Chapter 6: Short Shorts, Long Problems

There are many things you can mentally prepare for when you start your morning as the assistant to the CEO of a luxury skincare empire.

For example:

Someone sending your boss free caviar moisturizer in a jade jar? Normal.Accidentally being shipped 30,000 engraved carrot-shaped spatulas instead of 3,000? Happens.Getting a threatening DM from a very angry influencer claiming your serum "burned her soul through her pores"? New but not unexpected.

But what I wasn't prepared for was this:

I turned a corner in the hallway.

There was Xu Jinyu.

Wearing a loose black tank top, hair still wet from a run, and short house pants that absolutely should've been illegal under the Geneva Convention.

My brain lagged like a buffering livestream. All I could do was stare in silence as he casually reached for a protein shake from the kitchen counter.

"Morning," he said, completely unbothered.

"I—uh—yeah. Morning," I replied, with the elegance of a melting popsicle.

I have seen that man in blazers, silk shirts, a literal lab coat. But nothing could've prepared me for how physically offensive he looked in lounge clothes.

Jinyu glanced over, raising an eyebrow. "You're red. Are you having a fever?"

"No," I muttered. "You're just… breaking the dress code of basic decency."

He gave me a look. "These are cotton. Breathable. Optimal airflow."

Optimal airflow, he said.

I was going to die in this apartment.

Cut to: Later that day at the YSHT office.

By 10:00 a.m., the influencer backlash had grown into a small wildfire.

A niche Western skincare blogger — known for reviewing high-end creams with her cat — had posted a thread claiming our product triggered her very rare allergy to ginkgo extract. She added that "only someone desperate for virality would include a cheap traditional ingredient to fake luxury."

The numbers started climbing. Retweets. Quote posts. TikToks. Other influencers — mostly micro ones — suddenly emerged from the abyss, claiming they also experienced reactions. All with suspiciously aesthetic lighting and conveniently timed close-ups of their rashes, allergic puffiness, and—my personal favorite—a lipstick swatch someone clearly just smeared on their arm and pretended was inflammation.

In short: they were definitely paid.

They had to be.

Especially since ginkgo was one of our most carefully tested ingredients. And even then — it only affects 0.9% of the animal population globally.

Still, the posts were spreading.

And then… came the articles.

One Western publication called us "a rising East Asian beauty cult with sketchy herbal practices." Another compared our donation campaign to "cheap distraction tactics." One headline actually read:

"Ginkgo, Gimmicks, and Ghost-Bunny Marketing: Can We Trust Eastern Anti-Aging?"

I sat at my desk and stared at the screen.

This wasn't just about skincare anymore.

This was political.

And Jinyu knew it too. I could tell from how he responded during the internal briefing: calm, clipped, but with that underlying tension — like he was holding his breath for a punch he already knew was coming.He didn't argue. Didn't flinch. Just asked for a full report on our lab's test results and instructed Legal to monitor how many of the posts were backed by accounts linked to Eternal Spring's recent marketing blitz.

I don't know what scared me more — the media storm or how used to this he seemed.

That night, I called Rui Ming.

Technically, I was supposed to be reviewing logistics for next month's product launch. But spiritually, I was collapsing on the apartment floor with a peach serum face mask on and a moral crisis in my heart.

"Be honest," I said the moment she picked up. "Is it unprofessional to threaten an influencer with a carrot-shaped spatula?"

There was a pause. Then a sigh.

"So… someone's finally making your life difficult?" Rui Ming's voice was dry but amused. "I was starting to worry this job wasn't chaotic enough for you."

I groaned. "It's not even the influencers. It's Jinyu. I saw him in shorts."

"…And this is a crisis why?"

"They were very short, Rui Ming. Like, 'forgetting God exists' short."

She laughed. "You're so dramatic."

"I'm serious! And to make it worse, he just stood there with a smug face, explaining airflow like it was a biology thesis."

She hummed. "Honestly? That sounds kind of hot."

"RUI MING!"

"What?" she said innocently. "You were the one staring."

I flopped backwards onto the floor. "I hate it here."

