The pre-winter counterattack and embrace
The mornings in Beijing before winter always carry a visible dampness. The sycamore leaves outside the window haven't turned completely yellow yet, but the branches seem to have been silenced, with only a soft rustling sound when the wind passes by.
Hu Li propped the art box against the wall, the tape making a crisp sound as it traced a line between her fingers. She bent down to attach labels, her handwriting neat and clear: "The Wind Comes from the North," "Light on the Sea," "The Fox in the Forest,"...
The sound of water being poured into a cup came from the kitchen. Mu Tianlang had changed into a casual shirt, the sleeves rolled up halfway up his arms, the frosty white cup resting steadily in his hand. He didn't say much, only placing the coffee in front of her: "No sugar."
"I know, Mr. Wolf, my fox teeth are still there," she said, raising her eyes with a smile. "If you add even a little sweetness, I'll bite you later."
His gaze lingered on her lips for a second, then he said in a deep voice, "Don't keep challenging me."
Hu Li put away the carving knife with a "click," but tilted her head slightly towards his shoulder: "You've been going home early these past few days. Won't people say you're not taking the company seriously?"
"I've done everything I could." He looked down at her. "And there's something even more important than the company here."
She didn't reply immediately, only sending a soft "Mmm" like lukewarm water into the white steam rising from the rim of the cup. The two were like separated by a glass of mist, close enough to hear each other's breath, yet each left a finger's width of space, neither of them daring to step on it.
At 10 a.m., as the morning light pierced through the skyscrapers of Beijing, the lights in the glass conference room at the Mu Group headquarters shone as brightly as if it were the middle of the night.
The rustling of papers on the board's desk sounded like dry leaves. Some coughed, some pretended to look at numbers, and many more hid their eyes behind the reflection of their glasses.
"Our public image has been less than ideal lately," the senior director said, speaking as if discussing the weather. "Unstable public opinion is bad for the stock price, especially for our partners... We hope to see more definitive signals of integration."
"Integration?" Mu Tianlang tapped the table with his fingertips.
"The Jiang family is showing great sincerity," another person chimed in. "Marriage is both a matter of reason and business."
The air froze for a moment. He raised his eyes, his gaze cold and direct: "If the Mu family can only secure its position through marriage, then you have chosen the wrong heir."
The silence was like ice falling to the ground, the faint cracking sound spreading in everyone's hearts.
"I can handle public opinion, and I can handle collaborations. But not in the way you think is the easiest." He put away his documents, stood up, and said in a low voice, but every word carried weight, "Give me time."
The door closed, and someone sighed in the meeting room, while someone whispered, "It's too hard."
He walked down the long corridor, rows of cold white lights reflected on the glass walls. The vein on his forehead throbbed and swelled, like a wolf cornered on the edge of a cliff, still weighing which stone to step on next, so as not to fall and not to let his pursuers get closer.
As evening fell, the tea room of the Mu family's old residence was unusually quiet. Madam Jiang, with a smile of just the right warmth, spoke as if arranging paper flowers: "Rouyin has been very dedicated to charity lately, and the sponsors have given her positive feedback."
Father Mu raised his cup with concise movements, but his tone left no room for argument: "The family is not a game. What others say will pass, but the steps taken within the family cannot be disrupted. You must understand that some lines are the backbone of the family, and they cannot be broken lightly."
Madame Chiang's smile softened even more: "That's good then. Someone still needs to gather information from the outside world."
The clinking of glasses against plates silenced all conversation.
Night deepened, and the damp chill of Beijing grew ever stronger. The shadows of the roadside trees outside the window dappled the wall, resembling a dark sea of leaves.
Mu Tianlang spread the briefing report from the information security consultant on the table, the cursor sliding across page after page. Every screenshot, every connecting line, pointed in the same direction: the media team invested in by the Xu family. Several familiar anonymous accounts were quickly reposting, piecing together, and creating sentences, like a net tightening around her.
He scrolled down further, where the notes section specifically noted: This information war was spearheaded and coordinated by the Xu family's daughter, who liaised with two public relations outsourcing companies. The key moments were set by overseas news accounts, with domestic follow-up.
He called home: "I'll be home early tonight, let's look at something together."
Back home, Hu Li was trimming the corners of the last cardboard box with a knife. She looked up, saw the suppressed coldness in his eyes, and put down the knife: "What's wrong?"
He handed her the briefing: "Don't make me come alone this time."
The living room lights were turned to a warm tone, and the two sat side by side on the sofa, their laptops open, pens and papers scattered around. She read slowly, her brow furrowing occasionally: "These accounts sound like they're all being fed articles by the same PR firm. Look at these two, the sentence structure is the same, only the nouns have changed."
"Hmm," he responded softly, his knuckles unconsciously rubbing against the rim of the glass, as if trying to smooth away the rising anger within him.
"Tianlang," she suddenly turned to the side, her fingertips pressing against the back of his hand, "you're not the only one who can protect me. Let me bite them back, okay?"
