Chapter 10: 80,000 Per Suit

"Darling, are you alright? This is all my fault…" Ye Chenghuan rushed forward, genuine concern cutting through his usual irreverence.

Lin Peishan massaged her bruised ribs, frost crystallizing in her eyes. "You said you only knew the basics."

"Apparently even basics can hurt when delivered by an angel." He winced theatrically.

She pushed past him into the private elevator, the mirrored walls multiplying her icy glare. When the doors reopened at the lobby, executives scattered like spooked pigeons before her stormcloud presence.

The Rolls-Royce Phantom's suicide doors yawned open. "Are you getting in or not?" she snapped at his lingering shadow.

Auntie Wan intercepted them later in Victoria's marble foyer, clucking over the tension. "Young master Ye, must you provoke her every sunrise?"

"Merely conducting marital harmony experiments," he grinned, fingers brushing the Kiton suit's silk-lined collar. The 80,000-yuan price tag still prickled his mercenary soul – enough to feed a village for years, yet currently encasing him in Neapolitan armor.

Dawn found them at Dragon Capital's financial district, where the Oriental International Tower cast its steel shadow over mortal ambitions. Lin transformed as they approached – shoulders squaring into battle posture, eyes hardening into boardroom diamonds. Reporters swarmed like piranhas.

"Will Oriental International survive this crisis?" A rookie journalist trembled under Lin's arctic gaze.

"Tell me," she purred, nails scoring the reporter's press badge, "does your newspaper teach you to beg for obituaries at funerals?"

Ye materialized between them, his Kiton-clad arm a velvet barricade. "Ladies and gentlemen, my wife's schedule currently includes dismantling short sellers and redesigning corporate graves. Press conference details will be—"

The elevator's chime severed his diplomacy. As doors sealed them in silence, Lin's perfume warred with his cigarette breath. Security feeds captured the moment her gloved hand flexed – whether to strangle him or adjust his tie, even she couldn't say.

Twenty-third floor: war room.

Charts of crashing stocks glowed on LED walls. Ye traced the nosediving graphs with a gunslinger's smile. "So… which of your board members is selling us out?"

Lin didn't flinch. "Third uncle. Mother's cousin. The CFO's mistress."

"Ah, family." He plucked a stress pill from her desk, crunching it like candy. "Shall we play poison or fire tonight?"

Her stiletto clicked rhythmically against panic. "We play shareholders tomorrow. You'll need a better tie."

The safe behind her Monet reproduction whirred open, revealing rows of Swiss watches glowing like neutron bombs. Ye selected a Patek Philippe with tactical precision. "Compensation for playing Prince Consort?"

"Armor for the proxy war." Her reflection smiled in the bulletproof windows – the first real expression since sunrise. "Try not to pawn it before lunch."

Far below, the gold-trading floors buzzed with rumors. Up in the clouds of corporate warfare, two predators circled their prey – and each other.