Chapter 10

Chapter 10

“President Xu, don’t go into the conference room yet. They’re showing ‘evidence’ against you.”

I had just swiped my card to open the company’s glass doors when my assistant grabbed my sleeve, her voice trembling. The projector in the conference room was still on, displaying a screenshot of a bank transfer. The recipient was listed as the “Xu Nianhe Legal Aid Fund Preparatory Account,” and the memo field contained four words: Embezzlement of Charity Funds.

Over a dozen pairs of eyes around the table snapped toward the door. Some people looked down at their phones, while others avoided my gaze. The air was thick with unspoken judgment.

The HR Director spoke first. “Nianhe, the board has made an emergency proposal to suspend all your external authority following your reinstatement, pending a full investigation-”

“You can investigate, and you can start right now.” I set my bag down and walked directly to the front of the room, stopping before the projection. “Who sent the email?”

“It was anonymous, sent to the entire executive mailing list and BCC’d to two media outlets.” The administrator turned the laptop around; the sender’s address was a string of gibberish.

I didn’t waste time explaining that I “wouldn’t do such a thing.” I had done enough of that kind of self-justification in the past. Instead, I connected my phone to the screen and opened the backend of the fund’s preparatory account. I pulled up the transaction history line by line: every incoming source, every expenditure, timestamps, and bank reference numbers-all laid out clearly. At the time shown on the so-called “embezzlement screenshot,” the account hadn’t even been granted transfer permissions yet.

The conference room fell silent for several seconds.

“Now look at this.” I pulled up the original image’s metadata. “This image has been edited. You can see the stitching marks along the pixel edges. The sender’s IP used an overseas proxy, but the final hop was right here in this city.”

Someone muttered a curse under their breath. The director who had been most eager to suspend my authority put down his pen and cleared his throat. “We’ll investigate along the lines you’ve suggested first.”

I looked at him. “Fine. But I didn’t come back today to do crisis management. We have the upgrade plan for thirty stores in the East China region. The client expects the final proposal by 10:00 AM. It is currently 9:20 AM. Whoever wants to continue this meeting should be prepared to explain why we lost the contract.”

As those words landed, people in the room finally began flipping through their documents.

The tension eased slightly, but I felt more alert than ever. When Lin Qingyue stood outside the courthouse and said, “I have secrets you can’t afford to know,” she wasn’t just being stubborn. She had already made her move.

At 9:40 AM, I stood before the operations war board and broke the tasks into four segments: supply chain, store flow, online placement, and financial projections. In the past, I used to swallow my harshest words for fear of offending people; today, I focused solely on results.

“I want the sales-per-square-foot forecasts for all pilot stores recalculated by tonight. Don’t use last year’s models.”

“Budgets aren’t ‘roughly okay.’ I want them specific down to every single light bulb in every single store.”

“If you need authorization, ask for it now and I’ll approve it on the spot. If you stall, you’ll be replaced today.”

No one tried to talk circles around me anymore. The sound of typing filled the room like heavy rain hitting a roof. I wrote the final line on the whiteboard: 12-hour delivery. No excuses.

At noon, Cheng Xubai sent me a message: The source of the anonymous email is linked to an outsourced PR firm. That firm just received a consulting fee from the Lu Group last month.

I stared at the words, my fingers pausing for two seconds before I replied: Secure the evidence first. Don’t alert them.

He called me immediately. His voice was calm, but his pace was faster than usual. “Don’t show your face alone today. I’m sending people to your office building.”

“I’m at work, not a battlefield.”

“Your company is the battlefield right now.”
I didn’t argue. My face was reflected in the window glass; my makeup was light, and there were slight shadows under my eyes, but my gaze no longer wavered. I suddenly remembered my hand clutching and snapping a lipstick on my wedding day-my hands were shaking then too, but back then it was out of a fear of losing something. Now, it was a fear of not being fast enough.

At three in the afternoon, the client called an impromptu meeting. They got straight to the point: “We received some materials questioning the integrity and risks of your management team. The upgrade project can proceed, but the terms must change. We’ll start with five pilot stores, to be launched within 48 hours. If the foot traffic targets aren’t met, the liquidated damages will double.”

At the other end of the conference table sat a familiar face-an external consultant Lu Jingchuan used to employ frequently. He didn’t say a word, merely twirling his pen slowly while I spoke, as if waiting for me to hesitate.

A team member whispered in my ear, “The terms are too harsh. Let’s try to stall for a week.”

I looked at the supplementary clauses they handed over. My heart was racing, yet I felt exceptionally steady. “Fine. We accept the five pilot stores, and we accept the 48-hour deadline. However, we must add one condition to the breach triggers: if your side changes the display standards or approval process midway, the deadline will be extended accordingly, and we will not be held liable.”

The consultant finally looked up. “President Xu, are you saying you don’t trust your partner?”

“I only trust the contract.” I pushed the pen toward him. “Are we signing?”

He stared at me for a few seconds, his smile fading. After a moment of silence, the client lead nodded. “We’ll sign with your revisions.”

The moment the pen hit the paper, the muscles in my shoulders and back finally began to relax. The cost was clear: for the next two days, we would practically be pulling all-nighters at the stores. But the result was also clear-we hadn’t lost the deal, and we had reclaimed our leverage.

That evening, I went to the hospital to see my father. He was doing his rehabilitation exercises, walking slowly with sweat pouring down his forehead. When he saw me, he raised his hand in a “steady now” gesture, just like the one he used to give me before exams when I was a child.

“Busy?” he asked, breathless.

“Busy, very busy.” I supported him. “But I can handle it.”

He smiled and didn’t pry further. We both knew that those words weren’t just a display of bravado; they were a passing of the torch. Before, when I covered for the family, I was forced to carry the burden. Now, I carried it because I was the one who decided what to shoulder and what to discard.

At nine o’clock that night, I returned to the office. The construction group chat for the five pilot stores was blowing up. People were reporting progress, listing missing materials, and posting on-site photos. In the midst of the chaos, no one mentioned the anonymous email anymore. As tasks were ticked off one by one, fear was pushed into a corner.

At eleven-thirty, the first store passed its renovation inspection. I stood in the middle of the empty sales floor. Light shone down from the newly installed tracks, the wood-grain cabinets glowing with a warm hue, and the air smelled of freshly unpacked boards. That long-lost sense of control wasn’t about “beating someone”; it was the feeling that I had finally stopped letting others define me.

My phone vibrated. It was an electronic service notification from the court.

I tapped it open, and a line of black text at the top of the screen made my eyes tighten: Lu Jingchuan had filed a civil counterclaim, applying to freeze my corporate dividends and the fund’s startup account.

There was also a scanned attachment-a “Guaranty Authorization by Father Xu.” The signature looked exactly like my father’s handwriting.

I stared at that piece of paper, a chill slowly creeping up my spine. That blank period during my father’s bankruptcy years ago might not have been what I thought it was at all.

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Before I could turn around, Cheng Xubai called again.

“Nianhe,” he asked the moment I picked up, “did you receive the service notice? Don’t hang up. We need to make a choice right now.”