Chapter Text
When the party begins to dwindle, Xie Lian breathes a carefully-concealed sigh of relief and thanks the host profusely, laying the compliments on thick, which delays him another ten minutes, before finally—finally—slipping out of the reception hall. His shoulders sag in relief as the elevator doors close behind him.
He hates this part of his job. It’s unavoidable and necessary—even, ultimately, worth it—but it also has a severe downside. He can never shake off the feeling that his time has been wasted, like it’s been physically extracted from him and thrown in the bin even as he watches. And the fakeness of it all…
But he has to ask a lot of very important people for a lot of significant favors, and this is the inevitable payback: he can’t say no when he’s invited to some rich businessman’s birthday celebrating his great deeds. Xie Lian had been in the spotlight for five minutes, a camera pointed at his face and the businessman’s arm on his shoulder as he expounded on his charity work. Xie Lian had chimed in with some well-rehearsed words on how wise and farseeing it was to support youth; truly, a mark of genius.
Xie Lian accepts it all without many qualms; such things are par for the course. He just wishes he could limit his appearances to those five minutes and leave directly after. Unfortunately, this delicate, if tedious, dance demands that he be seen among the guests, mingling and sparkling praise; sometimes, if he’s lucky, there’s a networking opportunity, but mostly, it’s just a show he’s signed up to be a part of.
Mu Qing would have told him to suck it up. Xie Lian can almost hear his voice: ‘You’re getting the Foundation’s name out there, and that’s important, so stop whining.’ Alone in the elevator, Xie Lian presses his fingers to the point between his brows.
Mu Qing is a hundred percent right, but he doesn’t have to attend these. He could, and even though he wouldn’t get the same media recognition—something that he never fails to point out to Xie Lian, as though it’s Xie Lian’s fault—he could still work the crowd to raise funds. But they had tried that, many moons ago, and Mu Qing had proven to be incapable of holding his temper in check when dealing with the rich and entitled. When Xie Lian had tactfully suggested that Mu Qing try and cultivate more patience, he’d been given a lecture on how ‘it’s not the same! Of course they aren’t as bad in front of you; you’re one of their own!’
That was… patently untrue. Xie Lian could have told him that it was because he both belonged to the same class and came asking them for money that his ‘peers’ took pleasure in trying to humiliate him, while he kept a smile on his face. Saying that would have been pointless—to Mu Qing, Xie Lian’s struggle always looks like ‘a spoiled rich boy complaining about having to attend too many parties.’ Sometimes, Xie Lian asks himself if that’s really how it is.
The elevator stops on the second floor, letting someone enter. Surprising himself, Xie Lian steps outside the doors just before they close.
If he goes back to the Foundation’s headquarters now, he’ll be interrogated by Mu Qing, undoubtedly working late, and Xie Lian… can’t deal with that right now. Apart from his five minutes in the spotlight, which Mu Qing will unquestionably find lacking, he hadn’t come up with much. Press aside, Zhou Tong had only invited his partners, senior employees, and family members to this ego exhibit—no fish for Xie Lian to bring home.
Feeling like a schoolkid hiding from a senior who’d berate him for slacking, he heads for the bar, which he knows well enough by now. Among the hotel’s options, this one is less popular and thus usually quiet. Xie Lian never drinks when he’s working, but the day is over now; he just wants some quiet and a little treat.
As he enters, the bar’s semi-darkness immediately reaches out with a soft hug, and Xie Lian gratefully lets his eyes slide half-closed for a moment. A more natural smile curls around his lips as he heads for the bar, noticing that the space is really blessedly uncrowded—only a few tables are occupied, and a man is sitting at the curve of the bar’s lip, close to the wall. The counter isn’t that long, but surely there’s enough space for them not to disturb each other.
Xie Lian sits down on a stool and gives the bartender a tired smile. “A mojito, please.”
The bartender nods, withdrawing, but Xie Lian catches the stranger in the corner quirk his lips. Xie Lian frowns. What? He’s earned a small indulgence. He won’t be judged for it.
The cocktail is set before him, its heavy scent of mint soothing. He takes a sip, relaxing further. A few more, and sugar hits pleasantly, making him unconsciously roll his shoulders.
Equilibrium somewhat restored, Xie Lian glances at the stranger more benevolently. After so many years of doing what he does, much as he hates it, he can size up a person at a glance in terms of social status and financial power, and the man strikes him as, indeed, a big whale—surprisingly young for the status he carries. His presence takes up enough space at his end of the bar that it’s almost tangible, if not precisely inviting. Yet...
