—Sunday, 5:17 PM—
Syra arrived exactly seventeen minutes late—a deliberate act of defiance that tasted like victory on her tongue.
The traditional courtyard house loomed before her, all dark wood and paper screens, exuding quiet power just like its owner. She adjusted the straps of her deep blue cheongsam, the silk whispering against her skin like a challenge. The dress was conservative in cut but daring in color—a perfect metaphor for the war she was waging.
The gate creaked open before she could knock.
Mei stood there, already dressed in miniature scholar's robes, her knowing eyes far too old for an eleven-year-old. "You're late," she announced.
Syra offered the carefully wrapped gift—an antique inkstone she'd spent three days selecting. "Traffic," she lied smoothly.
Mei peeked at the present. "Grandmother collects these."
"Mei."
Lou Yan's voice cut through the courtyard like tempered steel. Syra turned slowly, refusing to let her breath catch at the sight of him in traditional dark gray hanfu, the layers emphasizing his broad shoulders. He looked like an ancient general who had stepped out of a painting—all restrained power and silent command.
His gaze swept over her, lingering just long enough to acknowledge her presence before shuttering again. "You came."
Syra tilted her chin. "Against my better judgment."
Behind Lou, his grandmother materialized like a benevolent spirit. The old woman took the gift from Mei with elegant fingers. "The rebellious artist honors us with her presence," she said, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Come. The fish will overcook."
As Syra moved past Lou, she caught the faintest hint of sandalwood and rain. She stiffened her spine and walked faster.
The dining room was a study in understated luxury—black lacquered table, white porcelain, dishes arranged like works of art. Syra found herself seated directly across from Lou, an unfortunate placement that forced her to either meet his gaze or stare fixedly at his forehead.
He served her tea without asking, his movements precise. "The duck is excellent today."
"I'm vegetarian," Syra lied.
Lou's chopsticks froze mid-air. His grandmother coughed into her sleeve.
Mei giggled. "No you're not. You ate three pork buns at last week's—"
"Mei." Lou's voice could have cut glass.
Syra took vindictive pleasure in serving herself only vegetables, ignoring the glistening slices of Peking duck that Lou had clearly gone out of his way to procure. She could feel his gaze burning into her as she deliberately picked around every meat dish.
Lou's grandmother observed the silent battle with apparent delight. "So tell me, Syra," she said, "why does someone with your talent refuse to exhibit?"
The question hit like a splash of cold water. Syra's fingers tightened around her chopsticks. "I prefer creating over performing."
"Or perhaps," the old woman mused, "you fear being truly seen."
Across the table, Lou's posture shifted almost imperceptibly—a slight lean forward, the barest tension in his jaw. Waiting.
Syra set down her utensils with deliberate care. "Some of us don't have the luxury of choosing what parts of ourselves to show the world."
The words hung in the air like smoke. Lou's eyes darkened.
Mei, blessedly oblivious, reached for another dumpling. "I like Syra's paintings. They're messy on purpose."
The tension broke. Lou's grandmother laughed, the sound like wind chimes. "Out of the mouths of babes."
Lou said nothing. But when the next course arrived, Syra found her plate bearing a single perfect lychee—peeled, pit removed, glistening like a jewel amidst her untouched vegetables.
She left it there, uneaten.
---
The moon hung heavy over the courtyard when Syra escaped to the stone garden. She breathed in the night air, willing her pulse to steady.
"You didn't touch the lychee."
Lou's voice came from behind her, closer than she'd anticipated. She didn't turn. "I'm full."
A rustle of silk as he moved to stand beside her, not touching, but close enough that she could see the way the moonlight caught on his collar bones where his robes parted slightly. "You're resisting."
"Astute observation."
"Why?"
Syra finally turned to face him. "Because men like you collect challenges. Once solved, you lose interest."
Lou's expression remained impassive, but his fingers flexed at his sides. "You think this is a game?"
"I think you bought a building to get my attention. I think you're used to people saying yes." She stepped closer, close enough to see the faint scar through his eyebrow, to count his eyelashes. "But I'm not one of your acquisitions, Lou Yan."
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—not anger, but something hotter, darker. His hand twitched as if to reach for her, then stilled. "You misunderstand."
"Then explain."
The garden held its breath. Somewhere, a nightingale called.
Lou opened his mouth—
"Uncle Lou!" Mei's voice shattered the moment. "Grandmother wants—oh." The girl skidded to a halt, her gaze darting between them. "Am I interrupting?"
Syra stepped back smoothly. "Not at all."
Lou's jaw tightened. "What does Grandmother want?"
Mei grinned. "To remind Syra that resistance is futile when it comes to our family." She paused. "Also, the sesame balls are getting cold."
As they walked back, Lou's hand hovered near the small of Syra's back—not touching, but close enough that the heat of him seared through silk.
---
—Later—
Unknown Number: The building isn't the acquisition. You are.
Syra stared at her phone, the words burning through her.
Syra: Then you'll be disappointed.
The reply came instantly:
Unknown Number: I've waited thirty-two years to be disappointed by you. I can wait longer.
Syra threw her phone across the bed. The uneaten lychee sat on her nightstand, glowing pale in the moonlight.
She picked it up. Held it to her lips.
Then set it back down, untouched.