The warmth of the rooftop faded into the cold reality of the next morning.
Shen Miao stood before the mirror, adjusting her simple pearl earrings, trying to ignore the ghost of He Ran's words echoing in her heart. "I've tried to forget you... but my heart always stayed with you."
Was it possible to trust him again?
Would it be foolish... or brave?
She took a breath. Work first. Emotions later.
At LUMIGO headquarters, the office was unusually tense. A few employees stood whispering near the front desk, glancing toward the executive floor.
"What's going on?" Shen Miao asked, walking past the marketing lounge.
Xiaoyu, her assistant, leaned in. "There's a problem with the campaign. Apparently... someone leaked the design concepts."
Her stomach dropped. "What?"
"Yeah. Another fashion house posted a teaser last night. It looks... almost identical to ours."
Shen Miao rushed to her desk, pulled up the rival brand's page, and stared in disbelief. The color palettes, the slogan, even the video storyboard—it was a near-copy of everything she and her team had worked so hard on.
Her phone rang.
Incoming call: He Ran
She answered. "I saw it."
"Meet me in my office. Now."
He Ran stood by the window when she entered, jaw clenched, eyes dark.
"You've seen the leak."
"Yes," she said. "Do you think someone from our team—?"
"I don't want to believe that," he said. "But someone had access. And I need you to lead the internal audit."
Shen Miao's chest tightened. "What?"
"You're the campaign head. No one knows the files better. HR and Legal are watching. I need someone I trust."
Her lips parted at the word trust—but this wasn't the time.
"I'll handle it," she said.
"Good," he replied, but his voice was tight. "And... Shen Miao? Be careful. If this gets out, it could destroy reputations. And careers."
As she dug into access logs, version histories, and designer accounts, her head spun with questions. Who would sabotage the campaign? And why now—right after He Ran's return?
Then she noticed something.
An old external email thread forwarded to one of the interns—Lina.
It wasn't proof, but it was strange. Lina's name had popped up on the wrong timeline.
---
Later that evening, Shen Miao stayed late to confront her. She found Lina near the break room, packing up her bag.
"Lina? Can we talk?"
The intern blinked. "Oh—sure, Ms. Shen."
"You received a copy of the concept files two weeks ago. Why?"
"I—uh—was told to prepare extra visuals, remember?" Lina stammered.
"That wasn't approved," Shen Miao said calmly. "And someone leaked our ideas. You know how serious this is."
Lina's eyes welled up with panic. "I—I didn't mean to hurt the company. I only showed them to someone for feedback. My... cousin works in media."
"Which agency?"
"Um... HORIZA."
The same brand that posted the stolen teaser.
Shen Miao's heart dropped. This was bigger than a mistake—it was betrayal.
The next morning, He Ran reviewed the findings with a stony face.
"She'll be terminated immediately," he said coldly. "And we'll pursue legal action."
As Shen Miao turned to leave, he hesitated. "There's something else."
She paused.
"I got a call from headquarters in Paris. They're sending someone to oversee the next phase of the campaign—a transition manager for global branding."
"Who?" she asked.
He looked away for a moment, then met her eyes.
"Her name is Irene Qiao.
Shen Miao didn't reply.
Shen Miao's heart trembled—not from jealousy, but from the terrifying feeling that just as she was beginning to open up again... fate was ready to pull them apart.
—Her mind slipped back—years ago—
It was her final year of University, the winter air sharp with unfinished dreams. One evening after classes, a group of friends huddled together, gossiping in hushed tones while scrolling through old Instagram posts from He Ran's university.
"Did you know?" someone whispered. "Irene Qiao and He Ran are basically a couple."
Her friend Lili had nudged her, voice teasing but gentle, "You should give up, Miao. He's already taken. Paris love stories don't wait for high school girls."
Shen Miao had laughed it off back then, chewing on her pen cap while pretending the words didn't hurt. But that night, she'd cried into her pillow—soft and silent—mourning a love that never began.
In her journal that week, she wrote:
You were never mine, but I lost you anyway.
She never confronted him. Never asked. Just drifted away like the seasons between them.