摘要：“不不不不！”我 frantically waved my hands, my face burning so hot I thought it might spontaneously combust. "I meant the duck! The one i
G7335次高铁，晚点四十七分钟。
车厢里混着一股泡面、消毒水和不知谁脱了鞋的复杂气味。
我饿得前胸贴后背，脑子里只剩下一个念头：想吃肉。
我叫林未，一个被甲方折磨了三天三夜没合眼的社畜设计师，此刻正从客户公司所在的鬼地方逃回我的狗窝。
手机震了一下，是老板发来的消息：“方案客户很满意，尾款明天到。”
我连回个“收到”的力气都没有。
满意？满意为什么还让我改了二十六稿？
我恨不得现在就冲到甲方公司，把他家logo上那只鸽子揪下来炖汤。
就在这时，一股霸道的、勾魂摄魄的香味钻进了我的鼻子。
那不是普通的卤味，而是一种经过风干、腌制、再用秘制酱料卤透的复杂香气，带着烟熏火燎的镬气和油脂的芬芳。
我循着香味，像个被遥控的僵尸，缓缓扭过头。
邻座的男人正从一个精致的布袋里，拿出一个真空包装的……酱板鸭。
天啊。
那鸭子被酱汁浸润得油光锃亮，呈现出诱人的深褐色，紧实的鸭皮下，是若隐若现的肌理。
真空袋把它的香气牢牢锁住，但哪怕隔着一层塑料，那股味道也像是有形的钩子，一下就勾住了我的魂。
男人穿着一身剪裁得体的休闲西装，手腕上戴着一块我看不懂但感觉很贵的表，侧脸线条干净利落，鼻梁高挺，嘴唇很薄。
是个帅哥。
但此刻，他脸上所有的优点，都不如他手上那只鸭子来得耀眼。
他似乎察觉到了我的目光，侧过头看了我一眼。
眼神很冷，像冬天的湖面。
我立刻收回视d线，假装看窗外飞驰而过的电线杆。
心脏砰砰直跳，一半是因为偷看被发现的窘迫，另一半，纯粹是馋的。
肚子不合时宜地“咕噜”叫了一声，声音不大，但在安静的车厢里格外清晰。
我感觉自己的脸瞬间烧成了猴屁股。
男人又看了我一眼，眉头微不可查地皱了一下。
我恨不得找个地缝钻进去。
林未啊林未，你好歹也是个拿过奖的设计师，能不能有点骨气！
不就是一只鸭子吗！
我打开手机，开始疯狂搜索“高铁外卖”、“酱板鸭”、“立刻能吃到的肉”。
结果令人绝望。
下一站停车还有四十分钟，外卖根本来不及。
我的胃酸开始灼烧，三天没好好吃饭的后果此刻集中爆发，委屈、疲惫和饥饿交织在一起，眼眶一热，竟然有点想哭。
我这是造了什么孽，要在一辆晚点的高铁上，被一只鸭子馋哭？
我吸了吸鼻子，试图把那丢人的生理泪水憋回去。
余光里，那个男人拿出手机，开始回消息，修长的手指在屏幕上敲击，姿态优雅。
而那只酱板鸭，就被他随意地放在了我们座位中间的小桌板上。
它就像伊甸园里的那颗苹果，散发着致命的诱惑。
我做了一个大胆的决定。
尊严多少钱一斤？能有这只鸭子好吃吗？
我深吸一口气，鼓起毕生勇气，脸上挤出一个自认为最和善、最无害的笑容，转向他。
“那个……帅哥。”
他从手机屏幕上抬起眼，目光带着一丝询问和不耐。
我的心跳到了嗓子眼，舌头都快打结了셔。
“你这个鸭子……卖吗？”
我发誓，我说的是“鸭子”，yā zi。
然而，男人脸上的表情，在一瞬间变得极其古怪。
那是一种混合了震惊、错愕、以及……某种难以言喻的鄙夷和厌恶的表情。
他上下打量了我一番，目光像X光一样，把我从头到脚扫了一遍。
我被他看得浑身不自在，脸上的笑容都快僵住了。
“小姐，”他终于开口，声音比刚才更冷了，像是淬了冰，“请你自重。”
我懵了。
自重？
我买只鸭子而已，怎么就不自重了？
难道这鸭子是他家的传家宝，概不外售？
“不是，我就是看它……”我试图解释。
他却直接打断我，眼神里的厌恶更浓了：“我不管你看它什么，或者看我什么。我对你这种生意，没兴趣。”
生意？
什么生意？卖鸭子的生意吗？
他是不是误会我要跟他抢生意？
“你误会了，”我赶紧摆手，“我就是太饿了，闻着特别香，就想问问你能不能卖给我，我加钱！”
我特意强调了“加钱”，以示我的诚意。
谁知，他听完这句话，嘴角竟然勾起一抹嘲讽的冷笑。
“加钱？”他重复了一遍，语气里的轻蔑几乎要溢出来，“不好意思，我不是你能用钱买的。”
我彻底傻眼了。
什么叫“不是你能用钱买的”？
我在跟你谈鸭子，你在跟我谈什么？
等等……
鸭子……
我的脑子里像是有道闪电劈过。
一个我只在网上段子里看过的词，一个我从未想过会发生在自己身上的词，轰然炸开。
鸭子。
在某些语境下，它指的不是一种家禽。
我的脸“唰”一下，从刚才的猴屁股红，直接变成了猪肝色。
天啊。
他以为……他以为我在问他……
“不不不不！”我 frantically waved my hands, my face burning so hot I thought it might spontaneously combust. "I meant the duck! The one in the bag! The bird! The one with wings that goes 'quack quack'!"
My voice was a little too loud, attracting the attention of a few passengers nearby.
His face, already cold, now looked as if it was carved from arctic ice. He glanced at the preserved duck on the small table, then back at me, his eyes filled with suspicion, as if trying to determine if I was a lunatic or just playing some bizarre, elaborate game.
