Chapter 2

Jiang Qishen was asking what was wrong, but Yang Bufan knew he was already losing patience.
He wouldn’t sit through the real reason. He’d hear her out, then ask if Brand had enough work, tell her to get over her fragility.
It had happened before. She knew the drill. She didn’t want a fight. She didn’t expect him to understand. Fine. Drop it.
“It’s turning into a new season. I want to switch bags.”
Jiang Qishen stared, expression hard.
She moved to hug his waist. He sidestepped. “What’d you touch?”
He passed her a wipe. She cleaned her hands carefully. Only then did he let her near. She held him, voice muffled against his chest. “Let’s sleep.”
He’d rushed back right after work. She’d been distant and prickly. It killed his mood.
They embraced briefly. Silence. Then they retreated to the bedroom and lay down.
They lay there a long time. In the end she crept over and pressed against him. Something passed between them in the dark. His posture eased. “Don’t like the bag? What do you want, then?”
“Fifty‑one percent of the company.”
He laughed.
If the gaps in a relationship were a ten, you could only ever name five. Language always fell short. Besides, Yang Bufan knew her hang‑ups were small, unbecoming.
Life went on.
Yun Siyu led the team through the concert campaign. Progress was good. Leadership played cheerleader. Yang Bufan stayed in the background, on admin and execution.
That Saturday, Jiang Qishen was home. They ate, then exercised. Yang Bufan stretched and scrolled. A bad headline jumped out.
Xinyun’s name was in it. A fan of their sponsored singer had posted a furious video.
The clip showed Xinyun’s ticket‑giveaway page—the singer’s name wrong, another artist’s instead. Typos in the copy.
It spiraled. Outrage multiplied. Comments updated by the second.
More users piled on with Xinyun dirt. The story blew up. Dozens of influencers attacked. Fans screenshot app‑store reports, regulatory warnings.
Yang Bufan opened the work chat. Leadership was scrambling.
Everyone tied to the campaign was in the office. Yun Siyu was missing. Messages unread. Email unanswered. Phone off.
She was in charge. She wasn’t there to own it.
Siyu didn’t take work calls off the clock. Everyone who’d worked with her knew.
Normally the boss grilled Yang Bufan over late reports. Now, with a real crisis, he was desperate and useless. The pettiest part of her loved it.
That gremlin urge to gloat wasn’t noble. It was good for her sanity.
She sank into the sofa, sipped lemon tea. Relieved, a little smug.
If she or anyone else had messed up, the boss would’ve exploded. She’d have been in the office already, drafting her resignation.
She was riding that high when she felt a cold stare. Jiang Qishen stood there in a suit, watching her with no expression.
“See the hot search?””
She nodded. Didn’t move.
“Your department dropped a bomb. Everyone’s in damage control. Do they have enough hands? You have twenty‑four hours max for a crisis. You’re going to sit here and wait for severance?”
She dug in. “Siyu’s running this campaign, not me. The boss said—”
He cut her off. “When something goes wrong, you fix it. You don’t sit back and play office politics.”
He sounded disappointed. “Yang Bufan, learn from Qi Ying’s example. If you only ever think in terms of reporting up, you’re not cut out for management.”
He wasn’t even harsh. Her head still rang.
The campaign had been taken from her. Her project count was short. Her performance mediocre. The group was opening twenty slots, only three for her level. Even if she somehow got one, she’d be filler. Year‑end promotion was out of the question.
She’d already given up on that.
So she thought, darkly: What’s wrong with clocking in, doing the minimum, and not sticking my neck out?
Isn’t that what they pay me for? No promotion, but they want me to kill myself? Screw that.
Then she heard herself ask, “If it doesn’t suit me, who does it suit?”
“Sort this out. Then I’ll tell you.”
She understood. The man talking to her wasn’t her boyfriend. He was her boss. Same even off the clock. The boss didn’t care who was right. Didn’t care about anyone’s feelings. He wanted results.
“I’ll go to the office.”
She changed, left with him. Shennan Avenue in spring, green and lush. She looked at the trees and thought they looked sad.
Would he have said that to Yun Siyu?
That made it sadder. The worst part: Siyu messed up. Yang Bufan got the lecture. She pulled out her phone and scrolled work chat to distract herself—to avoid spinning into victim mode and punishing herself.
That was the dynamic. Different worlds. Unequal footing. Jiang Qishen cared about the big picture and the company. Cold, efficient, impersonal. From her lowly corner, wanting his understanding was self‑humiliation.
She skimmed a few crisis‑management write‑ups. Calmed down. The hurt flared and died like match powder. Gone.
At the office: emergency meeting.
The boss was as vague as ever. “Listen up. Crisis contains opportunity. If we handle this, we show our brand’s humanity! No us‑vs‑them. Long‑term course correction. Take user criticism seriously. Understood?”
Yang Bufan said, “Let’s see the apology draft we’re copying.”
The room got to work. She coordinated with PR on the statement. They spent 200k on a fan‑sourced copy contest. Deployed influencers. Killed热搜, scrubbed threads, re‑reviewed assets. R&D pulled the bad campaign, fixed it, relaunched.
When the dust settled, she grabbed coffee. She hesitated. Should she tell Jiang Qishen it was under control? She’d use the internal tool. Report up. As an employee.
