The Dingshan Real Estate lobby is exactly as intimidating as I expected.

Floor-to-ceiling windows, minimalist design, the kind of calculated elegance that makes you hyper-aware of every movement you make.

I walk toward the reception desk with my portfolio, trying to project a confidence I absolutely do not feel.

Because I’m not just Runze anymore.

I’m Runze Wuchen.

Representing the Wuchen name whether I like it or not.

Which means I can’t let my anxiety show, can’t fidget or second-guess or look like someone who spent the entire morning spiraling over design choices I finalized weeks ago.

I have to look calm and controlled, like I belong here.

Even though my heart is racing and my hands want to shake and every instinct is screaming that I’ve somehow missed something critical.

"Good morning," I say to the receptionist, keeping my voice steady. "I’m here to submit for the master-planned community design competition."

She smiles professionally. "Of course. Name?"

"Li Runze."

She doesn’t react to the name, no flicker of recognition, no acknowledgment.

Good.

I registered under my own name, not Wuchen.

I wanted this to stand on its own merit, not on the family I married into.

"One moment, please."

She makes a call, exchanges a few quiet words I can’t quite hear, then gestures toward the elevators.

"Seventh floor. Someone will meet you there."

"Thank you."

The elevator ride feels impossibly long despite only being seven floors.

I stare at my reflection in the polished doors, checking that I look presentable, that nothing is obviously wrong with my appearance or the portfolio or anything else that might make me look unprofessional.

The doors open.

A woman in a sleek business suit is waiting, clipboard in hand.

"Mr. Li?"

"Yes."

"This way, please."

She leads me down a corridor lined with architectural renderings, previous projects, probably, or winning designs from past competitions.

They’re all gorgeous.

Professional.

Exactly the kind of work that makes me wonder what I was thinking entering a competition at this level.

We stop at a door marked "Competition Submissions."

"You can submit your materials here," she says, opening the door to reveal a surprisingly ordinary office space.

Desk, computer, filing system.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing that matches the weight of what I’m about to do.

A man behind the desk looks up, smiling politely.

"Mr. Li. Welcome. You’re here for the design competition submission?"

"Yes."

"Perfect. Just need to verify your registration details and collect the materials."

He pulls up something on his computer, confirms my name and registration number, then holds out his hand for the portfolio.

That’s it.

That’s the moment.

I hand it over, and he opens it professionally, checking that all the required components are present, site plans, renderings, sustainability analysis, technical specifications, everything I’ve spent months perfecting.

"Everything appears to be in order," he says after a brief review. "You’ll receive confirmation via email within twenty-four hours, and judging results will be announced in approximately two weeks."

Two weeks.

Two weeks of waiting to find out if months of work were good enough.

"Thank you," I manage.

He gives me a submission receipt, we exchange a few more professional pleasantries, and then I’m being escorted back to the elevator.

That’s it.

The whole thing took maybe thirty minutes.

I walk back through the lobby feeling strangely hollow, like I should feel relieved or accomplished or something, but mostly I just feel empty.

Anticlimactic doesn’t even cover it.

I thought there would be... something.

Some sense of ceremony or significance.

Some indication that what I just handed over represents months of sleepless nights and obsessive revisions and everything I’m capable of as a designer.

But it’s just a transaction.

Professional, efficient, done.

I push through the glass doors into the morning sunlight and stand there for a moment, blinking against the brightness.

It’s over.

I can’t do anything else now.

Can’t revise or improve or second-guess.

It’s submitted.

Out of my hands.

My phone is already in my hand before I fully register pulling it out.

Not because I particularly want to call.

Just because Bael told me to.

That’s all.

That’s the only reason.

I’m not calling because I need to hear his voice or because I want to tell him it’s done or because some pathetic part of me is hoping he’ll...

I dial before I can finish that thought.

It rings once.

"Done?"

His voice is crisp, businesslike, like I’ve interrupted something important.