He looked at her, his eyes shining like tiny lamps in the night. Half a second later, the pressure eased. He grasped her hand and nodded: "Together."
"Do foxes set traps?" he asked.
"The fox doesn't dig a hole, it just scatters a ray of light." She laughed, drawing a small crescent moon on the paper. "Let them chase the light themselves; their legs will get weak after running for a while."
She received a last-minute invitation from Emma to attend an art exchange in Paris. The night before her departure, she fastened her luggage, attached the Paris address, and turned around to be pulled into his arms.
"If winter will eventually come," he whispered, his breath falling behind her ear, "let's put away everything that can keep us warm."
She gently bit his neck, then licked it back like a cat: "I won't take it with me, I'll keep it here with you."
His Adam's apple bobbed, and his arm tightened: "Hu Li."
She looked up: "Don't be afraid. I'll come back."
On the evening she arrived in Paris, it was already late at night in Beijing. Mu Tianlang connected his phone to the big screen, and on the other end of the video call, she was wearing a black and white contrast dress, with light lipstick, and her smile was like a glass of warm milk that was almost at zero degrees Celsius.
"I'm going in now," she said, tilting her phone to the side to reveal a poster on the wall. "This isn't a formal exhibition; it's a privately curated art exchange. But several critics will be there."
"I know. Be careful, don't drink alcohol offered by strangers."
"Okay, Mr. Wolf." She winked at the camera. "I'll drink from the cup."
The scene shifted, and she was called away. He, remaining in Beijing, muted the sound and sat behind a dark sofa, like an unyielding mountain. On the table lay her sketch from the previous night—two beasts, a wolf and a fox. The wolf's back was turned forward, the fox's tail tucked tightly, a slanted beam of light separating them.
The news broke the day before she returned to China: blurry photos and out-of-context words—"intimate behavior" and "inappropriate conduct." The accompanying text was like a poisoned needle, feigning nonchalance.
In the Beijing night, he zoomed in on those photos, his knuckles clenched so tightly they looked like a chill emanating from within. "They've made their move." He got up and messaged his overseas advisors, forwarding and saving the messages, and locking down their IP addresses.
Meanwhile, Hu Li's reply was brief: "I know. The video has been found. I'll edit it."
Less than twelve hours later, a complete behind-the-scenes video was released on a French art scene website—from the roll call upon entry, the panoramic views of the interactions, to the angles of the group photos, every shot corrected the misinterpreted actions. The last line of the subtitles read:
"A free soul fears no shadow, but walks only with the light."
After reading it, a barely perceptible smile finally appeared on his lips. He pressed the call button, his voice low: "Fox, well done."
"I only learned the first lesson you taught me: evidence first." She chuckled lightly. "And the second lesson?"
"Lesson Two—Let them slap themselves in the face until they have nothing left to say."
While he arranged for his legal department to send notices and lawyer's letters to several key accounts that were stirring up trouble, curator Emma contacted several commentators to publicly explain the nature of the gathering that evening. The tide turned within a day—headlines like "The Misunderstood Oriental Painter" and "The Price of Online Rumors" dominated the pages. The Hsu family's PR team scrambled to retract the articles, but it was too late.
While the counterattack was underway, inside information from the Mu Group's board of directors also came back: someone was preparing to propose at the next shareholders' meeting that the Jiang family send a representative to enter the core management; the price would be to establish a long-term partnership through marriage.
Mu Tianlang tossed the list back onto the table, flicking his fingernail lightly across the paper: "Until the very last step, don't let anyone think I'll kneel down."
Assistant Xiao Zhou nodded and handed over a prepared document: "This is the list of media outlets invested in by the Xu family. Also, regarding Ms. Jiang's charity event, the master wants you to go back and ask Ms. Hu for her opinion before deciding whether to donate and cooperate."
He nodded: "I'll ask her."
The night before she flew back to Beijing, the two talked on the phone for a long time. It wasn't sweet talk, it was very practical—the route to pick her up at the airport, places where the media might appear, and who would speak up first and who would stand in front if they were blocked.
"You stand in front, and I'll finish speaking from the side." She repeated the process, as if in a rehearsal.
"I don't need to stop you," he suddenly chuckled softly, "You can bite."
"I only bite those who are worth it."
"Am I worthy?"
She didn't answer, but after two seconds, a very soft "hmm" came from behind her.
The airport's air conditioning rendered the winter chill tasteless. Amidst the surging voices, a telephoto lens flashed briefly behind the crowd before disappearing again.
Hu Li emerged from the crowd, dragging his luggage. His mask covered half his face, but his eyes were like a freshly painted stroke of ink—thick and clear.
He stood at the exit, hands in his coat pockets, staring straight at her. She looked at him too, their gazes meeting amidst the noise, like two rivers that had been swimming in the dark for a long time, finally crashing back to the same bank.
Without saying much, he walked over, took the luggage, and with his other hand pulled her, along with her scent, into his arms. She didn't push him away; instead, she deftly turned her head and gently bit the spot where his collar met his skin.
