Chapter 18: Seeking Wealth Amid Peril

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As Lu Qiuyi listened, an indistinct, bitter feeling quietly spread within her heart. Indeed, that was the rightful person to stand beside He Jingyue, to overlook the world shoulder to shoulder with him. What was she—an undercover, barely surviving in this story—compared to that? Just then, her phone vibrated softly in her pocket. Absentmindedly, she took it out and saw the sender’s icon: a stark black avatar marked [J]. The message was terse:

[J]: Golf coach? Uncle Chen contacted David Robinson from the PGA. Saturday at 10 a.m., at the Genting Practice Range. Keep that time free.

Lu Qiuyi: ???

Charge! Upstairs!

She sprang up abruptly; the chair legs scraped harshly against the floor, startling Lin Xiaoyu, who was quietly cleaning data at the adjacent desk.

“Qiuyi, are you okay?” Lin Xiaoyu asked cautiously.

“I’m fine. Going to report to President He,” Lu Qiuyi tossed out as she headed straight for the CEO’s office door.

Her knock was sharper than usual.

“Come in,” came He Jingyue’s low voice through the thick door.

Taking a deep breath, Lu Qiuyi pushed open the door.

A cold scent of cedar greeted her. He Jingyue sat behind a large desk, eyes lowered over a document, his profile sharp and austere.

Her rehearsed opening faltered the moment it met his calm, unreadable gaze, and her confidence shrank by half.

“President He…” Her tongue stumbled, “I saw the news.”

He Jingyue’s brow twitched ever so slightly. “News? Which project’s public opinion analysis report?”

“No, not a project report,” Lu Qiuyi pushed on, speeding up her words, “It’s gossip! Saying you’re going to marry into the Zhou family, with Zhou Shiyan.”

She finished in one breath, chest rising lightly, eyes fixed on He Jingyue, trying to catch even the slightest flicker of emotion on his face.

He put down the document, leaned back slightly in his large chair, hands folded on the desk. His scrutinizing gaze landed on her flushed face, tinged with excitement, with a hint of playful curiosity.

“Assistant Lu,” he said slowly, voice calm, “As the president’s special assistant, since when did your duties extend to monitoring the boss’s personal social life and gossip?”

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“I…” Lu Qiuyi was momentarily speechless. Her prepared lines about “strategic analysis” and “project impact” vanished instantly, leaving only a dry, “Wouldn’t this affect the ‘Wisdom Language’ project?”

“Oh?” He Jingyue’s thin lips parted in a half-smile, half-smirk. “Affect? Explain specifically—how would it affect?”

“The Zhou family holds patents,” Lu Qiuyi grasped for coherence. “If there’s a marriage alliance, cooperation would definitely tighten, which is good for us! But for other competitors…”

“So,” He Jingyue cut in, his tone laced with subtle mockery, “Assistant Lu, are you here on behalf of ‘other competitors’ to pry into my business secrets, or simply meddling in my private affairs?”

“I’m not,” Lu Qiuyi felt ashamed of herself. “I’m only concerned about major company strategies as part of my assistant duties.”

“Duties?” He Jingyue chuckled lightly. “Your duties are to organize project schedules and submit valuable daily reports on time—not to pontificate here on baseless gossip.”

His long fingers tapped twice crisply on the polished desk, a clear verdict:

“Looks like Assistant Lu has been too idle lately. Since your energy is so abundant, write a thorough self-criticism on the topic: ‘The professional boundaries and competence of an assistant.’ No less than three thousand words. Submit it before the end of the day.”

Three thousand words of self-criticism?!

Lu Qiuyi’s vision darkened; the world spun.

This script was all wrong.

“President He, I…” She tried to struggle one last time.

“Out.” He Jingyue picked up the document again, eyes no longer on her, voice an unyielding order. “If you don’t finish, your year-end bonus will be deducted.”

Lu Qiuyi slumped, turning to leave. At the door, unwilling, she glanced back once more.

At that moment, He Jingyue’s private phone vibrated on the desk, screen lighting up with an unmarked yet evidently important number.

He glanced briefly, picked up the phone, and said faintly toward Lu Qiuyi’s retreating back, “Close the door on your way out.”

She responded weakly, dragging her feet as she moved outward, mourning her fragile year-end bonus and the looming three-thousand-word ordeal.

Just as her hand reached for the door, a sudden impulse caught her eye—He Jingyue’s desk.

A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!

He had taken the call; the office was empty for the moment. The “Nightingale” USB was safely tucked in her pocket.

Fortune favors the bold.

Her heart leapt to her throat. Holding her breath, she moved with the lightest, slowest motion of her life, silently and gently closing the door that had just been cracked open.

Pressing her back tightly against the cool door, she strained to hear what was happening outside.

He Jingyue’s deep voice drifted faintly down the corridor, as if he had moved some steps away to take the call.

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Now was the moment.

Lu Qiuyi inhaled deeply, tiptoed, and swiftly slipped back to He Jingyue’s desk.

Target: the computer.

But hopes were high, realities harsh.

First obstacle: the spinning chair nightmare.

To reach the computer, she had to pass the chair. Carefully, she tried to squeeze through the narrow gap between the chair’s back and the desk, but her hip brushed the chair’s armrest.

“Squeak—”

The chair rotated half a turn with her touch.

Frozen with fright, Lu Qiuyi stood stock still for three long seconds, barely daring to breathe.

Luckily, the call outside continued uninterrupted.

Second obstacle: the gaze of the fingerprint scanner.

After finally circumventing the chair, Lu Qiuyi reached the cold computer. She stretched out to touch the touchpad to wake the screen, but as her fingertip brushed the chilly metal edge, a small red light flickered above the screen.

Fingerprint recognition.

Her hand recoiled sharply. What to do now?

Should she use He Jingyue’s finger to press it?

Third obstacle: the drawer’s temptation and despair.

Fingerprint access failed. Her eyes fell on a drawer beneath the desk, secured with a combination lock.

Maybe the core files were inside?

Perhaps plugging in the USB to the mainframe would auto-run “Nightingale”?

She crouched, examining the tiny lock—four digits. She tried several possible combinations: He Jingyue’s birthday, the founding year of the He Corporation.

Unsurprisingly, all wrong!

The lock clicked a sharp “clack” of rejection, piercing the silence of the office.