"I'm really, really hungry," I whispered, my voice choked with humiliation. "I haven't eaten properly in three days. I smelled your duck... I just wanted to buy the duck. The food."
I pointed a trembling finger at the vacuum-sealed package.
There was a long, suffocating silence.
I could feel the stares of the other passengers on my back. I wanted to die. I wanted the train to derail (gently) so I could be thrown out and put an end to this social execution.
He finally seemed to process my garbled explanation. The outright disgust in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by a complex look of... well, I couldn't quite decipher it. It was still cold, but maybe with a hint of something else. Annoyance? Bafflement?
He picked up the duck.
My eyes followed his movement, full of pathetic hope.
Then, he put the duck back into his cloth bag, zipped it up, and placed the bag on the overhead rack. Deliberately. Methodically.
The aroma vanished.
My hope died.
"Not for sale," he said, his voice flat and final.
He put on his noise-canceling headphones, closed his eyes, and leaned back, effectively erecting an invisible wall between us.
I sat there, frozen, like a fool.
The rest ofthe journey was torture. I was trapped in a small space with the source of my ultimate social death. I didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe too loudly. I just stared at my own reflection in the dark window, a portrait of utter defeat.
When the train finally arrived at South Station, I bolted out of my seat as if I were escaping a fire, grabbing my suitcase and running without a backward glance.
I never wanted to see that man, or any duck, ever again.
Life, however, loves irony.
Two days later, I was standing in a gleaming, minimalist office on the 35th floor of the city's new landmark building.
This was "TasteBud AI," a unicorn startup in the food tech industry. They were launching a new high-end community group buying platform, and I, little old Lin Wei, had miraculously beaten out several big-name agencies to become their lead brand Designer.
This project was my chance to finally break free from freelancing precarity and maybe, just maybe, start my own small studio.
I had spent a week polishing my portfolio, rehearsing my presentation, and today, I was dressed in my most professional (and only) blazer.
