The private jet’s cabin embraced Ruòyún in muted luxury, cream leather sighing as she settled into her seat. Clouds streaked the sky beyond the oval window, distant and harmless. She dialed home before the engines whined to life. Lǐ Jie answered on the second ring, background noise suggesting cartoons.
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“Honey , are you alright? “ she started a bit tense.
"Mom? You left, like, an hour ago." She could almost see his eye-roll.
"Check the front door lock," she insisted.
"Anya already did. Twice. She is so sharp " Ruòyún’s lips twitched.
"Be good. I’ll call soon."
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Her second call landed as the plane taxied. Anya answered over the roar of a running shower.
“Chen residence, Anya speaking,” Anya started with an inquisitive tone .
"Hi Anya,”
“Mrs Chen, hows the flight?”
“Its alright , I’m getting news that , It’s four days, not two. I’ll pay you extra to keep the house safe. Groceries will be delivered at nine a.m. tomorrow — anything else, text Mei’s assistant. And take the bedroom of your choice. “
The pilot’s crisp announcement cut her off. "Takeoff time , Just… keep him in one piece, Anya."
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Lǐ Jie emerged from the steam a minute later, a small tsunami in a Spider-Man towel. "Anya! My hair’s would you help me comb it?" With a sigh that held surprising fondness, Anya pointed to the stool at the kitchen island.
"Sit." He sat.
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His dark, unruly locks resisted the comb. Anya parted it cleanly down the middle, then wove two thick braids starting at his temples, pulling them back snugly to meet at his nape. She secured them with plain black hair ties from the utility drawer — a simplified echo of the **osełedets** style worn by Cossack horsemen centuries ago. "There," she declared, spinning the stool so he faced the hall mirror. "Now you look like you could raid Constantinople. Or at least scare the neighbor’s poodle." Lǐ Jie’s reflection beamed, fingers gingerly tracing the braids. "Can I keep it till Mom gets back?" Anya agreed, swatting his damp shoulder. "If you promise not to drip on carpets worth more than my tuition."
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The glow of the living room TV beckoned. Anya navigated to a streaming service, selecting ‘The Snow Queen (1954)’. The Soviet animation unfolded — haunting piano melodies, stark ice-palaces rendered in dreamlike watercolors, characters moving with a deliberate, almost melancholic grace. Lǐ Jie fidgeted initially, legs swinging. "Why does the Snow Queen sound like a cat being stepped on?" Anya didn’t look away from the screen. "That, is the voice of timeless tragedy. And also, maybe bad audio transfer." He fell quiet, though his skepticism radiated in the slump of his shoulders. Yet, as the story deepened — the little girl Gerda’s relentless journey, the trolls’ sorrowful dissolution — he slowly stilled. By the time Gerda’s tears melted Kay’s frozen heart, he’d curled unconsciously against Anya’s side, head resting near her elbow. When the credits rolled in stark silence, he mumbled into her sweater, "...The ice castle was kinda cool. I guess."
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Dinner negotiations commenced as Anya moved towards the kitchen. "Dumplings?" Lǐ Jie asked, trailing her with hopeful eyes. "Sadly i don’t know how to make dumplings, but tonight you can eat something russian,” Anya declared, pulling vibrant crimson beets and white cabbage from the fridge. "You mean borscht?" His nose wrinkled slightly.
"Will there be vodka?" Anya scooped a dollop of snowy smetana into a deep bowl. "In my serving, perhaps." She arched a brow.
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As Lǐ Jie tentatively explored the earthy sweetness of the borscht, Anya plugged in a single earbud. The tinny narration of Lethal Lust: Love at First Bite spilled into her ear. A particularly absurd line — something about a vampire lord despairing over his inability to use self-checkout because sunlight reflected off the screen — caught her off guard. A sudden, sharp snort of laughter escaped her. Lǐ Jie looked up, beetroot momentarily forgotten on his spoon. "What's so funny?" Anya schooled her features, stirring the pot with exaggerated focus. "Adult nonsense," she said, the ghost of the laugh still in her voice. "Eat your soup."
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******
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The wheels of the private jet kissed New Orleans tarmac just after 10 PM. Ruòyún thumbed her phone awake before the seatbelt sign dimmed. Lǐ Jie.No answer. Asleep, she reasoned. Time zones bled together like wet ink.
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A phalanx of men in charcoal suits materialized at the jet bridge—posture rigid, earpieces coiled like serpents. They swept Ruòyún and Mei into a waiting motorcade, black SUVs gliding through the humid night. Mei pressed her nose to the window, eyes wide as a child’s at the wrought-iron balconies dripping with bougainvillea. "Those guards look like they stepped off a spy thriller poster," she whispered, flushing when one caught her stare. Ruòyún said nothing. The city’s jazz-thick air felt heavy as wet wool.
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Senator Blanchard awaited them at the Maison Blanche hotel—a Gilded Age monster of white marble and gilt. His handshake was a politician’s vise, smile blinding under crystal chandeliers. Cameras flashed like lightning strikes. "The lioness of Shanghai!" he boomed, steering them through a gauntlet of smiles and handshakes. A thousand photos later, Mei couldn’t blink she claimed the flashes were at the brink of blinding her, they retreated to a private dining room—oak-paneled, smelling of old money and truffles. Blanchard talked ports, tariffs, and the future of cross-Pacific data flows over crab étouffée. Ruòyún nodded, tasted nothing.
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Midnight found Ruòyún in a suite larger than her first apartment. Silk walls, a bed like a cloud. She called Anya. Once. Twice. Three times. Silence. Outside, a streetcar rattled down St. Charles Avenue. She dreamed of dents in Audis and braided hair.
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Mei shook her awake at 4:03 AM. "They moved the presentation up. Investor jitters." Ruòyún dressed in the dark—navy Stella McCartney suit, hair knotted tight. Coffee, black and bitter, scalded her tongue in the makeshift war room. Floor plans glowed on a tablet.
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"It’s not AI," Ruòyún stated, laser pointer circling a schematic. "It’s a keyword architect. Sifts public chatter—social posts, comments, reviews—and maps interest clusters. No machine learning. No predictive creep. Just… patterns." She tapped the screen. "Dating apps find true love faster. E-commerce curates without spying. Newsfeeds stop radicalizing. Clean. Contained."
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A junior aide scurried in, whispering to Mei. Mei’s eyes flicked to Ruòyún. "He’s here. The architect."
Ruòyún stiffened. "Who?"
"Startup founder. His plane just arrived. Ten minutes."
As Mei turned, a scent cut through the room’s stale coffee and printer toner—Faint, beneath Mei’s jasmine perfume, but unmistakable. Ruòyún’s next breath hitched. Lucas? Here? Her pointer hand trembled. She looked amongst the guards to see if she would spot him, nothing .
The schematic blurred.
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Focus.
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She gripped the table’s edge.
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The door swung open.
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A dark skinned man, stood framed in the antiseptic dark—tall, broad-shouldered, skin like polished mahogany against an immaculate ivory suit. Hair cropped close, disciplined. A black silk mask covered his mouth. Mirrored aviators swallowed his eyes.
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"Ms. Chen." The voice was velvet wrapped in gravel. Familiar. Terrifying. He extended a hand.
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His cologne hit her then—Oud Wood and bitter orange. Expensive. Deliberate. It shouldn’t have weakened her knees.
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It did.
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She mustered her strength and shook the hand. It was much smoother than Lucas’ , it couldn’t be , she might have hallucinated his presence , she thought as the man sat down in the room the rehearsal of the presentation continuing as before.
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