Xie Lian looks away. He’s off the clock, and the Foundation isn’t doing so badly that he needs to start accosting random heavyweights in hotel bars. The way he’s dressed tonight, with his luck, he might be mistaken for an escort. That thought, and the memory of relevant past episodes that his staff haven’t seen fit to let him forget since, makes him snort softly into his glass.
Still, he can’t help but steal another look. Now that Xie Lian has reined in his professional side, he can consciously acknowledge that the man is devastatingly good-looking. Even sitting down, Xie Lian can tell he’s tall and fills out his dark red suit nicely. The black shirt has three top buttons open, emphasizing his long neck and the sharp cut of his jaw. His facial features are striking, with a certain wildness to them, only enhanced by the black eyepatch covering his right eye. Such a face would be difficult to forget.
It takes a moment for Xie Lian to realize that the man is looking back at him, lips curved slightly and eyebrow raised. Xie Lian flushes, hastily looking down. He really is tired. How does one apologize for daydreaming?
Before he can come up with an answer, someone stops right next to him, resting a palm on the counter.
“I apologize, but I couldn’t help noticing that you’re here all alone. Can I buy you a drink?”
Xie Lian looks up, mentally berating himself for his lapse in attention. He really needs to get some rest, if someone can catch him off guard like this.
A young man has stopped next to him, handsome and definitely not working-class. By the way he’s looking at Xie Lian, it’s clear he’s read both his age and status nowhere near correctly, and Xie Lian suppresses a sigh. He’s wearing an off-the-shoulder, gold-trimmed cream blouse with matching earrings, and every time Mu Qing styles his hair, Xie Lian ends up looking like… well, like he’s working. Xie Lian’s well aware of how his features have a certain androgyny to them, which both Mu Qing and Xuan Ji insist would be a waste not to use, yet, at times, all of that makes his life decisively inconvenient.
Dammit, he’s off the clock, and this is—!
Xie Lian smiles politely. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Oh, but I insist.” The man leans against the counter now, edging closer into Xie Lian’s space. “You’re far too lovely to spend this beautiful evening by yourself.”
Xie Lian feels a little bad that he wants to laugh. “Actually, I would really love to spend this evening by myself,” he says, unable to keep the humor out of his voice. “It’s a rare luxury for me; I’m sure you can understand.”
Within an instant, he knows it won’t work. Fatigue made his voice sound too soft, and, in combination with their eye contact, the refusal in his tone hasn’t registered.
The young man smiles, like he finds Xie Lian’s reticence cute. “Oh, just one drink won’t hurt. Look, you’ve almost finished yours, let me—bartender! Another one of those, please”—he nods at Xie Lian’s glass—“and put it on my tab.”
The bartender meets Xie Lian’s eyes, and Xie Lian shakes his head. The bartender retreats.
“Oh, come on, not even one?” the young man wheedles. He reaches to touch Xie Lian’s arm, but, at a glance from him, pulls his hand back. “Don’t be like that; I can show you a good time, promise. Just give me a chance—”
“All right,” Xie Lian says suddenly, turning toward him. There’s apparently no other way out of this; if this turns physical, he’ll have to leave and might not be welcomed back.
The young man jerks back at his sudden movement, clearly surprised by his abrupt change in demeanor. “All… all right?”
“Yes.” Xie Lian gives him a bright smile. “What’s your name?”
“… Zheng Ming.” The man grins, smug with his victory. “Now, let me—”
“Not so fast,” Xie Lian stops him, still smiling. “Let’s play for it, shall we? If you can answer three of my questions correctly, I’ll let you buy me a drink; if not, you have to leave me alone. Sound fair?”
Zheng Ming looks hesitant, and for a moment, there seems to be a chance that he’ll take the smart option and leave. By how quickly his confidence returns, though, his parents have definitely overpraised him.
“That’s fair.” He nods. “You’re really very cute!”
Xie Lian bites his lip. Oh, very.
“Let’s get to it then,” he says crisply. “Name three operas by Tchaikovsky.”
Zheng Ming looks like someone has hit him with a club. “By who…? Wait, that guy, hang on… I know, I know—The Nutcracker!”
So he’s definitely from a good family, Xie Lian notes distantly, his smile not faltering. “That’s a ballet, so no. Next.”
“Wait—”
“What is Newton’s third law about?”
“Uh...”
“It’s somewhat applicable to this situation,” Xie Lian can’t help but point out wryly.
