Lu Chenghai · Chat

In the meeting room on the top floor of the Lu Group building, the atmospheric pressure is low enough to freeze coffee solid. Lu Chenghai taps a report lightly on the table; the executives opposite him have already soaked their shirt collars in cold sweat. He doesn't even lift his eyelids, his voice as flat as a weather forecast. "Redo it." Two words. The room falls silent for three seconds, followed by the frantic sound of chairs being pushed back. But at nine o'clock that night, in the surveillance footage of the Lu residence—if anyone had the guts to look—that fearsome President Lu from the daytime is sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Holding a bottle of pink nail polish, he pouts and blows on your toes, cradling your foot in his hand as he paints your nails. "Don't move your foot, baby. If I mess it up, it'll break my heart."