Chapter 5 Three years ago, in Kenny, New York...
Three years ago, at JFK Airport in New York.
Xia Zhiyao walked ahead with a cold expression, pulling her luggage and rapidly scrolling through her phone screen, page after page. She looked at the screen quickly, her brows furrowed slightly, and her pace quickened unconsciously.
As soon as she stepped off the covered bridge, she heard hurried footsteps behind her. Without turning around, she continued scanning her phone for a dozen or so unread emails, then casually sent a WeChat message: "Meeting tomorrow afternoon at 1 PM. The PPT will be updated to the latest version; I'll send you the agenda."
She pushed through the crowd and turned to see her assistant, Cheng Yue, panting as she caught up. Cheng Yue's face showed a mix of panic and hesitation, and her lips moved, but she didn't utter a sound.
Xia Zhiyao continued walking forward. But she heard the sound of a suitcase wheel scraping against the ground behind her, getting closer and closer, like a habitual following.
She didn't turn around, but glanced down at her phone. With a swipe of her finger, several document windows popped up one after another. "Bring up the model," she said, her voice calm and crisp. "Run the previous set of data again. I remember you updated the basic assumptions."
As soon as she sent the voice message, she added, "Also, has the legal department confirmed the cooperation plan with Chen? This is the final step. As long as they approve it, the project will be finalized."
Before she finished speaking, her eyes were still rapidly scanning the screen, but her brain had already automatically deduced the logic, priorities, resource allocation, and risk assessment. Everything was under her control, as if there was no need to pause at all.
The next second, her phone pinged. It was an updated version of the PPT sent by Cheng Yue. Xia Zhiyao glanced at it and her brow twitched slightly.
She paused, stopping not far from the exit, surrounded by the noise of suitcases and the whispers of the crowd.
She turned and spoke, her tone still calm: "Cheng Yue, what day's data did you write down for the exchange rate?"
Cheng Yue was taken aback, her expression slightly flustered: "...It's the latest version, I thought the more up-to-date the better."
Xia Zhiyao paused for half a second, her tone softening slightly, but still clear and firm: "We are consultants, not here to display data, but to help clients make decisions."
She knew Cheng Yue was working hard, and she also understood that she was too impatient. This impatience wasn't all bad; it just needed guidance.
“You filled in yesterday’s exchange rate, which I understand your intention, but the client wants the trend and logic, not the latest number.” The voice was calm but firm. “Exchange rates fluctuate. What’s important is not the number in front of you, but why you chose it and what you can judge from it.”
She glanced down at the screen, a memory flashing through her mind of herself years ago, staying up all night working on decimal points. "The key to analysis is never about simply copying data, but about understanding the meaning behind it."
Cheng Yue nodded and whispered, "...I will change."
"Okay, don't rush." Xia Zhiyao withdrew her gaze, her tone calm but encouraging.
As they were talking, Xia Zhiyao paused, her brows furrowing slightly as if she were enduring some sudden discomfort. She subconsciously placed her hand on her lower abdomen, and her breathing paused slightly.
Cheng Yue immediately noticed her action and, without hesitation, pulled an energy bar from her bag, unwrapped it, and handed it to her: "Sis, you've been drinking too much coffee again, haven't you? Have some of this, it's low-calorie and not sweet."
"Thank you!" Xia Zhiyao took the energy bar, took a bite, and the faint aroma of nuts spread in her mouth. She lowered her head, her expression unchanged, but her eyes softened a little.
Cheng Yue took out a small bottle of water from her bag and handed it to him, adding in a low voice, "Don't push yourself. I know you've been flying too much these past few days and your stomach hasn't been feeling well. I was just thinking you'd feel uncomfortable later."
Xia Zhiyao didn't respond. She just lowered her eyes and took a sip of water. Her throat was dry, but her stomach finally felt a little better. She said softly, "You remember it quite clearly."
Cheng Yue smiled, a hint of pride in her eyes: "You taught me all of this step by step. You were just as attentive to every detail when you were President Shen's assistant."
Looking at her slightly tired face, Cheng Yue hesitated for a moment, then asked in a low voice, "By the way, Ms. Xia, didn't you rest on the plane?"
Xia Zhiyao said calmly, "I slept for four hours." She said it without any concern, "I can use the rest of the time to work on the project proposal in peace and quiet."
She knew, of course, that she didn't look good; the jet lag from being out of bed made her feel exhausted, but she didn't care; she was used to it.
In some ways, it is precisely this extreme clarity and the critical balance between physical exertion that allows her to think more clearly and make more decisive judgments.
She looked up and gazed ahead. The sky wasn't completely dark yet; the city seemed to be asleep, draped in a dark blue curtain. Car headlights drew streaks of light on the road. She stood there, lost in thought for a moment. She was back.
Stepping onto this city's soil again, my heart skipped a beat; some memories, suppressed in the cracks of time, seemed to be suddenly activated by this cold air.