A few drops of sweat make their way down Zheng Ming’s flushed neck. “I… It’s… it’s… gravity? It’s about gravity, right?”
“No.” Xie Lian tilts his head. “Last question: out of the unscientific, non-materialist beliefs, which one is older—Buddhism or Daoism? I’m really soft-balling you here.”
Zheng Ming stares at him, horror growing in his eyes, as if he’d failed to recognize his fifth-grade teacher in Xie Lian until now. “Buddhism!” he blurts out. “Wait, no—Daoism! No, no, it’s Buddhism, it’s Buddhism!”
Xie Lian keeps smiling. “I’m sorry.”
Zheng Ming huffs angrily and actually stomps his foot like a child. “This is ridiculous! I was nice to you, and you—”
“I was also nice.” Xie Lian splays his hands. “This way, we both know that we wouldn’t have had anything to talk about. I just saved you a lot of time, so how was I not nice?”
“You—” Zheng Ming glares at him, red in the face, then finally turns around and storms away.
Xie Lian exhales and turns back toward the bar, looking at the bartender. “Another one, please, and maybe be so kind as to actually put rum in it this time.”
The bartender gives him a look, but doesn’t argue, sweeping Xie Lian’s empty glass off the counter and starting to grind the mint for a new cocktail.
There’s a deep chuckle, and, when Xie Lian looks up, he finds the stranger in the corner watching him anew, visibly amused.
“What?” Xie Lian snaps, irritated.
The man lifts up his hand. “Nothing. Forgive me; I just found that incredibly entertaining.” He grins. “It was very elegant, but you must have the patience of a saint.”
Xie Lian huffs. “You can’t buy me a drink, either.”
The man laughs, leaning back on his stool, posture open. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, lifting his own glass—whiskey, by the looks of it—in a silent toast before taking a sip. “I am, however, appreciative of the show.”
The bartender sets a new glass in front of Xie Lian and leans on the counter, watching him as if in challenge. Xie Lian takes a sip, and, as the biting sweetness of the white rum hits him—perhaps stronger than it should—he nods approvingly, his smile now a little sheepish. The bartender gives the tiniest of huffs, then sweeps back to the other end of the bar.
Xie Lian broods over his drink, feeling a bit discomfited. He knows he was in the right, but the urge to explain himself won’t leave him be.
“I didn’t want to make him lose face like that,” he mutters. “I don’t feel good about it. But he wouldn’t leave when I asked politely.”
The man shrugs. “You were more than kind. I’d have told him where to go and what to do with himself once he gets there after the first ‘no.’”
Xie Lian is startled into both a laugh and a glance. “Just like that?”
The man smirks. “Why not?” His eye squints, taking Xie Lian in. “By how quick you were, this must happen to you a lot.”
Xie Lian shakes his head, still smiling. “Not that often, thankfully; just… here and there.”
“Hm.” The stranger keeps his eye on him. “Your questions are too easy.”
Xie Lian lifts his eyebrows. “Oh?”
The man smiles, leaning back in his seat almost lazily. “Tchaikovsky wrote ten operas, but the ones everybody knows are Eugene Onegin, The Queen of Spades, and Iolanta. I personally strongly prefer The Queen of Spades.” His smile morphs into a smirk. “Newton’s third law states, colloquially, that, for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction, and the irony of your hint to that imbecile was exquisite.” His smile widens. “As for non-materialist beliefs, there’s some debate, but the current general consensus is that Daoism predates Buddhism by at least a century, with the oldest discovered copy of Dao De Jing dating back to the Warring States period. In my opinion, though, the argument that Buddhism derives from a garbled version of Daoism is taking it way too far.”
Xie Lian suppresses a shiver, feeling unaccountably hot. “You’re right,” he says slowly. “My questions are too easy.”
“But they expose some of your interest areas, I imagine. Clever.” A pause. “What would you have done if he’d passed?”
Xie Lian snorts. “Ordered a shot and called a cab.” He shakes his head. “But he wouldn’t have; they never do. And this way, he takes himself away and no violence is necessary.”
The man hums. “One could argue that a punch takes less time and is more direct, however, there are obvious disadvantages. This method is… impressively cunning.”
Xie Lian grins. “I deal with children a lot.”
“Oh? Is gege an educator?”
“I wish,” Xie Lian sighs. Gege, huh? “My name is Xie Lian.”
The man tilts his chin up and smiles. “San Lang.”
Xie Lian lifts his brows slightly. That’s how you introduce yourself, and you’re not aiming to buy me a drink?