He shuddered, and a shallow sound escaped from his throat, like a suppressed growl.
"I'm back," she said near his collarbone.
"Mmm." He lowered his eyes and touched her hair with his forehead. "Let's go home."
It was nearly 11 p.m. when they got home. She said she wasn't hungry, but he still heated up the porridge and served it with a simple side dish. The steam turned into a thin mist under the light, like the return of morning.
After taking her third bite, she suddenly put down her spoon and said, "Tianlang, I want to keep 'The Fox in the Forest' in Beijing and not give it away."
He looked at her: "Why?"
"That painting isn't the most painful, nor the most insane, but it's the one that I feel most like 'me' right now." She gripped the rim of the bowl, her fingertips reddened from the steam. "I want to keep it, to keep it where we are."
He paused for half a second, then nodded: "Stay."
She laughed, her smile bright: "I won't show it to anyone else, only to you."
After finishing the porridge, the bowl clinked twice in the sink. He stood behind her, holding her wrist in his palm, turning her back to him. Their breaths wove an invisible net, securely holding their weight together.
Are you tired?
"A little."
"Go to sleep."
She turned around and stood in front of him, her fingertips lingering for a moment on the top button of his shirt. She didn't unbutton it, but simply raised her chin slightly: "Then hold me tighter."
He did as she said. She laughed like a little animal that had stolen something, burying her face in the side of his neck, her voice muffled: "You have my favorite scent on you."
"What does it taste like?"
"Like a perfect night."
The bedroom curtains weren't fully drawn, and moonlight slid in through the gaps, scattering softly across the floor. She lay in his arms, her tone suddenly serious: "Tianlang, we need to make things clear."
"You say it."
"Don't let me hear anything from the Jiang family outside. For the charity event, if Mr. Mu wants your opinion, then ask me directly, and I'll answer you; don't let someone else come and tell me."
His gaze darkened. "I'll ask you."
"Also, I can handle some of the public opinion issues at the company, but I won't become your shield."
"You are not." He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "You are my ally."
She laughed and hooked her finger around his collar: "Can the alliance pay salaries? I'm short on money lately."
He chuckled and grabbed the mischievous finger: "Name your terms."
"Condition one," she pulled her hand back from his palm and shook it, "I have at least twenty minutes to myself every day after I get home from get off work, and I'm not allowed to make phone calls or read briefings."
"allow."
"Condition two," she winked, "is that you have at least one date per week that you decide, and you can choose the location."
"allow."
"Condition three..." She leaned closer, her lips lingering on his chin for a moment, brushing against it like a feather, "I want a place that belongs only to us. It can be small, it can be messy, but it has to be warm."
He didn't answer immediately, but simply hugged her tighter: "It will happen."
My phone vibrated late at night. My assistant, Xiao Zhou, sent me a new screenshot—someone in the Xu family's circle was unwilling to admit defeat and was gathering the next wave of "solid evidence," attempting to bribe a European photographer who was attending the event to release photos with even more blatant angles.
Mu Tianlang tapped the headboard with his knuckles, without disturbing the person in his arms. After a moment, he replied with two words: "I'll do it."
Before dawn, Hu Li woke up once. She heard the end of his low voice on the phone: "...The chain of evidence must be complete, payment through the law firm, leave no loopholes. Okay."
She didn't say anything, but reached out and grabbed a small tuft of fabric from the hem of his pajamas, like a cat hiding its paws in its palm.
He turned around, his gaze falling on her little movement, and his lips twitched slightly: "Go to sleep."
"You too." She groggily nuzzled her face closer to him. "I like your scent."
He responded softly, hung up the call, and placed his hand over her neck, gently soothing the warmest spot there until her breathing returned to normal.
As the new day dawned, the sky over Beijing seemed freshly washed, the morning light pristine. Two documents lay spread out on the living room table: one a notification letter prepared by the legal department; the other a preliminary plan for the charity event—sent by Jiang Rouyin, with the note, "If suitable, please discuss it with Mr. Mu and Ms. Hu."
He put the latter away, intending to ask her about it when she woke up.
The security intercom rang. A security announcement popped up on the lobby intercom: "There are two unfamiliar visitors outside the access control, claiming to be a media editor and a representative of a partner. They are not on the visitor list. Should we transfer them?"
He switched to the intercom and saw two people standing outside the access control at the end of the corridor. The man in the trench coat smiled politely at the camera.
"Mr. Mu, I've heard so much about you. I'd like to discuss a 'win-win' collaboration."
Mu Tianlang's eyes darkened, he tapped his fingertips lightly on the table, and his voice turned icy: "A win-win situation?"
He didn't open the door, but said into the walkie-talkie, "In my world, there's only one way to win—me and her."
After speaking, he asked security to leave according to regulations and to file a record, while also noting down the time and taking a screenshot. The wind swept through the end of the corridor, and the light from inside the door steadily returned.
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