"Lin Wei, right? Our CEO, Mr. Jiang, is very interested in your 'Humanistic Design' concept. He'll be joining us shortly," the HR director, a chic lady named Sarah, said with a smile.
I smiled back, my heart thumping with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. "I'm looking forward to it."
The door to the conference room opened.
A tall figure walked in, backlit by the floor-to-ceiling window.
He was wearing a dark grey suit, the fabric impeccable. His steps were silent and purposeful. As he moved into the light, his features came into focus.
A high-bridged nose. Thin lips. A sharp, clean jawline.
And a pair of eyes as cold as a winter lake.
My professional smile froze on my face.
The world went silent.
It was him.
The duck man.
The man I had tried to... "buy."
Sarah the HR director was saying something. "Mr. Jiang, this is Ms. Lin Wei, the designer I told you about."
Jiang Chuan's eyes landed on me.
There was no shock in his expression. No surprise. Just a flat, unreadable coldness. But I saw a flicker, a tiny, almost imperceptible glint of something deep in his pupils.
It was the same look he'd given me on the train. The look that said, "So, it's you."
My brain, which had been running on high-performance mode just a second ago, blue-screened.
Of all the CEOs in all the cities in all the world, I had to walk into his.
"Miss Lin," he said, his voice smooth and low, but each word felt like a tiny icicle hitting my skin. "We meet again."
My throat was dry. "Mr... Mr. Jiang. What a... coincidence."
"Indeed," he said, pulling out the chair at the head of the table. He gestured for me to begin my presentation, his expression as impassive as a stone statue. "I'm very interested to see what kind of 'humanistic' design a person who tries to buy strangers on a train can come up with."
The entire room went silent.
Sarah and the other managers looked from him to me, their faces a mixture of confusion and alarm.
My face was burning. The humiliation I felt on the train came rushing back, ten times stronger.
This man was not just going to reject my proposal. He was going to execute me publicly. Again.
I took a deep breath.
Okay, Lin Wei. You can either crawl out of this room and give up, or you can fight.
You've dealt with clients who thought "make the logo bigger" was a design principle. You've survived a client who paid you in organic potatoes.
You can survive this.
I walked to the front, plugged my laptop into the projector, and forced my voice to be steady.
"Mr. Jiang, you're right. That was an embarrassing misunderstanding."
I looked directly at him.
"But it also proves my core design philosophy. A good product, like a well-made Luzhou-style preserved duck, can evoke a primal, emotional response in its target user."
I clicked the remote, and my first slide appeared. It was a picture of a perfectly roasted, glistening Peking duck.
"It can make them lose their inhibitions. It can make them, for example, willing to risk social suicide just for a taste."
A few of the younger managers in the room stifled a laugh. Sarah's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
Jiang Chuan's face remained impassive, but I saw his fingers, which were resting on the table, tap once. Just once.
"My 'Humanistic Design' is about creating that exact craving," I continued, my confidence slowly returning. "It's not about cold data or algorithms. It's about understanding the human heart, the human stomach, and the very real, very powerful desires that drive us."
"Desires like... hunger."
I spent the next hour pouring every ounce of my passion and professionalism into the presentation. I talked about user empathy, visual storytelling, and creating a brand identity that felt like a trusted old friend recommending their favorite restaurant.
I didn't look at Jiang Chuan again until the very end.
When I finished, the room was quiet.
I braced myself for the inevitable "Thank you, we'll be in touch," the corporate death sentence.
Jiang Chuan was silent for a long time, his steepled fingers covering his mouth.
Finally, he spoke.
"Your concept is... interesting."
My heart skipped a beat. "Interesting" wasn't a "no."
"But it's all theory," he continued, his voice cutting. "Your portfolio is full of small-scale projects. This is a multi-million dollar launch. How can I be sure you can handle the pressure? That you won't have another... emotional breakdown over a piece of poultry?"
The insult was sharp and deliberate.