He smiles, shaking his head. “I run a charity organization that supports orphanages,” he explains. “Two, at the moment, though we’re looking at a third one, if we have a good year. It’s not just money—we actually manage them, selecting staff and designing programs. We also have a farm stay where the kids can learn basic life skills and care for the animals. They’re wonderful therapists, horses especially, and it’s really—”
He cuts himself off and gives San Lang an apologetic look. “Sorry; I tend to ramble. To answer your question, I do teach occasionally, but far less than I’d like.” His lips twist. “Most of the time, I stalk rich people and try to convince them to give us money.”
“I’m sure you’re very successful at that,” San Lang murmurs, watching him with a peculiar, glinting look in his eye.
Xie Lian shrugs. “We haven’t gone under yet.”
Which isn’t to say that their constant balancing act isn’t precarious at all; such a phrase is the most generous appraisal of their status he’s willing to give.
Xie Lian twirls the straw in his glass, half-empty already. He wants another one, but he should probably slow down. “What about you? Do you like what you do for a living?”
San Lang smiles. “My degree is in architecture, but the need to make money won, so that’s what I ended up doing. I won’t pretend I don’t find it satisfying, so really, I can’t complain.”
Xie Lian tilts his head, interested to hear more, but doesn’t push; he is off the clock, after all, and he doesn’t want to taint every bit of simple human contact with talk of money.
“Architecture sounds exciting,” he offers, a little wistfully.
San Lang laughs. “You clearly can’t imagine how much time is spent doing and redoing calculations even for the simplest of projects. It’s not as romantic as all that.”
Xie Lian smiles. “But you love it.”
San Lang meets his eyes. “I do, yes.”
“Then maybe you can go back to it one day.”
“You think I should?” San Lang squints at him. “But what if I’m terrible at it?”
Xie Lian laughs. “I doubt that, somehow, if you love it that much. Besides”—he waves his hand over San Lang’s figure—“you display too much good taste to be bad at something visual.”
San Lang grins at him. “That’s quite the compliment. By that logic, gege must be an amazing artist himself.”
Xie Lian blushes, dropping his eyes. Dammit, how much rum was there in his glass? Or is it that he should have had lunch?
“I didn’t mean that like it sounded,” he mumbles, staring at the melting ice cubes.
“You didn’t?” San Lang drawls, clearly playing with him. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t have minded if you did.”
Xie Lian looks up. “I—”
“Excuse me, boss.”
His drink is obviously too strong; this is the second time Xie Lian has failed to notice someone approach. To be fair, the man now standing at San Lang’s side has nondescript features and is dressed in an equally-demure dark suit.
San Lang turns toward him, not looking particularly friendly. “They’re here?”
The man nods. “Yes.”
San Lang gets to his feet, glancing at the bartender once before his gaze shifts over to Xie Lian. He steps closer to him, smiling and pulling a card from his pocket.
“I enjoyed our talk,” he says, sliding it toward Xie Lian across the counter. “This is in case you did, too.”
Xie Lian takes it automatically, but the atmosphere has shifted so abruptly that he can’t come up with an immediate answer. San Lang only smiles at him and leaves, the dark-suited man in tow.
Xie Lian looks unseeingly at the card in his hand, then slips it into his own pocket without looking and gestures at the bartender.
“That’s it for me, too, I think,” he says, pulling out his phone.
The bartender shakes his head. “Your drinks have already been paid for.”
“What?” Xie Lian looks at him, taken aback. “But—”
He whirls around in his seat and catches San Lang just as he’s reached the door. He looks back, intercepts Xie Lian’s gaze, and smirks before stepping out.
“That…” Xie Lian mutters, face heating up as he turns back around. “When did he even—”
The bartender gives him a somewhat pitying look. “You’re sitting in his hotel, sir. Don’t tell me you didn’t know?”
Xie Lian stares at him, head empty. The bartender sighs.
--
“We have a problem,” Mu Qing announces, striding into Xie Lian’s office before eleven the next morning.
Xie Lian and Feng Xin look up from where they’ve been bent over their tablet, trying to figure out the schedule.
“Good morning to you, too,” Feng Xin says wryly, straightening up.
“What problem?” Xie Lian cuts in.
Mu Qing purses his lips, glancing from one of them to the other in disapproval of something only known to himself. “We’ve lost a sponsor for the gala.”
That is, indeed, a problem. Feng Xin swears under his breath in appreciation of its magnitude—the gala is only two weeks away.
Xie Lian frowns, already mentally reshuffling. “Which one?”
