Chapter 7
864words
South City, a coastal city where spring lasts all year round, with air always permeated by humid sea breeze and the faint fragrance of cape jasmine.
The pace of life here is slow, unlike Shanghai where everyone is in a hurry, filled with a suffocating sense of pressure.
Two years ago, I came here with a suitcase and a broken heart. Now, I'm a project leader at a fairly well-known advertising company.
"...Therefore, based on these three points of market analysis, I believe that the core marketing strategy for our 'In Time' project should focus on 'emotional connection' rather than 'functional demonstration.' That concludes my presentation. Thank you everyone."
In the conference room, I closed the file in my hand and gave a slight bow to the clients and colleagues in the audience. My confident and steady voice echoed in the room, my gaze firm, my demeanor professional—completely different from the humble woman I was two years ago who only lived at Francis Foster's mercy.
The client took the lead in applauding, a satisfied smile appearing on their face.
After the meeting, my colleagues gathered around to congratulate me.
"Jessica, you're amazing! With this proposal, the client side definitely has nothing to complain about!"
"Yes, yes, Jessica, shall we go out together to celebrate tonight? I know a great new bar that just opened!"
I smiled and politely declined their kindness: "You all go ahead, I have something to do tonight."
I am no longer the person who needs bustling crowds to drive away loneliness.
After work, I like to go to the supermarket alone, watching the well-stocked shelves being filled one by one, which gives me a solid sense of control. Then I return to my small but cozy one-bedroom apartment, make myself a simple dinner, and enjoy an old movie.
This peace that belongs to me, undisturbed, is what I worked hard for two years to finally earn.
That day, the company's upper management suddenly announced that headquarters would be sending a vice general manager to the South City branch to oversee all core projects.
At the small welcome party, I met this new boss.
His name was Vincent Wells, around thirty years old, dressed in a well-fitted light gray suit and wearing elegant gold-rimmed glasses. He exuded an aura of gentle refinement.
Unlike Francis Foster, he didn't possess an overwhelming presence or an innate sense of detachment. His smile was gentle, making people feel as if they were basking in the spring breeze.
While shaking hands with each department head, his gaze fell on me and lingered for a moment, his eyes showing genuine appreciation.
"Team Leader Ji, I've read your proposal. It's excellent."
That was our first conversation.
Vincent Wells quickly demonstrated his exceptional professional abilities and gentle management style. He wasn't like some leaders I'd encountered before who would only give orders without substance. He could always pinpoint the issues accurately and provide constructive suggestions.
Once, I was working overtime late into the night for an urgent project, and I was the only one left in the office. Suddenly the building lost power, and everything immediately plunged into darkness. Just as I was fumbling around looking for my phone, a warm beam of light shone towards me.
It was Vincent Wells.
He held up his phone, walked over to me, and handed me a cup of hot cocoa that was still steaming.
"Young women should be careful about safety when working alone." He didn't take the opportunity to get closer to me, nor did he engage in unnecessary small talk. He just said this gently, then quietly stood at a distance, keeping me company until the power was restored.
After that, our interactions gradually increased.
He would discuss project plans with me until late under the pretext of seeking my input; he would subtly offer suggestions when I hit roadblocks; he would also "casually" mention a newly opened bookstore or an art film that was currently showing.
His approach was restrained, respectful, and cautious.
He made me realize for the first time that interacting with a man doesn't have to be about control and being controlled, possession and being possessed. It can also be equal, with mutual appreciation.
This weekend, I was cleaning my house when my phone rang. It was Vincent Wells.
"Jessica," for the first time he didn't address me by my position but called me directly by my name, with a hint of amusement in his voice, "The gardenia flowers downstairs have bloomed and smell wonderful. I wonder if I might have the honor of inviting you downstairs for a cup of coffee?"
I walked to the window and indeed saw him standing under the lush gardenia tree downstairs, wearing a clean white shirt, looking up in my direction. The sunlight poured over him, gentle as a painting.
My heart, which had been frozen for two years and silent for too long, seemed at this moment to develop a tiny crack, gently opened by the warm sunshine and flower fragrance of this southern city.
Into the phone, I softly said: "Yes."