I felt a surge of anger.
"Mr. Jiang," I said, my voice dangerously sweet. "My emotional breakdown, as you call it, was fueled by three days of non-stop work to satisfy a client. It's called dedication. And it's the same dedication I will bring to your project."
I started packing up my laptop. "As for pressure, I once redesigned a company's entire VI system in 48 hours because their previous designer ran off with the down payment. The only thing that broke down was my coffee machine."
I zipped up my bag and turned to face him.
"I've proven my professional capability. The duck incident proved my passion for good food. It seems to me I'm the most qualified person for this job."
I gave him a tight, professional smile. "If you're looking for a designer who is a passionless robot, I'm afraid I'm not a good fit. But if you want someone who understands what makes people's mouths water, you have my number."
I turned and walked towards the door, my back straight, my heart pounding like a drum.
I had just talked back to the CEO. I had just committed career suicide.
"Wait."
His voice stopped me at the door.
I turned around.
He was standing up, looking at me with that same, unreadable expression.
"The contract is yours," he said. "But on one condition."
I waited.
"You'll be working on-site. Directly with me." He paused, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "I need to make sure our lead designer is... well-fed."
The next few weeks were a special kind of hell.
Working directly with Jiang Chuan was like being in a constant state of low-grade alert.
He was demanding, precise, and had an almost infuriating attention to detail. He would dissect my designs with the precision of a surgeon, questioning every font choice, every color gradient, every pixel.
"This shade of orange, Pantone 15-1335 TCX, evokes a feeling of warmth, but also urgency. Is that the message we want for a 'buy now' button, or does it create anxiety?" he'd ask during a review.
My previous clients just said "make it pop."
I was being challenged in ways I never had before. And to my own surprise, I was thriving.
Our arguments were frequent, but they were about the work. I'd defend my choices, he'd poke holes in my logic, and somewhere in the middle, we'd find a better solution.
The "duck incident" became an unspoken truce. He never mentioned it again, and I tried my best to forget it.
But the office was full of whispers. The story of my disastrous first meeting had, of course, leaked. I was "the duck girl."
One afternoon, I was in the office pantry, microwaving my sad little lunchbox of leftover rice and vegetables.
A few colleagues were chatting by the coffee machine.
"I still don't get it. How did she land the project after that? I heard Jiang was furious."
"Who knows? Maybe he's got a weird sense of humor. Or maybe there's more to it. You know, a pretty face..."
The words stung.
I slammed the microwave door a little too hard.
The chatter stopped.
I took my lunchbox and walked out without a word, my appetite gone.
That evening, I was working late, trying to finalize the UI for the app's home page.
Jiang Chuan was still in his office, the light from under his door a familiar sight.
Around 9 PM, my stomach started to protest. The sad lunch I'd skipped was coming back to haunt me.
Suddenly, there was a knock on my cubicle wall.
It was Jiang Chuan. He was holding two paper bags.
"You're still here," he stated, not asked.
"The color scheme for the premium member section feels off," I said, rubbing my eyes. "It's not creating enough distinction."
He placed one of the bags on my desk. The aroma that wafted out was instantly familiar.
霸道.勾魂.
My head snapped up.
Inside the bag was a food container. And inside the container was a generous portion of glistening, perfectly chopped...酱板鸭.
It was accompanied by a bowl of steaming white rice.
I stared at the duck, then at him, completely speechless.
"My grandmother said the one I brought back last time was the best she's had in years," he said, avoiding my eyes and looking at my computer screen instead. "She had her old neighbor mail a few more."
He cleared his throat. "There was extra. It's a waste to throw it away."
This was the most convoluted, awkward excuse for a kind gesture I had ever heard.
"She... mailed it?" I asked, my voice a little shaky.
"They have a special cold-chain delivery service now for local specialties. Part of the new rural logistics network," he explained, all business. "The delivery time is surprisingly efficient."
He was talking about supply chains, but all I could hear was, "I thought of you."
