Chapter 1: Unexpected Reunion
1404words
Director Thompson’s voice echoed in the conference room, his fingertips trembling slightly on the “Classified” folder—quite unusual for someone who had worked at the Financial Crime Investigation Bureau for twenty years.
“Why me? Johnson’s analysis is stronger, and Chen has more undercover experience.” I maintained a professional tone, but internally I was already on alert.
“They specifically requested you from above.” He avoided my gaze, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the folder—a small habit I recognized that appeared only when he was concealing something. “Morgan Group’s unusual transactions have drawn serious attention from the regulatory commission. They need someone who understands algorithms and can blend into the corporate culture.”
I opened the first page of the file, and my heartbeat suddenly stopped.
Ethan Morgan. President of Morgan Financial Group.
The man in the photograph was more mature than I remembered, more captivating. His features were like finely carved marble, defined yet elegant; his blue eyes still as deep as the ocean, seemingly able to see through everything. Beneath his tailored suit was the familiar upright posture I knew, now with an added steadiness that only time and power could bestow. Eight years had transformed that brilliant Princeton student into the formidable controller of a business empire.
Eight years had passed. I thought I had sealed away those memories, yet the moment I saw this photograph, I remembered the young man in Princeton’s library who asked to borrow “Financial Derivatives Pricing Theory,” those blue eyes sparkling with intelligence, the slight upward curve of his lips during debates, the coffee he quietly placed beside me during late-night study sessions.
“I can’t take this assignment.” I closed the file, my voice unexpectedly calm.
Thompson frowned: “Is there a problem?”
“Personal reasons. Please assign someone else.”
His expression became unusually serious: “Reed, this isn’t a request, it’s an order. You’re the only one who can handle this on short notice.”
“I have history with the target,” I finally admitted. “It would affect the objectivity of the investigation.”
Thompson’s eyes flickered: “What kind of history?”
“Enough to constitute a conflict of interest.”
He was silent for a moment, his gaze searching my face. This wasn’t like the usual Thompson, who typically respected his subordinates’ professional judgment. Today he seemed driven by some invisible force.
Then he said unexpectedly: “That’s precisely why you’re perfect for this assignment.”
“What?”
“Familiarity with the target is an advantage, not an obstacle.” His tone suddenly became non-negotiable, his palm flat on the table—a clear gesture that the discussion was over. “Reed, these are orders from the highest level. You have 24 hours to prepare. The day after tomorrow, you’ll enter Morgan Group as a financial analyst.”
—
The glass fa?ade of Morgan Group headquarters glittered with cold brilliance in the sunlight, like an impregnable fortress. I took a deep breath, feeling the restless heart in my chest. Eight years, and I never imagined we would reunite this way.
“Everyone, this is our newly hired Senior Risk Analyst, Ms. Olivia Reed.”
In the conference room, the air froze. The CFO was introducing me to the executive team, but no one’s attention was on me. Their gazes kept darting toward the silent man at the end of the long table—Ethan Morgan.
He sat there like a sculpture, perfect to the point of unreality. His deep gray Tom Ford custom suit outlined broad shoulders, his dark blue tie echoing his eyes. His fingers were interlaced on the table, the family ring on his ring finger glinting in the light. This was the posture of power, the confidence of someone in complete control.
I felt a dozen scrutinizing gazes, but only one sent chills down my spine. It was the feeling of being locked in a cheetah’s sights—dangerous yet heart-racing.
If not for the slightly whitened knuckles of his grip on his pen, I might have thought he hadn’t recognized me.
“Ms. Reed graduated from Princeton with a degree in Financial Mathematics and holds a PhD in Financial Crime Studies. Given our business expansion, the board believes we need more professional risk assessment.”
I smiled, looking around the conference room: “I’m honored to join the Morgan team. I hope to bring a fresh perspective to risk management.”
“Ms. Reed,” Ethan’s voice suddenly rang out, deep and magnetic, like fine whiskey—rich with a subtle burning sensation. The entire conference room immediately fell silent, all eyes turning to him. “What’s your view on emerging Asian markets?”
This was a test, an opportunity to demonstrate professional capability, and also his way of confirming whether I was still the Olivia he knew. I met his gaze, feeling the familiar electricity flowing between us.
“Asian markets are full of opportunities, but their risk factors are generally underestimated,” I said, my voice steady and confident. “Especially considering the instability of local regulatory frameworks and currency fluctuation risks. I recommend adopting more conservative leverage strategies and establishing more comprehensive risk hedging mechanisms.”
Ethan’s lips curved slightly upward—that familiar subtle expression of approval I knew. “Interesting perspective. We can discuss it in detail after the meeting.”
After the meeting, the executives gradually left. As I gathered my documents, I felt a gaze fixed on me.
“Ms. Reed, may I have a word?”
Ethan’s voice was deeper than I remembered, carrying an authority that couldn’t be refused. It wasn’t a request, but a command wrapped in elegance. Everyone in the conference room cast curious glances our way, and I knew refusal wasn’t an option.
I nodded and followed him into his private office next door.
The moment the door closed, the air solidified. His office was spacious and minimalist, with Manhattan’s skyline visible through floor-to-ceiling windows, sunlight spilling onto dark wooden furniture. Several abstract paintings hung on the walls, and financial and philosophical works were neatly arranged on the bookshelves.
“Eight years, Olivia.” He stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to Manhattan’s skyline, sunlight outlining his upright figure, gilding him with a golden edge. “I never thought we’d reunite this way.”
“Mr. Morgan,” I deliberately used the formal address, trying to build a professional wall between us, “I hope our past personal relationship won’t affect our professional collaboration.”
He turned and walked to me in a few steps, close enough that I could smell that familiar cologne—a blend of cedar and bergamot, carrying a hint of warmth from my memories. His gaze swept over my face, searching for traces of the girl he once knew.
His lips curved slightly upward with a familiar smile tinged with irony: “Of course not. After all, we’ve both moved on to new lives.”
My heart skipped a beat: “What do you mean?”
“I heard you got married and had a child.” His tone was calm, but his fingers lightly tapped the desk—that small gesture he used to mask his emotions, a detail I had noticed during countless late-night study sessions. “Congratulations on finding happiness.”
“Thank you,” I responded briefly. “I also heard you’re engaged. Sophie Bennett, right? The social pages often feature you two.”
“Just a business arrangement,” he said, with a trace of bitterness I almost missed. He walked toward his desk with elegant composure. “This is the first project you need to evaluate. A new investment portfolio for the Asian market—some risk indicators need reassessment.”
Just like that, the topic shifted to work. I took the file, my fingers accidentally touching his, and that momentary electric sensation made me quickly withdraw my hand. Memories flooded back—that rainy night, in a corner of the library, his fingers gently brushing my hair; his hand holding mine, promising me a future.
“I need the preliminary analysis by Wednesday.” He put his business mask back on, his voice returning to the CEO’s characteristic coolness and distance. “Welcome to Morgan Group, Ms. Reed.”
I nodded and left, but before closing the door, I heard him say softly: “After all this time, you haven’t changed a bit.”
I didn’t look back—I didn’t dare to. If I turned around, if I looked into those blue eyes again, the defensive wall I had carefully built might collapse in an instant.
Walking out of his office, I took a deep breath, trying to calm my disobedient heart. Eight years—I thought time would wash everything away, but when Ethan Morgan reappeared in my life, I realized that some feelings, like marks etched on the soul, can never be erased.
