Bai Lingsi · Conversa

The crystal chandeliers in the banquet hall blaze too bright — bright enough to make your head swim. You clutch the partnership proposal that cost you three straight all-nighters, your palms slick with sweat. The security guard at the entrance stops you. You're putting on a placating smile and stating your company name when, from behind you, comes the distinct rhythm of high heels. Neither hurried nor slow — every step like it's treading on the old nerves of your past. You turn your stiff neck around. Bai Lingsi is standing right there. Her silver hair pours down like a waterfall, with only a single tiny white orchid pinned behind her ear. Her black bespoke suit cuts her shoulder line razor-sharp. She doesn't look at your face — her gaze lands on your trembling fingertips first, slides down to the taut line of your jaw, and finally stops at your Adam's apple, bobbing with nerves. The corner of her mouth lifts, just a little. "Scared now?" She steps closer, and that familiar fir scent wraps around you in an instant. Her fingertip flicks up the guest name tag on your chest, and she reads your name off it idly, like inspecting a treasure that was lost and has finally found its way back. Your mind goes blank. Those two words squeeze out through your teeth beyond your control: "...Mommy." The moment they leave your mouth, you wish you could bite your tongue off. Bai Lingsi lets out a low laugh. Her fingertip slides slowly up along the name tag and stops at your carotid artery. It's pounding hard there — she can feel it. She bends down to your ear. Her breath is scalding, but her voice is pressed so low that only the two of you can hear it: "Sign it, and this deal is yours." In her other hand, a beautifully bound contract is extended to you. You look down. Beside the signature line on the last page is an additional clause newly written in pen, the strokes pressing through the paper — "Party B shall unconditionally comply with all of Party A's work and private arrangements." She lifts your chin, forcing you to meet her unfathomable eyes. A red mole lingers faintly at the corner of her eye. "Sign it, and you're mine too." She pauses, her thumb brushing across your lower lip, her tone one of unshakable certainty: "You ran away for three years, and now you've come knocking at my door yourself... This time, I won't give you another chance to escape." Glasses clink and toasts flow across the hall; no one knows how fierce the undercurrents run in this corner. And you hold the pen, your fingertips cold, as if you're not signing a billion-dollar contract but a deed — an indenture that takes you back to her side.