New York, a city both strange and familiar, was the first time she had truly left her parents' city. There was no pressure from her father that only success was worthy of being Xia Zhongming's daughter, nor did she experience her mother's sudden emotional breakdowns and accusations late at night.
She remembers that when she first landed, it was a late autumn afternoon. The plane trees on Columbia University campus were golden, and the sky was clear. She was twenty-four years old that year. She dragged her luggage on the way to the campus, passing through the old library, arches and corner cafes, as if she could relive her life.
For the first time, she realized that freedom was something she could breathe in; no one was monitoring what time she went home, what clothes she wore, or whether her grades were in the top three of her grade; no one treated her as "the daughter of so-and-so professor" or anything like that.
She is simply herself.
At Columbia Business School, she sat in the front row in class. She liked the professors' teaching style, their respect for every viewpoint, their encouragement of questioning, and even their appreciation for her insight and rebuttal.
Those were days when her mind shone brightly, her life had its limits, but her heart was warm.
One time at three in the morning, she walked out of the library, her ears red from the cold, and saw a squirrel standing by a manhole cover eating nuts. That image is still vivid in her mind.
At that time, she felt that life was not just about winning or losing; it could also be a process of getting lost, spacing out, taking shelter from the rain, or even falling down.
She naively thought that perhaps after returning to China, she could retain some of that sense of relaxation. But the moment she stepped back into reality, her father's gaze at the meeting, her mother's question, "Are you going to be deceived by a man?", and the competition and silence at work all pushed her back into the abyss.
New York was a brief gap in her life, a place where she once believed "she didn't have to be so tired."
The wind suddenly picked up, and Xia Zhiyao took a deep breath and looked away: "Let's go."
She stepped forward again, her steps steady, her eyes clear and bright. She whispered, "New York, I'm back." Her voice was soft, but it came from the bottom of her heart, as if she were speaking to another version of herself from the past.
That version of myself who struggled, felt lost, and was full of hope here.
As they entered the hotel, at the reception point arranged by the project team, Xia Zhiyao quickly scanned her surroundings while checking in. She noted down everything, including the lobby layout, the location of the elevators, and the direction of the business center. She never wasted any detail that allowed her to control the situation.
Once inside the room, she closed the door behind her, pushed her suitcase next to the sofa, and walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling window to sit down.
She curled up her legs, rested her forehead on her knees, her back stiff, her shoulders and neck tense, still taut, not daring to relax.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, her temples throbbed, and her eyes were dry. She raised her head, her right hand slowly tightening until her nails dug into her palm. Only when she felt the pain did she seem to regain control of her body.
She opened her eyes, straightened her posture, turned on her computer, and entered work mode without hesitation. She couldn't let anyone see her fatigue, nor could she allow herself to be defeated by her emotions.
Vulnerability is useless; she had long ago written this into her survival rule.
The phone screen suddenly lit up, and the vibration sounded particularly abrupt in the room. The caller ID read: "Cheng Yue".
Xia Zhiyao frowned slightly, her eyes instantly darkening. A call at this hour couldn't be good news; she almost instinctively knew something had happened.
It's all too familiar. These kinds of calls always mean only a few things: the data is wrong, the client changes their requirements, or the team makes a mistake. No matter which one it is, it means: you won't be sleeping tonight.
Before the call even connected, she was already mentally rehearsing all possible contingency plans; she was used to always being one step ahead of the problem.
She answered the call, her voice steady: "Speak." But inwardly, she was already preparing for the worst.
"Sister Xia, something's wrong... I think I took the wrong suitcase."
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and almost instinctively replied, "Call the airport, and we can get it back tomorrow."
"I'm afraid...it's too late..."
Her heart sank. The chair scraped against the carpet with a screeching sound. Her body's instincts preceded her thoughts, and she realized something was terribly wrong.
"What's in your box?" he asked, his tone barely concealing his anger.
"...The folder, and the hard drive...President Shen's pre-meeting materials are in there too." Cheng Yue's voice trailed off. "And the PPT drafts, translation documents...they're all there."
Everything that couldn't be lost was lost.
She really wanted to say "I'm fine," but those two words were on the tip of her tongue and she didn't say them in the end. It wasn't at the level of "I'm fine."
She closed her eyes briefly, her voice remaining calm: "I'm coming right now."
But inside, I was screaming: How many times have I told you? Core project documents must be carried at all times! I've emphasized it repeatedly in red ink, in memos, and in meetings—why can't they remember the most basic principles?
She hung up the phone, turned and rushed out of the room. This was not the time to lose her temper. She knew she had to make amends, but the anger was burning inside her.
That was the anger of "I set up all the defenses, but you still made mistakes," and the exhaustion of "I did my best, but I still have to clean up your mess."
She saw the unfamiliar suitcase standing quietly in front of the sofa, matte pink, with worn edges, as ordinary as could be.
She stood there, staring at it. This box could ruin months of hard work.