“Xuli.”
Xie Lian starts. “The gardens?”
“No.” Mu Qing mercilessly shatters the last of his hopes. “The steel.”
Xie Lian feels as if Mu Qing had hit him over the head with something heavy. The two companies sharing the name Xuli had once been united, but, after many internal struggles and a hostile takeover, they had split. The Xuli Rain Gardens are run by Yushi Huang, and, while they’ve been a long-term partner of the Xianle Foundation, they aren’t really a top-billing company. Their sponsorship primarily comes in the form of fruit and vegetable donations, as well as hosting the kids for a few weeks each summer.
Xuli Steel, on the other hand, is one of the leading steel manufacturers in China and a considerably more formidable partner. They had been a hard-won sponsor for specific events, such as the upcoming gala, for a number of years. The corporation’s head, Pei Ming, loves publicity and the spotlight, and, though he tends to make Xie Lian do the whole song and dance for him every time, his company does have a lot of money to spare, and Pei Ming’s own reputation could very much use Xianle as a shield.
Xie Lian shakes his head, trying to clear it. “I don’t understand; what happened? I had dinner with Pei Ming last week, and he never said a word about this; he hounded me with questions about whether Qin Jiao was going to sing at the gala. Did we do something?”
“No, and good luck getting him on the phone.” Mu Qing scowls. “I already tried, but he’s on vacation in Thailand for the next ten days, incommunicado.”
“Then who contacted you?” Feng Xin demands.
Mu Qing grimaces. “Pei Xiu. He basically said that it’s not us, it’s them, and tried to feed me some line about issues with their yearly budget.”
Xie Lian’s eyes narrow. “Xuli Steel approves their budget in November, and it’s May—what kind of issues could they possibly have? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“There’s nothing on the net about Xuli Steel being in trouble,” Feng Xin says, eyes glued to his phone as he scrolls through his feed. “Not even rumors. And there’s no change in their stock; they’re holding within their usual margins.”
Xie Lian pats his papers-covered desk for his phone. “I’m calling Pei Xiu.”
Mu Qing snorts humorlessly, falling into Xie Lian’s guest chair. “Suit yourself, but you won’t get anywhere.”
Unfortunately, he’s right. Pei Xiu is impeccably polite as usual but incredibly tight-lipped. He apologizes and seems genuinely sorry in his own inexpressive way, but the most Xie Lian can get out of him is that one, this was Pei Ming’s direct order, and two, it had come right before Pei Ming had gotten on the plane.
Xie Lian tries calling Pei Ming next, but the call doesn’t connect. Xie Lian sinks back in his chair and looks at the other two.
“I don’t understand,” he says slowly. “If we didn’t do anything to offend them, and there are no actual issues at Xuli Steel, why would they pull out two weeks before the event? Pei Ming… has his moments, but he’s a straightforward person. He wouldn’t just pull something like this for no reason.”
“Maybe he’s afraid Xuan Ji is going to spill a drink over his head again,” Feng Xin muses humorlessly.
“She’s been over him for ages.” Mu Qing drawls in a ‘please keep up’ tone. “And, in any case, that would have been a reason for him to skip the gala, not pull his budget.” He glances at Xie Lian. “Are you sure it’s not your constant rejections that have finally gotten to him?”
Xie Lian rolls his eyes. “It’s Pei Ming; he flirts with everyone. Despite the impression he likes to give, he’s still perfectly straight.”
“Uh huh.” Mu Qing’s eyes attain a certain glint to them as he studies his perfectly-manicured nails. “Remember that thing last year that we swore to never mention again?”
Feng Xin glowers at him, wincing in remembered headache. “You’re mentioning it now.”
“Only because Pei Ming got drunk, hung off of me for half the night while the two of you were doing god knows what, and spent two hours telling me how he’d make an exception for Xie Lian any time.”
“Fuck you you didn’t know where I was.” Feng Xin glares at him. “I was right there with you, you asshole—you don’t remember dumping him on me in the middle of the dance floor? I was the one who loaded him into the cab! Then I had to go extract your sorry ass from the toilet when you were trying to drown yourself—”
“All right, enough,” Xie Lian cuts in, seeing Mu Qing opening his mouth with a belligerent expression. “I’d ask where I was in all of this, but, from what I can remember, I’d rather not.”
“Pei Ming told me the same thing about you,” Feng Xin informs him, taking a break from glaring at Mu Qing. “Only it was two years ago.”
