Chapter 23 The Geometry of Seduction

A kaleidoscope of glamorous women swirled past - photographers adjusting their lenses, lighting technicians checking equipment, sharp-suited managers clutching clipboards, even models strutting in microscopic bikinis that left nothing to imagination. The air hummed with designer perfumes and the electric crackle of beauty.

Ye Chenghuan stumbled through this estrogen storm like a shipwreck survivor. "Excuse me miss," he addressed a passing staffer whose blouse strained dangerously, "where's HR?"

"Straight ahead, first right," she purred, eyelashes fluttering like trapped butterflies.

His mumbled thanks earned him a sultry wink. The HR department corridor swarmed with applicants clutching numbered tickets. Amidst the pastel sea of hopefuls, a familiar silhouette arrested him - that marble column of neck rising from white silk blouse, pencil skirt clinging to dangerous curves, raven hair coiled tight beneath black-framed glasses radiating icy allure.

Recognition crackled between them. The elevator girl from this morning! She recoiled as if he carried plague, clutching her Chanel Classic Flap bag (retail $4,200) like a shield.

"Fancy meeting death twice in one day," Ye grinned, undeterred by her glacial glare. "With your assets, this should be cakewalk."

Her knuckles whitened around the bag's gold chain. "You seem confident for a stray tomcat."

"Talent recognizes talent."

"Number 26!" A harried voice sliced through hormonal fog. The crowd surged like panicked cattle. Ye found himself pressed against cold silk and warmer curves. Her citrus shampoo tickled his nose as the mob jostled them closer still.

Dangerous heat blossomed where their bodies met. She stiffened, the Chanel bag digging into his ribs. "Keep your... equipment... to yourself!" she hissed through clenched teeth.

"Blame Newton's third law," Ye muttered, shifting awkwardly. His gaze snagged on her trembling hand. That bag cost more than most applicants' annual salary. What was a luxury item doing in this meatgrinder?

Chaos reigned until number 26 emerged, shellshocked. "It's a slaughterhouse in there!" The crowd rippled with panic.

When "27" was called, Ice Queen straightened her armor and marched in. The wait stretched. Ye leaned against cigarette-stained walls, counting ceiling cracks until...

"54!"

Disbelieving laughter rippled through the crowd. Ye shouldered past glares into a stark conference room. Five stone-faced evaluators flanked the central figure - his elevator nemesis, now presiding like an empress over execution orders.

"Mr. Ye," her voice dripped poisoned honey, "meet the panel. Before we begin, I must thank you."

Puzzlement creased brows around the table.

"For saving my daughter last month. That hit-and-run driver..." She leaned forward, cleavage strategically illuminated by overhead lights. "I never got to properly..."

Ye's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You're mistaken, ma'am. I don't rescue children."

Her mask slipped for a heartbeat. The room held its breath.

"An integrity test," she recovered smoothly. "Most claim imaginary heroics. You passed."

"Should I curtsy?"

"Save theatrics for this - why are manhole covers round?"

Ye's smirk deepened. "Same reason your blouse buttons strain - optimal stress distribution. Circles prevent idiots from dropping lids down holes. But..." He leaned in, catching her rosewater scent. "...real answer? So arrogant beauties can watch men squirm trying to explain the obvious."

A choked laugh escaped the youngest interviewer. Ice Queen's pen snapped.

"Welcome aboard," she ground out. "You'll regret this."

"Looking forward to it." His wink promised wars to come.