CHAPTER 24: CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: CROSSING THE LINES

The outer office hummed—phones, footsteps, the soft thrum of money moving through glass and steel.

Song Qingwan paused at the threshold, smoothing an invisible crease from her sleeve before Yancheng’s secretary ushered her through with a smile.

"President An is in a meeting," the secretary said, deferential. "He asked that you wait in his office."

Song Qingwan’s answering smile was measured, gracious. "Thank you."

Inside, the room was cool and still. The faint scent of cedar polish and ink lingered, precise as the man who worked here. Books on one wall, the skyline on the other.

Nothing out of place—

Except the folder on the desk set slightly askew.

She didn’t move at first. The sunlight slid across the polished surface in a neat bar, and in that narrow beam she could see the entire sheet, the clean label typed in black: Phoenix Project.

Her pulse lifted, then settled.

This is what you came for.

She had told herself it was only a small thing—information that would help An Yanming make his company more profitable. A little leverage, a little advantage. Everyone helped the ones they cared about.

And she did care. Just not in the way she should.

There was a moment of hesitation—a flicker between wrong and right, conscience and calculation—so brief it could almost be mistaken for instinct.

Once, she’d believed that love meant persistence. That if she held on long enough, An Yanming would one day turn and see her.

He hadn’t.

And when years passed without that moment, she’d learned a quieter truth: if the person she wanted wouldn’t return her feelings, then anyone who would stay might be enough. Stability could be its own kind of affection.

So when the Songs proposed the match, she hadn’t hesitated. The Ans were respectable, the future secure. Feelings, she told herself, could be built later.

And for a while, she had tried. She buried whatever was left of her foolish, girlish fondness for An Yanming and turned her focus to Yancheng—steady, responsible, predictable. It wasn’t passion, but it was peace. She could live with it.

Until recently.

Because lately, An Yanming had started to respond. A text returned faster than expected. A call taken instead of delayed. A look that lingered just half a second too long.

And he was always there.

Whenever she visited An Ya, he would appear—not by plan, never openly—but with the ease of someone who belonged. A shared coffee, a casual remark, the kind of presence that felt accidental until she realised it never was.

He would greet her politely, speak of work, of family, of nothing in particular—and somehow those nothings filled the space between them like smoke.

It wasn’t enough to be called affection, but it was enough to remind her what it once felt like. Enough to make her forget, just for a moment, what she’d promised herself to stop wanting.

And all those buried things she thought she’d silenced began to stir again—quiet, insistent, and far too late.

It made her realised there was a difference between being with someone she liked and someone she didn’t.

With someone she liked, every glance carried meaning, every silence had weight.

With someone she didn’t, everything—adequate. Predictable. Safe in the way boredom often was.

But lately, that quiet steadiness had begun to feel suffocating. Every conversation was measured, every gesture dutiful. Even his affection had turned procedural—timed between meetings, performed like clockwork.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t demand more.

He simply stopped reaching.

And somehow, that absence stung more than anger ever could.

So when An Yanming began to appear again—smiling, attentive, his voice threaded with the kind of warmth that used to belong to her imagination—she let herself believe it meant something.

That the version of herself she’d buried all those years still had a place to exist.

And maybe that was why she was here now, standing in her fiancé’s office, staring at a folder she had no right to touch.

Her hand hovered above it, trembling once before stilling.

The air-conditioning hummed faintly, too cold against her skin.

She could walk away now. Pretend she hadn’t seen it. Pretend she was still the kind of woman who didn’t cross certain lines.

But then she thought of Yanming’s voice—low, amused, the way he used to say her name before everything went wrong.

If i could just help him, even a little.

If this boosted Yanming’s company, wouldn’t that change everything? Wouldn’t her family see his worth then—see their worth?

If Yanming’s company rose high enough—or if he had enough bargaining power to take control of An Group—perhaps that balance would finally tilt.

Then she wouldn’t need to wait for permission. She wouldn’t have to smile through dinners where decisions about her life were made without her.

If this worked, she could end the engagement on her own terms. No more polite obedience. No more being weighed like an asset.

For once, the future could belong to her.

The thought pulsed through her, sharp and steady, drowning out every whisper of caution.

She let out a slow breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. The logic sounded almost noble when repeated in her head—help him, help yourself, hurt no one.

Even conscience, when dressed in purpose, could look a lot like courage. And courage, she decided, was sometimes just the name people gave their mistakes.

Her fingers brushed the folder’s edge. Once. Then again.

The paper was cold beneath her fingertips, smooth as inevitability. Her fingers lingered on the folder’s edge, tracing the embossed seal of the company logo.

It felt heavier than paper had any right to be.

She reminded herself it wasn’t theft. Not really. Just information. A glance. A copy.

The kind of thing everyone in business did but never admitted to.

Still, her pulse betrayed her—fast, sharp, unsteady.

She took a slow breath and looked toward the door. The office was silent, the secretary’s voice faint beyond the glass wall. The city stretched below, all glitter and noise, indifferent to whoever fell or rose next.

Somewhere out there, Yanming was working, fighting to reclaim what should have belonged to him. He’d always been that way—relentless, proud. And yet when he looked at her now, there was something almost gentle in his eyes.

He needs this.

The thought slid in, smooth and convincing. It was easier to believe that than to face what it truly was—her final excuse.

She reached for the folder. The faint rustle of paper filled the stillness.

Her hands didn’t tremble this time.

Because once a choice was made, hesitation served no purpose.

And because a line was crossed, pretending otherwise never made it disappear.

This is for him. For us. For myself.