Chapter 3: Operation: Saving My Fellow Employees

The first thing I bought with Jinyu's corporate card wasn't toner.

It was banana boba milk.

Well—technically, twenty-six banana boba milk teas, plus taro buns, sweet potato tarts, and a suspicious number of pink strawberry Pocky packs because they were on sale and I got excited. And yes, I made sure everything was dairy-free and allergy-friendly, and no, I don't regret it.

Was this approved? Absolutely not.

Was I aware that department heads were already side-eyeing me like I was a walking PR disaster? Of course.

But you try going from luxury pet life to office girl life and not get violently concerned when the finance intern says her lunch budget is six rmb a day.

So I did what any emotionally responsible former rabbit would do: I pulled out the emergency black card that Jinyu "accidentally" left in his desk drawer. He gave it to me once to buy printer ink and never took it back. That's on him.

The girl at the front desk blinked when she saw the delivery bags. "Wait… is this for a meeting?"

"Nope," I said proudly. "Operation: Saving My Fellow Employees has officially begun."

A pause.

"…Are we allowed to eat this?"

"Legally? Probably not. Morally? Absolutely."

There were stifled laughs. A few people exchanged looks like they didn't know if this was a prank or a trap. Then the smell of taro hit the hallway—and it was over. By the time I opened the second bag, the entire design floor had turned into a low-key festival.

Someone gasped, "Is this real banana milk? Like the expensive one?"

Another whispered, "I thought we were getting a new espresso machine today…"

"Change of plans," I declared, placing down a tray like a victorious anime protagonist. "Today, we feast. Courtesy of our benevolent CEO."

Cue panicked blinking.

"Wait. You used Jinyu's card?"

"Don't worry," I said sweetly. "I only bought essentials."

And then I texted him:

Don't be mad but I might've spent a little.

Also, do you want a bun?? 

His reply came back four minutes later.

Define "a little."

Oops.

The meeting after that was... awkward.

Some executive lady in pearls looked down her nose at me like I was a gum stain on her limited-edition luxury carpet. "Miss Tang. I heard you've been using company funds for snacks."

"They were nutritionally dense morale boosts," I corrected.

CFO Chen Guanfeng, seated at the far end of the table, pushed his glasses up his nose and exhaled like he'd just graded a failing exam. His silence was somehow worse than yelling.

"I trust you've read our budget allocations," he said dryly.

"Nope!" I chirped. "But I did skim the company wellness policy!"

A few heads snapped toward me like I'd just confessed to arson.

Then CMO Lin Yifan—skin glowing, blazer fitted like couture, sipping an americano—gave me a look that was… unreadable. Regal. The kind of look that said you're either a genius or a scandal waiting to happen.

"I'll admit," she said slowly, "there's something to be said about the aesthetic of pastel snack carts. But next time, loop in HR before triggering an office-wide sugar rush."

"…Noted."

Somewhere behind me, Rui Ming coughed into her sleeve to hide a laugh. When I turned, she shot me a thumbs-up from her seat—half amused, half proud. At least someone had my back.

Another exec laughed, low and sharp. "Is this one of Jinyu's experiments again? Adopting strays and giving them titles?"

I opened my mouth. Then shut it. Then opened it again.

I wanted to say: I'm not a stray. I'm his bunny.

But that sounded worse.

So I said nothing and smiled instead.

For now.

By the end of the week, I had created a new document. This time not scribbled in Notes, but formatted. Color-coded. Used PowerPoint to hell and back. It was titled:

"WELLBEING INITIATIVE: How Not to Let Our Employees Starve in Style"

Underneath, in slightly smaller text:

Presented by Tang Jiaxin, Assistant to CEO (formerly rabbit).

It proposed a trial fund for food stipends, subsidies for therapy services, and—this was my favorite part—a monthly "Carrot Awards" bonus voted by the staff for the kindest coworker.

"I've emailed it to HR, Legal, and the Board," I told Jinyu while we were eating lunch at his desk. "If I get assassinated tomorrow, you'll know why."

