned.
"My father," he said. "Duty calls."
My heart skipped.
"Your father?" I repeated.
"Yeah," he said, answering the call. "Baba, I'm out. I'll be home later."
The word hit me like cold water.
Baba.
"Send my regards to Thandeka," a familiar voice said through the phone—faint, but unmistakable.
The world tilted.
Jin frowned, pulling the phone away from his ear. "How do you—?"
I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor.
"I need air," I said. "Now."
Jin followed me outside, confusion written all over his face.
"Thandeka, what's wrong?"
I stared at him—really stared.
The same eyes. The same controlled confidence beneath the charm.
Fu Jincheng's son.
"I just realized," I said slowly, my voice tight, "that Beijing is much smaller than I thought."
He laughed nervously. "That's… dramatic."
"You have no idea," I said.
Somewhere behind me, the city kept moving.
Somewhere ahead, everything I thought I understood was about to become very, very complicated.
And for the first time since I arrived in China, I felt something close to panic—not because I had been chosen, but because I had been found.
I did not sleep that night.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling of my apartment, replaying the moment over and over like a scene that refused to resolve.
Send my regards to Thandeka.
Fu Jincheng's voice—calm, familiar, lethal in its timing.
How did he know?
No. Worse.
How long had he known?
By morning, I had decided on one thing only: Jin could not know the truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I told myself I was protecting him.
I told myself a lot of things.
Jin texted before my alarm went off.
Jin: Are you alive or did I scare you into the shadow realm?
Jin: I owe you dumplings and an explanation.
Jin: Also my father is weird. Sorry in advance.
I stared at the screen, equal parts amused and panicked.
Me: Your father seems… polite.
Jin: POLITE?? That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said about him.
I snorted despite myself.
Against my better judgment, I agreed to meet him later that afternoon. Neutral territory. Public. Somewhere with witnesses and exits.
We chose the campus bookstore café.
"You ran like I'd confessed to a crime," Jin said as soon as he saw me. "Should I be offended?"
"Only mildly," I replied. "I don't run often. My body panics."
He studied me, his usual humor softened by concern.
"My father didn't say anything strange, did he?"
Define strange.
"He just said hello," I said carefully.
Jin rolled his eyes. "Classic him. Appearing out of nowhere like a corporate ghost."
I laughed before I could stop myself.
"Corporate ghost?" I repeated.
"Yeah," Jin said. "Always watching. Always knowing things he shouldn't. It's unsettling."
If only you knew, I thought.
"So," he continued, leaning closer, lowering his voice dramatically, "tell me what he said that made you bolt."
My mind raced.
"He… used my full name," I said finally. "It caught me off guard."
"That'll do it," Jin said sympathetically. "He has a talent for making people feel examined."
I swallowed. "You seem… different from him."
He smiled. "Thank God."
We walked across campus afterward, the tension easing just enough for me to breathe.
With Jin, things stayed light whether I wanted them to or not. He teased me about my serious walk. I mocked his inability to blend in. At one point, he stopped abruptly.
"Wait," he said. "You've never asked what my last name is."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"I didn't think it mattered," I said, praying my voice sounded normal.
"Most people ask within five minutes," he said. "You're either refreshingly uninterested or extremely polite."
"Let's go with mysterious," I said.
He grinned. "I like that."
The universe, apparently satisfied with my suffering, let that moment pass.
The drama escalated two days later.
Fu Jincheng summoned me to his office with unusual urgency.
When I arrived, Jin was already there.
Sitting on the couch.
Scrolling through his phone.
My soul briefly left my body.
"Thandeka," Fu Jincheng said evenly. "You know my son."
Jin looked up, startled. "You know my father?"
The silence stretched.
"Yes," I said at the same time Fu Jincheng said, "Professionally."
Jin blinked. "Oh."
Fu Jincheng gestured for me to sit. "We were just discussing university-community engagement."
Jin smirked. "That's what you call it now?"
"Jin," Fu Jincheng said sharply.
"What?" Jin replied. "I'm engaging."
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Fu Jincheng's gaze flicked to me—warning, assessing, proprietary in a way that made my skin prickle.
"You two seem… acquainted," he said.
"We're friends," Jin said easily.
The word landed like a dropped glass.
Friends.
"Yes," I echoed. "Friends."
Fu Jincheng nodded slowly. "That's good."
I could not tell if it was approval or a threat.
Afterward, Jin cornered me outside.
"Okay," he said, hands on his hips. "That was weird."
"Your father runs a very… efficient office," I said.
"That's one word for it," he replied. "He didn't scare you, did he?"
I met his eyes.
"No," I said. "He didn't."
Another truth-shaped lie.
What followed was a balancing act worthy of an Olympic medal.
I existed in two versions of the same city.
With Fu Jincheng, I was composed, strategic, aware of every glance and pause.
With Jin, I laughed too loudly, forgot to check my phone, let myself be surprised.
One evening, Jin and I argued about music while walking along the river.
"You cannot tell me jazz is boring," I said.
"I can and I will," he replied. "It sounds like instruments fighting."
"That's art," I insisted.
"That's chaos," he countered.
I stopped walking. "You're uncultured."
He gasped theatrically. "That hurts. My father paid good money for my culture."
I froze.
"Too soon?" he asked, suddenly unsure.
I laughed, relief rushing through me. "Very."
But danger has a way of sharpening affection.
The closer Jin grew to me, the heavier the secret became. He told me about his childhood, about growing up in his father's shadow, about wanting a life that felt like his own.
"I don't want to be like him," he said one night, serious for once. "I don't want to control people."
The irony nearly broke me.
"You won't," I said softly.
I hoped I was right.
Behind us, the city glowed—unaware, indifferent, waiting.
And somewhere between a father who owned my silence and a son who trusted my laughter, I realized the most dangerous thing was no longer desire.
It was choice.
Because sooner or later, Beijing would force me to make one.
And no matter which man I lost, the cost would be mine to carry.