Xie Lian presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “And you think he took the time to inform the two of you and somehow failed to mention it to me? He tells me this every time he sees me—it’s his running gag. God, I can’t believe we’re wasting time with this.”
He looks from one man to the other. “Guys, wake up! It’s Pei Ming. Even if he’d meant it in a fever dream once, he’s not the kind of man to hold grudges. Xuan Ji slashed his tires, for goodness’ sake, and he’d responded by sending her apology flowers and a Cartier bracelet.”
“Which she dumped down the drain,” Mu Qing notes. “It must have been an exciting day at the water filtration plant.”
The three of them pause for a moment in quiet appreciation. Xie Lian is the first to shake himself out of it.
“All right,” he sighs. “We won’t find out what happened with Xuli until Pei Ming gets back, and by then, even if they do come back as our sponsor, it’ll be too late. We need a new diamond sponsor for the gala—”
“Which is in two weeks—” Mu Qing interrupts.
“—and which means we only have one week to secure them,” Feng Xin concludes.
Ominous silence reigns in the small office.
At long last, Xie Lian says, “Let’s get to work.”
--
By early evening, they’ve gained nothing but copious amounts of exhaustion. When Xie Lian walks into the staff kitchen, he finds Mu Qing sprawled across the table, his dead phone next to his face, both of them demonstrating an extreme lack of any will to live. Feng Xin stands brooding by the window, toying with an unopened pack of cigarettes.
“You can’t smoke in here,” Xie Lian says on autopilot. His shoulders sag. “I thought you’d quit.”
Feng Xin gives him a caught-out look, quickly hiding the pack in the back pocket of his jeans. Mu Qing snorts but doesn’t bother taking him to task, which is a sure sign of impending doom for them all.
“Nothing?” Feng Xin asks as Xie Lian pours himself a mug of hot water.
Xie Lian shakes his head, taking a sip. “A few companies are generally interested, but not for this event, and not on such short notice.”
“I’ve called everyone and their mother,” Mu Qing groans, pouring himself back into some kind of human shape with clear difficulty. “I think I even discovered relatives I never had, but no one who’d be crazy enough to commit to a diamond sponsorship within a week.”
Feng Xin’s gloomy look indicates the same. Xie Lian sips his water. He’d predicted that before they started, but what could they do—not try?
“I’ve been thinking,” Feng Xin offers. “We still have everyone up to the platinum level locked. If we reshuffle some things for the gala, cancel a few artists, then maybe—”
Xie Lian, who’s been thinking the same between calls, shakes his head. “We can’t afford the venue without them, and if we flop like this, no one will be interested in coming next year.” He sighs. “If we can’t find anyone to replace Xuli, we’ll have to cancel.”
Both Feng Xin and Mu Qing wince. The spring gala has been Xianle Foundation’s main fundraising event for ten years. They’ve never canceled it.
“Any chance of Xianle Corp. being our pinch-hitter?” Mu Qing asks, voice devoid of hope.
Xie Lian shakes his head. “If my father’s company had that kind of money, we wouldn’t have to raise funds at all.”
The Xianle Foundation carries his family’s company name, but that’s more the story of its origin than actual affiliation. Xianle Corp. isn’t failing, but its heyday is definitely behind it, which is why, when Xie Lian had chosen to work for the Foundation instead of staying in the family business, his already-strained relationship with his father had reached a glacial stage. They’re on speaking terms now, mostly through his mother’s efforts, but just barely.
“Well, we’ve called everyone we know,” Mu Qing says, rolling his neck. “And now is not the time to make cold calls, so why wait a week? Let’s just cancel it now—it’ll be a right mess as it is.” He grimaces. “Good luck to us getting any of those people back later.”
Feng Xin is now rolling a cigarette between his fingers, scowling at his hand.
Xie Lian looks from one to the other, cradling his half-empty cup in his hands. Tentatively, he says, “I might… have an idea.” When the others look at him, he shrugs, treading carefully. “I… Well, I met someone last night. He fits our ideal sponsor profile, but we’ve never worked with him before.”
“What?” Feng Xin’s face splits open in delight. “That’s great! Xie Lian, why didn’t you just say so?”
Xie Lian lifts a hand up. “I didn’t meet him in my professional capacity; it was just a chance meeting. He left me his card, but I don’t think he meant for me to use it for... this.”
There’s no comprehension on Feng Xin’s face, but Mu Qing narrows his eyes.