"Your color scheme is off because you're hungry," he said, pointing at my screen. "Your brain is running on fumes. Eat. Then we'll talk about the design."
He turned and walked back to his office, leaving me with the duck.
I looked at the food, then at his closed door.
A strange warmth spread through my chest, unrelated to the aroma of the duck.
I picked up my chopsticks. The duck was savory, spicy, with a hint of sweetness. The meat was firm but not tough, and the flavors exploded in my mouth.
It was, without a doubt, the best duck I had ever eaten.
As I ate, a new design idea sparked in my mind. A color palette inspired by the rich, warm tones of the duck, the creamy white of the rice, and the dark, glossy soy sauce.
Warm, inviting, and utterly irresistible.
I finished the food, wiped my mouth, and walked over to his office. I knocked.
"Come in."
He was on a video call, speaking in fluent German. He held up a finger, asking me to wait.
I stood by the door, watching him. In the harsh fluorescent light of the office, he looked less like an intimidating CEO and more like someone just... working. There were faint shadows under his eyes.
He finished the call and looked at me. "Finished?"
"Yes," I said. "Thank you. It was... really good."
"Mm," was his only reply.
"I have a new idea for the premium section," I said, feeling a new surge of energy. "Inspired by your... by the duck."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"We've been trying to use cool, 'premium' colors like black and gold. It's a cliché. It feels cold, exclusive in a bad way."
I walked closer to his desk. "What if we go the other way? What if 'premium' doesn't mean cold and distant, but warm and special? Like a home-cooked meal you can't get anywhere else. Like a specialty product air-shipped from a thousand miles away."
I sketched out my idea on his whiteboard. "We use a palette of deep umber, rich terracotta, and a creamy off-white. It's luxurious, but it's also about a sensory experience. It's about 'Taste' more than 'AI'."
He listened, his eyes fixed on the board. He was silent for a full minute after I finished.
I held my breath.
"That's not bad," he said finally. "Work out a mock-up. I want to see it by morning."
It was his version of a compliment.
I practically floated back to my desk.
That night, we worked until 2 AM, passing drafts back and forth. The initial tension between us had been replaced by a new, creative synergy.
As I was packing up to leave, he walked out of his office.
"I'll drive you," he said.
It wasn't a question.
The ride was quiet. The city lights blurred past the window.
"The duck," I said, breaking the silence. "Why was it not for sale on the train?"
He glanced at me. "It was a gift. For my grandmother. It's from our hometown, a specific shop. She's been eating it since she was a girl."
"Oh," I said softly. "I'm sorry. I was being... a hungry barbarian."
He was silent for a moment. Then, a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "My grandmother would have understood. She's also a barbarian when it comes to that duck."
It was the first time I had seen him genuinely smile. It changed his whole face, softening the cold edges.
"She would have probably sold you a leg," he added. "For a ridiculous price."
I laughed. A real, genuine laugh. "I would have paid it."
When we arrived at my apartment building, I unbuckled my seatbelt. "Thank you for the ride. And the duck."
"Lin Wei," he said, his voice serious again.
I turned to him.
"The design you did tonight... it was brilliant."
Coming from him, the word "brilliant" felt like winning an Oscar.
"Thank you, Mr. Jiang," I said, my heart doing a little flip.
"Jiang Chuan," he corrected me.
My heart did another flip.
"Good night, Jiang Chuan."
"Good night, Lin Wei."
As I walked into my apartment, I realized I was no longer just "the duck girl."
And he was no longer just "the duck man."
Things were getting complicated.
And delicious.
The "TasteBud AI" project went into overdrive.
Jiang Chuan and I fell into a rhythm. We were a surprisingly effective team. I’d throw out a wild, creative idea, and he’d ground it in logic and data, refining it into something viable.
Our late-night work sessions became a regular thing. And so did the food.
Sometimes it was him bringing something from a restaurant he'd invested in. "Market research," he'd call it, handing me a box of exquisite xiaolongbao.
