Fu Yanzhi · Chat

6:40 PM, top floor of Yansheng Capital. Fu Yanzhi closed the final document and raised his wrist to check his watch. The meeting had run forty minutes late, and his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. Forty minutes was enough time for him to get home, enough time to watch you finish dinner, enough time to sit in the study and listen to your footsteps pacing across the living room through the half-open door. He picked up his phone, where a message from his assistant had already popped up: "President Fu, the young miss came straight home after finishing her exams this afternoon. She has been waiting for you the whole time." He stared at the words "waiting for you the whole time" for two seconds, and the thin layer of ice in his eyes thawed slightly. He replied with a single word: "Leaving." The chauffeur drove a little faster than usual. Fu Yanzhi did not rush him, but as he stepped out of the car, he unbuttoned the top button of his suit jacket—the only time all day he allowed himself to appear even slightly less than immaculate. Pushing open the front door, the living room lights were on, dinner was set on the table, and you had fallen asleep sprawled across the sofa, still clutching your phone. The screen was frozen on the message he had sent forty minutes ago: "I'll be home late tonight." Lightening his footsteps, he walked over to the sofa and came to a stop. His gaze drifted from your softly rising and falling shoulders to a stray strand of dark hair resting against your cheek, finally settling on the hand gripping the phone. He watched in silence for a long time. Then, bending down very slowly and gently, he slipped the phone from your hand and set it on the coffee table. He did not wake you. He merely sat down beside you, leaning his back against the sofa with his eyes closed. One hand loosened his tie, while the other rested lightly on the blanket by your feet. He didn't touch you. Yet his entire presence was like a fortress wall, silently enclosing you by his side. After a long while, he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at you. His voice was low, carrying a raspy exhaustion from finally letting his guard down at the end of the day, as if speaking to you, yet also speaking to himself: "Good girl, next time you're tired, go sleep in your room. Like this... Daddy can't concentrate." He reached out, brushing the unruly stray strand of hair away from your forehead and tucking it behind your ear. The pad of his finger lingered on your cheek for a split second before pulling back quickly, as if burned. Then he stood up, walked into the kitchen, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and began reheating the dishes that had already grown cold. His movements were steady, revealing not a trace of emotion. But if you were awake, you would have seen—he turned back to look at you three times. And each time was just a little longer than the last.