“What, did you sleep with him? Is that why you were so late?” He cocks his head. “Honestly, that’s even better—”
“I didn’t sleep with him!” Xie Lian snaps. “We just… we ran into each other by accident, and we had a nice chat, that’s all. I wasn’t working; it was… personal.”
“So?” Feng Xin still looks confused. “Isn’t that how all networking works? You get personal with them to get them to like you, then you hit them from the professional angle. Why don’t you just call him?”
“Yes, Xie Lian,” Mu Qing chimes in, “why don’t you?”
And Xie Lian had thought about it, throughout this extremely frustrating day. After the tenth fruitless call, he’d pulled out the card to look at it—it was laconic, black letters over deep red, the paper feeling heavy and velvety. It only had a person’s name, the name of his company, and a phone number.
Hua Cheng. Crimson Horizons.
From what Xie Lian had gathered from a quick online search, Hua Cheng owned a chain of luxury hotels all over China, in addition to several resorts and a number of lesser properties. His rise, by all accounts, had been explosive; Xie Lian had even vaguely remembered reading about his company at some point, though the name hadn’t stuck with him.
Hua Cheng does indeed seem ideal, and Xie Lian has an in. Normally, he wouldn’t hesitate—after many years of doing this, Xie Lian is all but immune to even the most embarrassing of situations, and a fundraising manager who clings to his dignity is a very unsuccessful one. In truth, he’d thought of Hua Cheng the moment Mu Qing had come in with the news.
Yet, he hadn’t gone for it, hoping another solution would present itself. Now, under his friends’ insistent gazes, he feels nothing less than trapped. The encounter last night had been a breath of fresh air, and he’d hoped, selfishly, that maybe something nice, something personal, might grow out of it. Hua Cheng hadn’t seemed overly interested in him, but he had left his card, so it couldn’t be hopeless. Xie Lian has hardly taken any time for anything personal since beginning this job, but, for the first time, he’d felt like he wanted to. Reluctantly, he admits that Hua Cheng has… made an impression.
But if he approaches Hua Cheng in his professional capacity now, any such hope will be void. Xie Lian doesn’t date donors, staff members, or partners; in fact, despite Mu Qing’s frequent insinuations, Xie Lian can’t remember when he’d last been on an actual date at all. Work has eaten up all of his time and thoughts, and he’s happily let it. He’s cultivated a certain image, had learned to flirt almost professionally, having discovered that both things significantly ease his particular line of work. Considering Xie Lian is the person who brings in most of their big sponsors, it definitely comes in handy.
When the Foundation was first starting out, they’d all tried it, but they’d quickly discovered that using anyone else wasn’t workable. Feng Xin was too straightforward and blunt, not to mention frequently intimidating; Mu Qing could only play at being nice and solicitous until someone offended his numerous sensibilities, after which he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Xuan Ji was too aggressive; Ban Yue, too timid. At best, they didn’t bring in donors; at worst, they alienated them.
When that realization had landed, they’d reshuffled things a bit. Feng Xin had switched to managing their finances and running security checks, while Mu Qing had taken up digital fundraising; Xuan Ji had been placed in charge of wrangling their contractors, and Ban Yue had helped with administration when she wasn’t busy teaching. Xie Lian, as the most even-tempered, had taken up the responsibility of bringing in the money—the people—that kept them afloat.
These days, his family is moderately well-off at best, but the name is old, and it’s opened plenty of doors out of respect alone—something that Mu Qing never fails to point out. Xie Lian had thickened his face and trained himself to be shameless enough to use it, but he hates having to. He can only get through every brain-deadening conversation, every hours-long gathering, while dangling the months he’ll spend submerged in the Foundation’s actual work—teaching, supporting, organizing—as a carrot in front of his own face. Thinking about the hours he spends with the kids, how the Foundation’s work changes their lives, is what gives him the willpower to push through.
Beyond his name, his appearance is another asset. Xie Lian hadn’t gotten much in terms of a starting package, so he couldn’t turn up his nose at an available tool, and any shame he’d harbored in this respect had to go. He knows he’s attractive, in a sweet kind of way, and he also knows that his targets expect people in his position to yield to certain demands without protest, almost as if that were part of the premium package. The joke about him being taken for an escort is only partially a joke.
