Chapter Thirteen: First Encounter with Jiang Wanxing

Time crawled like an ant inching its way along a taut nerve in Lu Chen's body—each minute, each second, laden with suffocating agony and… an inexplicable thrill of anticipation.

The email he had poured every ounce of his wit, courage, and audacious gamble into had vanished like a stone dropped into the sea. Once sent, there had been no reply, no echo—nothing.

He remained at his usual cold, remote corner of Team A in the Sales Department of Feichi Group, yet the man sitting there was no longer the meek, bullied "punching bag" of before. Unconsciously, his spine had straightened; when met with sympathetic, mocking, or gleefully critical gazes, his eyes no longer looked down in shame but instead held a calm—deep, unfathomable.

It was as if he had ceased to be a lowly ant anyone could trample, and had become instead a bloodthirsty beast, its claws retracted, patiently hidden in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Office gossip about his "heroic undertaking" and its supposedly "tragic demise" raged on unabated. Almost every hour, Wang Hai—swaggering around as if inspecting his own domain, his signature insulated cup in hand—would saunter over to Lu Chen's desk. With a faux concern dripping in sarcasm, he'd inquire about "progress," his tone a cat-toying-with-mouse taunt, savoring Lu Chen's humiliation as though it were entertainment.

Each time, Lu Chen would meet him with an almost unsettling placidity. "I'm preparing diligently," he'd reply, "and I'll report to you immediately if there's any news," then fall silent. His calm stoicism was like a fist to soft cotton—Wang Hai seethed, anger and envy twisting within him, eager for an excuse to crush this insolent upstart.

Only Xu Tingxia dared to cast Lu Chen a furtive glance whenever she passed his desk—her eyes brimming with worry, curiosity, and a hint of admiration she scarcely admitted to herself. That morning she'd chosen her favorite floral dress, the one that highlighted her fresh charm and graceful figure, and for once worn a delicate makeup look—hoping to bring a sliver of visual delight and moral support to someone "about to face a pivotal trial in life."

Lu Chen noticed. In those stolen moments, he captured her gaze and returned it with a private, grateful, encouraging smile—one that left the gentle girl's cheeks flushed, her heart racing, and sent her scurrying away in bashful delight.

This blade-edge waiting stretched on into the next afternoon—the final twenty-four hours of the three-day "death sentence" Wang Hai had assigned him.

Just as Lu Chen began to resign himself to another crushing silence, his battered QiHang desktop—its email icon dormant for so long—flashed violently in the bottom right corner of his taskbar.

His heart, gripped by an unseen hand, skipped a beat.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he quelled the wild thundering in his chest and, trembling slightly, pressed the mouse button.

There it was: an email from the President's Office of Wanxing International, its subject line a mere two words, yet resonant as an imperial decree—

"Meeting."

The body of the message was astonishingly terse:

"3:00 PM today. Top floor, President's Office, Wanxing International Tower. President Jiang Wanxing will wait for you ten minutes only. Be punctual."

Signed with a flourish worthy of an artist's brush—Jiang Wanxing.

It was real.

A volcanic surge of joy and excitement erupted from Lu Chen's soul, sweeping through him. His once-dismissed "self-recommendation letter," so others had deemed a madman's fantasy, had actually… cracked the icy heart of that lofty "Venomous Queen" and earned him a precious, if brief, audience.

He stifled the urge to roar with triumph, re-read the email three times to ensure every word was as he saw it, then rose. Grasping the client dossier on Jiang Wanxing—worn nearly to tatters by his countless reviews—and the three-page concept proposal he had burned the midnight oil to perfect, he walked with unwavering resolve toward Wang Hai's office, under the stunned, envious, fearful gazes of his colleagues.

"Team Leader Wang," he said quietly as he placed the freshly printed email on Wang's grand mahogany desk, "President Jiang Wanxing has summoned me this afternoon at three o'clock to her office. Company regulations require me to report this to you."

Wang Hai's small, puffy eyes bulged at the signature and the official address. His face turned a grotesque shade of purple-black.

"He… she actually summoned me?" he sputtered inwardly, racked by an earthquake of jealousy, fury, and a strange, unacknowledged fear.

"Ah—yes. Understood," he forced out, clearing his throat in a vain attempt to regain composure. He wished for any sign of arrogance or gloating on Lu Chen's serene face but found none. Instead, beneath that calm exterior, Wang Hai felt an odd sense of anticipation—he almost wanted to see Lu Chen humiliated by the notorious "Queen Bee."

