A Disguised Blind Date?

It was exactly ten o'clock at night when the chamber of commerce meeting ended.

He Yanci carried a faint scent of alcohol and didn't drive himself. The driver, who had been waiting outside the clubhouse for some time, quickly opened the rear car door as soon as he emerged.

He Yanci bent to enter, his slender fingers tugging at his tie. After a moment, he waved the driver into motion. The car glided from the clubhouse onto the main road, slipping through the city's bright, bustling night.Leaning back against the seat, He Yanci's tall frame relaxed slightly. His finger, propped on the bridge of his nose, tapped rhythmically against his high cheekbone, his thoughts adrift.

Back at the villa, fresh from a shower, He Yanci found a message from Grandpa He on his phone: a phone number labeled Wen Ruan, followed by a blunt reminder:[He Yanci, you know d*mn well how close I am to Old Wen. After you meet Wen Ruan, you'll behave properly and cultivate this relationship! No nonsense—don't you dare upset her. She's been frail since childhood; her grandfather spent decades nursing her to health. She can't handle your sharp tongue.]

A greenhouse flower, then?He could almost see her: the chubby little girl from years past, chasing him with unsteady steps, her cheeks flushing red from exertion, eyes watering at the slightest scold. A bump would draw tears; a harsh word, a flood. Delicate, fragile, endlessly chatty.

He Yanci tapped his forehead with a fist, amused despite himself. [Grandpa, since when do you text?][Is that the point?] Someone else typed it for me, obviously.He typed again: [So this is a disguised blind date?][No "blind date" about it—this is fate.] Be a gentleman and take the lead.]"…" He Yanci sighed.

Another message soon followed:[Study Wen Ruan's preferences and taboos.][Don't dismiss it. A man should care for a woman.]"…" He Yanci shook his head. The document attached was surprisingly concise:

Likes: quiet, white tea.

Hobbies: chess, reading.

Taboos: crowds, poor ventilation, sweets (especially chocolate).

Allergies: dust, fur.

"A checklist of inconveniences," He Yanci muttered, though not unkindly. Such details made sense for someone sheltered her whole life.

By the time he finished work, it was 11:10 PM. Too late for a call, he opted for a text:[Grandpa wants us to meet. When's convenient? I'll have my assistant arrange it. — He Yanci.]

Wen Ruan, mid-read as always before bed, paused at the message.He Yanci—her betrothed, a name tied to half-forgotten childhood memories. She remembered little of him before age ten, save for one clear impression: he'd tolerated her at best, annoyed by her shadow.

Months earlier, Grandpa Wen had fallen gravely ill in a Russian Manor,insisting on returning to China for his final days. The families had stayed silent on the old betrothal—until Grandpa He's hospital visit reignited the arrangement. He Yanci had ignored it for three months; now, pressure likely forced this outreach.

Smoothing the page of her book, Wen Ruan typed back: [Any time that suits you, Mr. He.]He'd messaged late to fulfill a duty, no doubt. Did frail "greenhouse flowers" stay up past midnight? He almost asked Why aren't you asleep? but deleted it, settling for: [Day after tomorrow, 5:30 PM?][Fine.] I'm in Kyoto indefinitely.

[I'll pick you up. I'll try to be on time.]She didn't protest. Both families valued propriety; skipping formalities would slight her parents.

The next morning, Wen Ruan's designer arrived with a parade of outfits—eight cheongsams, several dresses. Min Qing, her mother, fussed over a modified crescent-white cheongsam: modern, elegant, its subtle sl*t teasing a glimpse of thigh. The fabric clung to Wen Ruan's curves, her peach-shaped silhouette both demure and alluring, a tear mole beneath her eye adding a touch of whimsy.

"Ruan, he'll be speechless," Min Qing declared, draping a cashmere coat over her shoulders. Wen Ruan smiled faintly, memories of childhood snubs lingering.

As she finished her makeup, a text from He Yanci: [En route. 30 minutes out.][Take your time. Drive safely.]

Before leaving, her mother gripped her wrist, eyes earnest: "Your grandfathers' generation values this match. We hope you'll give Yanci a chance. He's the most suitable—handsome, capable. You might surprise yourself."Wen Ruan nodded, her father adding, "Bring your medicine. Don't hesitate to call the doctor.""I'm not a child," Wen Ruan protested gently, though her mother still tucked an inhaler into her bag, just in case.

Stepping into the courtyard, she saw his car—a sleek sedan, him already rounding the hood to open the passenger door. Gone was the boy who'd ignored her; now stood a man in a tailored dark shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms, silver-rimmed glasses softening his sharp features.

"Miss Wen," he greeted, hand shielding the doorframe as she slid in. His voice was cool but polite, a far cry from the terse replies of her youth.

"Mr. He," she smiled, settling into the seat. "How's Kyoto treating you since your return?""Kindly—though the cold takes some adjusting." She gestured to her coat, eyes twinkling. "As you can see."His gaze lingered briefly on her face, a faint smile curving his lips. "The car's heated. You'll be comfortable."

Polite, almost gentle—perhaps time had softened him. Gone was the impatience of her childhood; in its place, a cautious gallantry. She'd expected awkwardness, even disdain, but found instead a measured professionalism.

Maybe this wouldn't be the ordeal she'd feared. As the car purred to life, Wen Ruan stole a glance at his profile—strong jaw, elegant adam's apple,the faint scent of sandalwood from his bracelet. Her mother had been right: he was handsome, almost distractingly so.

But she wouldn't forget their past. If he wished to end the betrothal, she'd agree amicably—no drama, no hard feelings. For now, she'd play the part of the polite, poised miss, even as her mind whispered: This is just a formality. Nothing more.

The city lights streamed past the windows, casting fleeting shadows over their composed facades. Both carried memories—of a chubby girl and a distant boy, of expectations and unspoken doubts. Tonight, they'd begin a dance of politeness, each wondering: How much of this is duty… and how much could be something more?