At the beginning, Xie Lian had been naïve enough not to be aware of such expectations, or the level of entitlement powerful people feel in this respect, until one particular heavyweight had taught him better. Xie Lian still can’t think about that time without a shudder of disgust. They’d lost their first big promising donor that day, but Xie Lian couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
All the same, he’s wised up since. He’s trained himself to flirt without embarrassment, to always appear alluring and elusive, taking his hard-to-get game to a professional level. There have been a few narrow escapes over the years, but, overall, he’s gotten the hang of it. He knows that he’s become a target himself, that there’s a hidden conversation in the circuits he haunts about who will finally manage to get him first, and he’s learned to pretend he can hear no such evil. He also knows he probably won’t be able to pull this off forever, but the day he has to pay hasn’t arrived yet. Xie Lian will deal with it when it comes. Perhaps, he can outrun it altogether.
Now, Hua Cheng…
The issue isn’t that Xie Lian didn’t like him, but rather that he did. Perhaps it’s silly; they’d talked for less than an hour, and it had taken Xie Lian the entire ride home to realize that the unusual, not-exactly-comfortable feeling he’d been strangely loath to give up was, in fact, romantic interest. Xie Lian almost never likes anyone like that, and he’d wanted to keep it.
Now, he’ll have to sacrifice that fledging something to ask the man for money. There really will be no going back from that.
Well. Xie Lian had chosen this life himself, and he knew it would make demands on him. There’s no point complaining when the only viable solution to this problem is staring him in the face.
Mu Qing and Feng Xin, in fact, are still staring at him expectantly, and Xie Lian rolls his shoulders tiredly in defeat.
“All right. I’ll call him.”
Feng Xin breathes a sigh of relief, Mu Qing nodding with approval.
“You’d better bring your best game, too,” Mu Qing presses. “If you can’t charm whoever this is, I’m sure Jun Wu will be happy to hear from you.”
Xie Lian gives him a look. “Thanks.”
Feng Xin turns on Mu Qing, scowling. “Hey, what the hell did you bring him up for?”
“Just trying to keep him motivated—”
“What the fuck, keep yourself motivated, you useless—”
“Who are you calling useless?!”
Xie Lian leaves the kitchen, heading back to his office. Feng Xin and Mu Qing never really do stop bickering. He hopes, this time, they’ll at least leave the dishes intact.
--
Back in his half-lit office, Xie Lian sinks into his chair, setting the card on the table in front of him with an almost helpless look as he twirls the phone in his hand. It’s a bit presumptuous to call outright, and it’s past business hours. He glances out the window at the darkened sky, then sighs, and decisively starts to type.
[ San Lang, hello ]
He pauses. San Lang? He knows the man’s name now. After some consideration, Xie Lian still keeps the nickname; he hadn’t forced Hua Cheng to introduce himself that way, and using it might help him place Xie Lian sooner.
[ San Lang, hello ]
[ It’s Xie Lian ]
Once, Xie Lian would have said something along the lines of ‘I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m the person who amused you at your bar last night.’ Now, he doesn’t—such sentiments are dictated by personal embarrassment, and he can ill afford that. He also knows very well that people of Hua Cheng’s caliber don’t have time to listen to anyone’s insecure, pseudo-humble drivel—Hua Cheng will either remember him or he won’t, in which case Xie Lian will remind him, having clarified his starting position in the process.
[ San Lang, hello ]
[ It’s Xie Lian. I hope you’re well ]
[ I was wondering if we could meet again? ]
There—polite, but to the point. Xie Lian hits ‘send’ before he overthinks it.
He doesn’t expect a quick response—after all, he is an unknown number, it’s after closing time, and he has no idea what Hua Cheng might be busy with. He doesn’t even know if this is his personal number or some assistant’s.
To his surprise, however, a reply comes in less than two minutes.
[ Good evening, gege. I was hoping to hear from you ]
Xie Lian smiles despite himself. Hua Cheng is still typing.
[ Of course we can meet. Business or pleasure? ]
Xie Lian bites his lip.
[ Business, I’m afraid ]
He hits ‘send’ and instantly wants to smack himself. ‘I’m afraid’?? What is this pointless flirtation?
“Useless,” he mutters. “Ugh, you’re so stupid.”
Hua Cheng, however, seems unfazed.
[ In that case, come see me at the hotel around eleven tomorrow. Will that work? ]
Xie Lian nods, relieved that his idiocy hasn’t been noticed.
[ It works very well. Thank you for seeing me so soon! ]
[ My pleasure. I’ll tell reception to expect you. Until tomorrow, gege ]
Xie Lian sends an acknowledgment and puts the phone away as if it’d burned his hands. His cheeks are on fire, and he’s intensely grateful no one can see him like this. He’s flustered from a simple conversation, like a kid with a crush. He buries his face in his hands and groans.
This is so embarrassing.