Her voice softened. "But you like him."

"I never said that!"

"No, but you sound like you do. Look, Jiaxin. You've always been the type to get distracted by feelings and forget your laptop charger. He's the type to remember it for you — and buy a backup in case you forget again. I've seen it happen. You're basically his princess with a job title."

She giggled.

I blinked.

Damn it. She was right.

The next morning, I was recovering from my emotionally catastrophic serum meltdown when Jinyu's voice rang through the intercom.

"Tang Jiaxin. Executive lobby. Ten minutes."

I sat up, still wearing my serum headband. "Huh? Why?"

"You're helping me pick someone up."

Ten minutes later, I was beside him in the private elevator, still mentally replaying our previous conversation about optimal airflow. I didn't ask questions.

And then—the elevator doors opened.

She stepped out like she was debuting at fashion week. Blazer sharp enough to cut glass. Heels polished. A silk scarf tied like a weapon around her throat. Everyone in the executive hallway turned to look. No one breathed.

Jinyu didn't miss a beat.

"Ningyao. Welcome back."

She took off her sunglasses. Her eyes landed on me.

And then—she tilted her head.

"You're the one who used to steal my marshmallows, right?"

...

I forgot how to breathe.

The rest of the morning blurred by in a haze of nervous energy and mental gymnastics. I was still trying to recover from the emotional whiplash of seeing Ningyao — aka the woman who once organized a company gala using only eyeliner and fear — casually return like it was just another Thursday.

I swear, even the air in the office changed. PR was panicking. Design was acting like they just got inspected by God. And Jinyu? Unbothered. Completely calm, like the second most terrifying woman in the building hadn't just sauntered in wearing four-inch heels and memories of my marshmallow theft.

She hadn't said anything else since the elevator. But when our eyes met in the glass hallway, I felt a flicker of something under her cool stare. Not anger. Not even annoyance.

Just recognition.

She remembered me.

And she knew what I used to be.

That afternoon, I marched into Jinyu's office holding a small, suspiciously shaped box (yes, I ordered it online and repackaged it into another box).

"Hey," I said.

He looked up from his monitor, eyebrows lifting slightly. "What is it this time?"

"A peace offering," I said, placing the object on his desk with a dramatic flourish.

He blinked. "…Is that a rabbit?"

It was a plush toy — small, round, and soft, with white fur, pink button eyes, and a lace-trimmed bonnet tied in a pale lilac ribbon. Its mouth was a delicate pink line, its posture sweetly seated like it was waiting to be picked up and hugged.

If you squinted — okay, even if you didn't squint — it looked suspiciously like me in my bunny form.

"It's a desk guardian," I said, clearing my throat. "To protect you from… stress. Paper cuts. The crushing weight of expectations. That kind of thing."

He tilted his head. "It has your ribbon."

"Total coincidence," I lied.

"…It's wearing a bonnet."

"Very fashionable."

"It's judging me."

"That's just how it was sewn."

He didn't smile. But there was a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth as he picked it up, thumb brushing over the tiny bow. "Where'd you get this?"

"I made it," I admitted, quickly adding, "Like, not hand-sewn made, but I customized it. Added the ribbon and stuff. You can take it off if it's too embarrassing—"

"No," he interrupted. "It's… fine."

He turned it once in his hands. Then, very casually, placed it beside his monitor — not shoved to the side, but centered, right where he'd see it every time he glanced up.

"…Thanks."

I blinked. "You're welcome."

He didn't look at me after that. Just went back to typing. But I swear — I swear — the plush was angled just slightly to face him.

Almost like he wanted a piece of me at his desk.

And maybe, just maybe… he didn't hate it.

A few minutes later, in Jinyu's office

A junior exec walked in with a stack of papers. He paused mid-step when he saw the plush.

"Uh… sir?" he asked hesitantly, eyes flicking to the bonneted rabbit. "Is that… yours?"

Jinyu didn't even glance up. "Decor."

The exec nodded slowly, clearly unsure whether this was a test of loyalty or a corporate trap. "It's um… cute."

"Don't touch it."