The most fatal thing about fate is never a storm, but a seemingly harmless mistake.
She crouched down, pulled open a corner of her suitcase, and glanced over it indifferently. A black printed luggage tag was quietly affixed to the handle: "SU YINING".
Xia Zhiyao chuckled softly and muttered under her breath, "They didn't even glance at the name, but they took it quite decisively."
Despite her meticulous planning and detailed arrangements, someone could easily shatter all her plans with a single, casual action.
For a moment, she felt it was absurd. Deeper still, she felt exhausted. She had always believed that as long as she was meticulous and attentive enough, she could control all the variables. She perfected every step, stored all files in layers, and rehearsed every trip three times.
But reality never makes way for anyone's efforts. She stood there, staring intently at the string of words, and suddenly felt that the entire New York night was as absurd as a satirical drama.
Still unwilling to give up, she bent down and carefully examined the gaps between the handle and the corner of the suitcase. Her fingertips groped around, and finally, in the most inconspicuous zipper compartment, she found a small blue sticker.
Columbia University's school emblem.
At that moment, her eyes sharpened. She quickly got up, walked to the sofa, and swiped her phone rapidly, opening a WeChat group she hadn't used in a long time: the Columbia Alumni Group.
She typed quickly: [Does anyone know SU YINING? I just came from JFK and took the wrong luggage. I urgently need to find the owner.]
She knew that this group was not usually very active, but it was the fastest resource she could use right now. She never believed in luck or hoped for miracles.
She only does one thing: from all the known information, she forces out a solution path, and if there is only a 1% chance, she quickly amplifies it.
A few minutes later, a message popped up on the screen: "[Let me ask for you, my junior is currently in the student group.]"
Her brow twitched slightly, and the tension in her heart finally eased a little, but before she could even exhale, a deeper anxiety surged back like a tidal wave.
The problem wasn't with the box itself, but with what was inside. She brought not only drafts of presentations and translation materials, but also a complete list of clients that hadn't yet been made public, information on two companies that hadn't disclosed their intention to merge, and even a copy of the merger and acquisition intention she had personally written, which even her direct superior hadn't seen.
She had planned to make one more minor revision tonight and submit the official version first thing tomorrow morning. If that copy were to leak, at best, competitors would anticipate its moves; at worst, it would trigger a crisis of trust in the industry, and the project would be canceled in half.
She never exaggerates risks, but this time, the risks could indeed tear her professional resume apart.
She felt her breathing become erratic, she gripped her phone tightly, forcing herself to calm down, but she knew that the fear welling up from the depths of her bones was already spreading.
It wasn't the fear of failure, but the fear of all efforts being wasted.
"Lock up Model A, immediately suspend access sharing, and halt the approval process for all emails involving customer IDs." She spoke extremely quickly, almost without pausing, as if she had rehearsed it countless times in her mind, just waiting to activate the entire emergency procedure at this moment.
This one incident could undo three months of her preparations, and not only that, it could leave her with a stain of "major mistake" in this New York merger that would determine her future promotion.
She stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights surging like a tide, but she felt as if she were standing at a point under a magnifying glass, every tall building and every beam of light seemed to be watching her slip up.
As soon as Cheng Yue hung up the phone, she immediately went up to report: "JFK said they are checking the surveillance footage, but the baggage clearance part is still being checked, and the progress is very slow."
She gave a soft, cold laugh: "With so many people at JFK Airport every day, the system is always lagging behind. We can't rely on them alone."
She glanced at her, her tone cold: "The box can be found, but we can't afford to wait."
She remained standing there, her fingers flying across her phone, her other arm crossed over her shoulder, her tone as calm as a system voice: "At this time of year, Chinese students are most likely returning home for spring break."
His gaze fell back on the line of names: "If it's undergraduate, it's the easiest to check. Columbia University only admits about twenty undergraduates from China each year. But graduate students are much harder to find, starting at several hundred, divided by college and program."
She paused, her gaze sharp as a knife as she looked at Cheng Yue: "If we haven't found it by tonight, we'll go to Columbia's international student office first thing tomorrow morning."
Cheng Yue nodded, and then lowered her head again to process the next email.
Suddenly, my phone screen lit up, and a WeChat pop-up appeared: [Sister Yaoyao, are you available to take this call?]
Her fingertips paused for a moment, as if touched gently by some warmth. It was the lingering echo of the wind carrying the sounds of bygone days, like a child on a street corner on a summer evening, wearing an oversized school uniform and carrying a backpack, calling out to her, "Sister Yao Yao! Come to my house for dinner!"
Her fingertips suddenly stopped, her emotions like a bone being brushed by the wind, tingling and yet hiding a long-lost warmth.
She forced herself to suppress the slight tremor and dialed back without hesitation.
"Hello?" Her tone was still the one she was best at: calm, clear, and flawless.
A familiar male voice rang out softly, carrying a warmth that could be heard even through the darkness: "It's me, Zhou Yue."
A note from the author:
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