Thirty-four days to the wedding.
The sky over S City was gray, the kind of overcast that softened everything into a muted hush. Syra stood in a quiet corner of the small exhibition hall sponsored by the Yan Foundation, a modest event aimed at supporting student artists from underfunded schools. The space was lined with paper cranes, student sketches, delicate watercolors, and vibrant murals. Mei flitted between booths with the energy of a comet, darting from canvas to sculpture with commentary far beyond her years. Syra smiled as she watched her.
Lou wasn't here tonight—a licensing issue with a YanTech subsidiary had pulled him into a last-minute meeting. He had messaged her earlier: "Don't stay too late. Eat something. Send me a photo of your favorite piece." Syra had sent him three. He hadn't replied yet.
The event was small, curated, intimate. Syra wandered quietly, making notes for the foundation's next outreach. A small crowd gathered around a young girl's interpretation of urban silence. Syra spoke gently with the girl, asked her about her technique, and encouraged her to apply for the gallery's next mentorship cycle. Mei returned, tugging at her hand.
"There's a man staring at you like you're the Louvre."
Syra blinked, amused. "Mei."
"I'm serious. Over by the donor list. Tall. In a coat that probably costs more than this exhibit." Mei gestured covertly.
Syra turned, following her gaze. Her eyes caught the man standing alone near the back, dark tailored coat, pristine collar, long fingers relaxed in his pockets. He wasn't staring exactly. But he was watching. Quietly. Intently.
Syra felt a shiver crawl down her neck. Not discomfort. Something else. She held his gaze for only a second, then turned back to Mei. "Let's go see the mural in the west wing."
Behind them, Rhett Xie tilted his head, as if trying to decipher something. He didn't approach her or try to speak to her. He simply watched as she disappeared around the corner with the child. He stayed for another thirty minutes. Blended into the marble and wine, spoke briefly to the curator about the foundation, and left without saying Syra's name.
When Syra returned home later that night, she mentioned none of it.
Rhett Xie didn't plan the second encounter. Or rather, that's what he told himself. It was merely good timing, a well-placed investor brunch hosted by one of his old classmates, a media executive with a soft spot for gossip and a private collection of modern art. The event was held at a rooftop garden restaurant in the heart of S City, lined with glass and white orchids and women with impeccable makeup. Rhett arrived late, in a charcoal jacket and an expression that made space wherever he went. And there she was. Syra. She wasn't meant to be there, he was certain. Yet there she stood, near the far end of the garden, in a dark green dress and low heels, a sketchpad balanced on her knee as she listened to someone speak. It was her presence, not her outfit, that made her impossible to ignore. She didn't fidget, didn't perform. She existed like a secret the world hadn't figured how to deal with yet.
He didn't approach herbdirectly. Instead, Rhett drifted through the crowd, nodding when expected, flashing that effortless grin when needed. He listened more than he spoke. Tracked how people moved around her. Noticed how they tilted toward her without meaning to. She carried that kind of gravity. He lingered near the bar, sipping something golden and expensive, and overheard one man say, "That's Lou Yan's fiancée." And suddenly, the room felt smaller. Tighter. Like it couldn't hold them both. Rhett didn't feel jealousy. Not yet. What he felt was curiosity sharpened to a blade. Lou Yan. The monk CEO. The most disciplined man alive. And he had managed to win her? That alone made Rhett want to know everything.
When Syra finally glanced his way, their eyes locked—only for a second. But it was long enough. Long enough for her to register him as someone unfamiliar. And for him to see, again, that she had no idea who he was. That single fact thrilled him more than it should have. She didn't flinch or flush or adjust her posture. She simply blinked and looked away. Rhett couldn't remember the last time a woman had done that, looked through him. It was like being stabbed and kissed at the same time. He downed the rest of his drink and told himself to leave.
But he didn't. He stayed. Long enough to catch the subtle way her lips moved when she spoke. Long enough to memorize the arch of her brow when she disagreed with someone. When she laughed, low and almost private, he felt it behind his ribs. And when she disappeared inside, likely to escape the noise, he took the same path five minutes later, telling himself it was for air. He passed her in the corridor near the gallery hall, her head down as she jotted something in her sketchbook. Their shoulders almost brushed. She didn't look up.
He watched her walk away. And for the first time in years, Rhett Xie felt like a man standing at the edge of something dangerously beyond his control, not because he feared it, but because he wanted to fall.
---
The press event for the YanTech Foundation's charity collaboration was well-attended, elegant in that low-key way only old money could afford. Soft white flowers lined the private rooftop garden where patrons, investors, and community figures mingled beneath late-winter sun. Syra was there as Lou's fiancée, of course, a quiet but noticeable presence at his side, her pale cream dress modest but striking against the sharp edges of corporate suits and tailored cocktail gowns. She looked serene, like someone who had nothing to prove.
She moved away briefly to greet an art patron she had once painted for, and that's when he saw her again. Rhett Xie leaned by the bar in a graphite-toned suit that looked poured onto him. He held a glass of water, not wine. He didn't like to drink at public functions. Too much noise in the taste. His eyes followed her with silent calculation.
He hadn't intended to show up. The invitation had been forwarded to him via his assistant, along with two dozen others he usually ignored. But when he saw her name listed among the artist contributors, a minor footnote, barely visible, he accepted without hesitation. Not to cause trouble. Not yet. Just to see her. To confirm that the woman who haunted his thoughts at 2 a.m. was real, still radiant in daylight.
She laughed then, quiet and unguarded, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she reached for a fruit skewer on a passing tray. Rhett felt something sharp twist in his chest. He didn't move. Just watched her with the kind of stillness only predators and poets understood.
Later, when the crowd shifted and Syra rejoined Lou, Rhett didn't look away. His gaze followed the subtle way she tilted her head when Lou leaned in to murmur something, how her eyes crinkled when she smiled at him. It made Rhett feel something unfamiliar.
He left without a word. No one noticed. But by morning, Syra Alizadeh-Li would be a permanent name in his private archive. Not to use. Not to hurt. Just to understand. Because something about her shimmered just beyond reach,like a myth. And Rhett Xie had never met a puzzle he didn't solve, and this puzzle by god he will.