He looked at me, the corners of his mouth twitching again. "You're aware you're going to start a war?"

"I'm adorable. They'll underestimate me."

He sipped his tea. "Until they realize you're serious."

"Too late," I said brightly. "I already ordered the 'Carrot Award' trophies. They're shaped like actual carrots. Glitter orange."

The funny thing is: it started working.

A few days later, one of the old-school business magazines published an article titled:

"Xuhuang's Quiet Turnaround: Luxury Brand or Social Movement?"

I mean—okay, it seemed like clickbait. But stocks nudged upward. Young customers started praising us online. Comments popped up like: "Xuhuang isn't just skincare—it's soft power." I didn't know what that meant, but it sounded impressive.

The moment it hit real, though, was when I sat in on a strategy meeting and one of the older execs muttered:

"This feels like the 1980s again… back when we were clawing our way back after the Cultural Revolution."

Wait, what?

I blinked. "You mean Xuhuang almost didn't survive?"

Someone chuckled behind me. "None of the old houses did. Not us, not Yanchun. They seized everything. My grandfather hid perfume formulas in Bible pages."

"…What's a Bible?"

Everyone turned to stare.

I cleared my throat. "I was a bunny, okay? Literacy was not a priority."

And that was how I learned two things:

Xuhuang and Yanchun used to be luxury titans—until the Communist era basically wiped out old-money families. Both clawed their way back from nothing, but they took very different paths.

Xuhuang rebuilt on legacy. Tradition. Quiet power passed down through generations. Our image was elegant and timeless—like our packaging: engraved glass bottles and poetic calligraphy.

But YSHT, our biotech subsidiary? That was the game-changer. Jinyu's brainchild. It took Xuhuang's prestige and pumped it full of next-gen innovation. His anti-aging serums—originally for pets, ironically—sent our stocks climbing into the clouds.

Yanchun noticed.

Unlike us, they leaned hard into fantasy. Their rebrand was otherworldly: skincare that looked like magic relics, with names like Fountain's Echo and Moondew Elixir. Think about FlowerKnows, but make it colder. More diamond-edged. They didn't want to honor tradition. They wanted to outgrow it.

And apparently… they'd decided to start watching us.

Which brings us to him.

Wu Zhaoyuan walked into the Xuhuang lobby like it was his. Grey suit. Precision haircut. The kind of man whose cologne you'd smell before he said a single word—and then forget everything you were doing.

I didn't realize who he was until he stopped right beside me at the elevator.

"You're the assistant," he said.

I blinked. "I'm… a lot of things, technically."

He turned slightly, looked me over once, then smiled. It wasn't rude. Just… measured. Like he was evaluating a chessboard.

"You made waves," he said. "Most nepo babies don't bother shaking the boat."

"…That sounded suspiciously like a compliment."

He didn't reply. Just handed me a card—black and gold, with raised lettering.

Wu Zhaoyuan. Yanchun Group. Strategic Development.

"Xuhuang's turning heads again," he said. "Let's talk soon."

And just like that, he walked into the elevator and vanished.

I stared at his card for a solid five seconds.

What the hell just happened?

Later that afternoon, the mood shifted.

Someone forwarded me a Weibo post: a lifestyle blogger praising our "surprisingly humane" corporate environment after a friend visited HQ and got handed a free bubble tea. Then another post followed—some fashion micro-influencer noticed the new pastel snack carts and said it "felt like working at a startup run by Sailor Moon."

The internet was confused. Investors were curious.

Senior execs? Not thrilled.

Half of them thought I was wasting money. One even called me a liability in the hallway—loud enough for me to hear.

I stuck my tongue out behind his back. Mature? No. Satisfying? Absolutely.

That night, Jinyu summoned me into his office with the tone of someone about to scold a child or adopt a stray cat. I wasn't sure which.

"We need to talk," he said.

So yeah. This starts with one bubble tea-fueled revolution and a pending meeting with the man who signs the credit card.

Pray for me.