Which I probably have.

"...Yeah."

"I see."

Click.

The line goes dead.

I stare at my phone.

What the fuck?

HE was the one who told me to call when I was done.

He specifically said "call me when you’re done" like it mattered, like he wanted to know.

And now he just... hangs up?

Four words total?

Like I’m some employee giving him a status update he doesn’t actually care about?

I’m standing on the sidewalk getting increasingly annoyed, phone still in my hand, trying to figure out what just happened.

All morning he was... not comforting exactly, but present.

Drove me here himself with that transparent lie about "heading in the same direction."

Stayed in the car.

Told me to call.

Made it seem like he actually gave a shit about this.

And now I’m dismissed with "I see" and a hang-up?

I shove my phone in my pocket harder than necessary and start walking toward where the car should be waiting.

Maybe I’m overthinking it.

Maybe he was just in a meeting.

Maybe that’s just how he is and I’m being ridiculous for expecting anything different.

The car is exactly where it’s supposed to be, driver standing beside it professionally.

"Young Master," he greets me, opening the door.

I get in without responding, settling into the back seat with probably more force than necessary.

Still annoyed.

Still confused.

Still trying to process the fact that the submission I’ve been building toward for weeks is just... done, and somehow that feels worse than I expected.

The car pulls out into traffic.

I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes.

Try to let go of the irritation.

Try to stop replaying that stupidly short phone call and reading meaning into things that probably don’t have any meaning at all.

It’s done.

That’s what matters.

Everything else is just waiting now.

I open my eyes after a few minutes, looking out the window to orient myself.

Figure out how long until I’m home.

How long until I can go hide in the study and pretend today didn’t happen.

Except.

Wait.

This isn’t the right way.

I sit up, paying closer attention to the streets passing by.

We should be heading toward the estate.

This is definitely not the route home.

"Excuse me," I say to the driver. "Are we going the wrong way?"

"No, Young Master," he replies calmly, eyes on the road. "Chairman Wuchen instructed that you be brought to Wuchen headquarters after your submission was complete."

I blink.

"He what?"

"He requested that I drive you to headquarters, Young Master. We should arrive in approximately fifteen minutes."

Wuchen headquarters.

Bael’s office.

Bael, who just hung up on me like I was wasting his time.

Bael, who apparently arranged for me to be brought straight to him the moment this was over.

Oh.

Oh.

The annoyance drains out of me so fast I feel almost dizzy.

Because he wasn’t being indifferent.

He was already expecting me.

Already planned for this.

Probably sitting in his office right now waiting for me to arrive, and the phone call wasn’t dismissal... it was confirmation that I was done so he’d know I was on my way.

My chest does something complicated.

Not just surprise.

Something bigger.

Something I don’t have a name for.

Because this is Bael rearranging his entire day around my submission.

Planning ahead so I’d end up exactly where he wanted me... with him... without making it into some big emotional production.

Just quietly, efficiently making sure I’d come back to him.

I lean back against the seat, heart beating too fast now.

Fifteen minutes.

I have fifteen minutes to get myself together before I see him.

Fifteen minutes to calm down and stop reading too much into this and remember that this is probably just practical concern or obligation or whatever other reasonable explanation doesn’t involve feelings.

Except I can’t.

Can’t stop the way warmth is spreading through my chest.

Can’t stop the way my breathing has gone unsteady.

Can’t stop thinking about the fact that he’s waiting for me right now.

That he planned for this.

That he wanted me there.

I close my eyes and try to breathe normally.

Fifteen minutes.

I can hold myself together for fifteen minutes.

Probably.

I smooth a hand over my shirt automatically, checking for wrinkles that aren’t there.

Ridiculous.

I’m acting like I’m about to walk into an interview instead of my husband’s office.

But somehow that feels worse.

Because interviews are easier than Bael Wuchen looking at me with quiet intention and making my entire brain stop working.