She knew why she wanted to. She wanted to prove herself—capable, composed. She didn’t want him to look down on her. That came from being the lower one in the relationship, desperate to prove her worth. Not from a professional standoff.
She immediately hated herself for it.
Then she saw the memo. Major incident. The boss, Siyu, and others were suspended. Investigation. Blame‑finding.
With them out, the rest landed on Yang Bufan and a few others. The days that followed were a blur.
They pushed the campaign and tried to salvage the brand. Official accounts joined influencers in self‑deprecating posts. The singer invited fans to submit new copy. Fans ran with it. New buzz built. The crisis eased. Goodwill trickled back.
To capitalize, they planned a stunt with the organizers—
At the concert, during the song‑request segment, the singer would give the sponsor a slot to share the brand. The brand director would take the mic, break script, and gush about the singer instead—a “brand rep goes full fan” moment.
The singer would play along, crack jokes. They’d push “What it’s like to fangirl on company dime” and similar hot‑search tags, cut the clip, spread it everywhere.
They hired an actor to play “the director.” Rehearsals were absurd and a little heartbreaking. Leadership was pleased.
D‑day. The concert went smoothly. Better than expected.
The singer loved the fans. The fans loved it back. Hot search filled with “company fangirl” and the like. The whole thing turned into entertainment. Xinyun was in the clear.
Reputation bounced. App downloads surged. They briefly overwhelmed the store. Among stuffy tech companies, Xinyun stood out. Win after win.
Yang Bufan and her colleagues hugged, thanked each other, sang along with the crowd. The venue was euphoric.
……
The concert ended past midnight. Jiang Qishen was at a client dinner. He set down his glass and checked his phone. Nothing.
The client assumed he was tracking the story. “Relax, Jiang Zong. Your team nailed the response. Sentiment’s positive. I’ll put in a word. The next project should be fine.”
Jiang Qishen nodded. His mind was elsewhere.
The venue would be a mob. Had the company car picked anyone up? Yang Bufan used to drive his spare Lexus. She’d dinged a delivery rider’s bike early in the year and stopped.
Yang Bufan filed out with her colleagues. Outside, crowds, gridlock. The company car had taken clients and execs. The stragglers had to find their own ride.
They inched forward. Midnight sea breeze, damp, loosening the tension. Everyone looked drained. No one spoke. The win was theirs. It didn’t feel like it.
Her phone lit up. Jiang Qishen. She replied: sharing a cab with colleagues, no need for Lao Zhang.
The crowd pressed in. Streetlights stretched into the distance. The light was murky—this hormonally charged spring night, excitement’s comedown.
She bent to tie her shoe. Someone’s head clipped hers. *Thunk.* She staggered. Furious, she straightened. A young woman was apologizing. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking.”
Yang Bufan touched her head. The anger fizzled. She waved it off.
A young man pushed past her to the woman. “You okay?”
She said she was. He double‑checked. “I heard that hit. Does it hurt?”
Yang Bufan raised her voice. “Sorry for getting in the way of her arm swing. Hope it didn’t bruise.”
They exchanged a look. Held hands and hurried off.
Yang Bufan rubbed the back of her head. Numb. *Screw heterosexuality. Need 31 days a month to recover.*
Watching them go, the fatigue hit. Her mood dipped.
She stood there a moment. Opened her phone. Requested time off.
—
The first two days she slept until afternoon. Watched movies. Ate junk. She finally felt human again.
Day three. The company summoned her. A victory party that night—Brand’s comeback, plus a new department head. Everyone was to meet him. The email mentioned a bonus. Her name was first.
She declined. On leave.
If they really wanted to celebrate, they’d give people rest. Not drag sleep‑deprived staff into schmoozing with bosses. Who was that a reward for?
After lunch she ran errands.
Cake, milk tea, flowers, candles. Snacks she’d seen online but never tried. Nice cups and plates.
The cleaner came in the afternoon. Jiang Qishen texted: he’d be back early. Meaning she should wait.
She had ingredients delivered. That evening she pan‑seared steak. The view from the kitchen was beautiful.
Blue sea and sky. Salty wind through the window. The sun sank like an egg yolk. A white yacht, small as origami, bobbed on the horizon.
It reminded her of a lazy evening years ago.
She and Jiang Qishen weren’t official yet. She wasn’t sure he liked her. Everyone knew she liked him—it hurt. They’d wandered a park near campus at dusk, under the trees, until late.
She hadn’t known yet how tired adulthood could make you. Back then love was everything. Now it felt like that evening was the last time she’d been truly happy.
Steak done. Cake out. Candles lit. She waited for him and idly scrolled Moments.
A girl posted couple pics, complaining her boyfriend sent flowers seven days a week. Mostly travel, gym, work links.
She kept scrolling. A colleague had posted photos from tonight’s party. Group shots, singles. One showed Yun Siyu and Jiang Qishen with glasses in hand, laughing. Glamorous. Both glowing.
She’d been killing time. All that curated happiness, those smiles—it made her feel pathetic.
The steak was going cold. She picked up her knife and fork. Ate it all. Drank the milk tea. Cracked the cake open, scooped out the fruit. She wouldn’t stay mad. No one was coming to comfort her.
Today was their four‑year anniversary.