"Since President Jiang summoned you personally, make sure you don't disgrace Feichi Group," he said, voice laced with acid envy.

Lu Chen merely nodded, then turned and left, leaving Wang Hai alone with that weightless slip of paper, his emotions roiling.

At 2:30 PM, Lu Chen stood before the soaring edifice of Wanxing International Tower, its black special-glass façade and gleaming silver alloy frame glimmering under the afternoon sun like a blade poised for the world's throat. Against this symbol of wealth, power, and cutting-edge technology, his cheap, outdated suit and pale, haggard face seemed painfully incongruent—almost laughably shabby.

He inhaled steadily, calming his racing heart, then stepped through the revolving doors wide enough to admit a stretch limousine. Inside, he found himself in a realm of breathtaking luxury: a floor of polished marble reflecting the heights of a vaulted ceiling, avant-garde sculptures and a discreet, custom fragrance that whispered of exclusivity and inviolable authority.

A poised receptionist, dressed in a perfectly cut black suit and bearing a professionally distant smile, directed him to the VIP elevator—which seemed to float upward without a hint of motion—straight to the top floor.

There, an assistant in a sleek black ensemble, tall and sharp-eyed behind gold-rimmed glasses, assessed Lu Chen with a practiced glance before speaking in a courteous yet formal tone, "Mr. Lu Chen? President Jiang is awaiting you. Please follow me."

Lu Chen trailed behind her down a long corridor carpeted in deep crimson, until they reached a heavy zitan wood door that seemed to seal off the world beyond. The assistant knocked once. A mature, magnetic female voice—liquid and rich as a cello's note—called, "Enter."

Even that simple invitation caused Lu Chen's heartbeat to falter. He stepped inside as the assistant announced, "President Jiang, Mr. Lu Chen of Feichi Group has arrived," and slipped out, closing the door behind her.

He stood before a chamber so vast it consumed nearly a third of the floor. One entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling glass window, offering an unparalleled panorama of Star City's glittering skyline—skyscrapers sprawling like a sea of blocks, streets weaving like silver threads—making it feel as though the world lay entirely at its mistress's feet.

Inside, the décor was minimalist to an extreme: a black-and-white scheme punctuated by splashes of scarlet. At the center sat a monumental ebony desk, resembling a dark altar, beside which stood only a singular silver-metal sculpture and the latest ultrathin Apple computer. On the walls hung abstract paintings that spoke of madness and ruin, their meaning as indecipherable as they were priceless. A subtle, intoxicating fragrance—a blend of exotic blooms and something dangerously alluring—lingered in the air.

Behind that desk sat a woman whose beauty could steal every breath from a man's lungs. She appeared thirty-seven or thirty-eight, her long, silk-like black hair swept up into a lazy, regal chignon, a few playful strands teasing her smooth forehead and the graceful arch of her neck. She wore a flawlessly tailored black silk dress that, though modest, clung to her curves like liquid velvet—declaring the bounty of her ample bosom, the slender sway of her waist, and the sculpted perfection of her hips. Below, sheer black fishnet stockings traced the long, flawless lines of her legs, adding a final note of lethal allure.

Her makeup was impeccable but carried a hint of edge. Beneath those willow-shaped brows, her phoenix-like eyes gleamed with an icy intelligence and seductive promise. A high, aristocratic nose, lush, blood-red lips, and a finely chiseled jaw completed a visage that was at once breathtakingly beautiful and untouchably aloof—the very face of a queen.

She raised a glass of crimson wine—bright as a garnet—swirled it with supreme elegance, and watched the city below as though it were no more than a garnish to her cup. Without turning, she spoke in that velvety, decisive voice: "You are… Lu Chen?"

Her simple question hit him with the force of a tidal wave. His heart lurched so violently he thought it might burst. Gathering himself, he replied in as steady a tone as he could muster, "Yes, President Jiang. I am Lu Chen. It is an honor to receive your invitation."

She drank down the wine in a single, deliberate motion. Then, turning to face him, her frozen, ice-prism gaze measured him head to toe. After an eternity, her full lips curved into a smile that was both playful and penetrating—like a rose laced with frost.

"I have read your email," she said, voice composed yet carrying an irresistible undercurrent of power. "It was… intriguing. Naïve, and yet bold."

She paused, her eyes sharpening like a blade.

"Tell me, Lu Chen," she continued, her voice an ice-cold probe, "what makes you think I would grant a callow youth like you ten minutes of my time?"