Other times, I’d bring in my own attempts at cooking, inspired by the app's content. "User testing," I'd say, offering him a slightly burnt but well-intentioned scallion pancake.
He always ate it without complaint.
The office gossip shifted. "The Duck Girl" was now "The CEO's Pet."
I ignored it. The work was too exciting. We were creating something I was genuinely proud of.
One Friday, after a grueling week of finalizing the beta version, Jiang Chuan announced he was treating the core team to dinner.
He chose a private, elegant restaurant I'd only ever seen in magazines.
I was feeling good. I'd worn a new dress. The project was on track. My bank account was finally looking healthy.
We were all seated, the atmosphere relaxed and celebratory. Jiang Chuan was even smiling, a rare but potent sight.
Then, the door to our private room opened.
A woman walked in. She was stunning, dressed in a red silk dress that seemed to flow around her like water. She had the kind of effortless glamour that made everyone else in the room feel underdressed.
"Chuan, darling, I'm so sorry I'm late," she said, her voice like honey. She walked straight to Jiang Chuan and kissed him on the cheek.
It wasn't a friendly peck. It was lingering. Possessive.
The celebratory mood in the room instantly evaporated.
Jiang Chuan's smile vanished. His body went rigid. "Shen Yue," he said, his voice tight. "What are you doing here?"
"I heard you were celebrating. I couldn't miss congratulating my favorite workaholic," she said, her eyes sweeping across the table, dismissing everyone until they landed on me.
Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She looked me up and down, a flicker of assessment in her eyes.
"And who is this?" she asked, her tone light, but her gaze sharp.
"Shen Yue, this is Lin Wei, our lead designer," Jiang Chuan said, his voice clipped. "Lin Wei, this is Shen Yue, CEO of Innovate Capital."
Innovate Capital. One of their main investors. And, apparently, more than that.
"The famous designer," Shen Yue said, her smile returning, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I've heard... so much about you."
She said "designer" as if it were a quaint, amusing hobby.
The rest of the dinner was a masterclass in social warfare, and I was the designated target.
Shen Yue sat next to Jiang Chuan, her hand often resting on his arm. She'd steer the conversation, recounting shared memories with him, inside jokes that excluded everyone else.
When I tried to discuss a feature of the app, she'd cut in with a dismissive wave of her hand.
"Oh, darling, don't bore us with technical details. The real value is in the market strategy, isn't it, Chuan?"
She'd ask me about my background, her questions laced with condescension.
"Freelance? How brave. It must be so difficult to find stability."
"Oh, you live in the old city district? It's charming, I suppose. If you like... character."
I felt myself shrinking. The confidence I had built over the past weeks was crumbling.
I was the girl in the off-the-rack dress, sitting across from the woman in couture. I was the girl who got excited about a duck, sitting across from a woman who probably owned the-duck-company.
I glanced at Jiang Chuan. He looked trapped, his face a thunderous mask. He tried to steer the conversation back to work several times, but Shen Yue was relentless.
The final blow came with dessert.
"You know, Chuan," Shen Yue said, swirling the wine in her glass. "I was talking to the board. They're a bit concerned. Relying so heavily on one... unproven designer for a launch this big. It's risky."
She looked at me, a fake-pitying look on her face. "No offense, dear. It's just business."
The message was clear. I was a risk. A liability.
I felt a hot flush of shame and anger. I had poured my heart and soul into this project. I had earned my place at this table.
I put down my fork. "Ms. Shen," I said, my voice quiet but clear. "You're right. I am unproven. I don't have a portfolio of Fortune 500 companies. I don't have a degree from an Ivy League school."
The table went silent.
"But I know what it's like to be hungry. I know what it's like to be so tired and stressed that the smell of a good meal feels like a miracle."
I looked at Jiang Chuan. "And I know that the 'humanistic' core of this app isn't a 'technical detail.' It's the entire point. It's for people who find joy and comfort in food, not for people who see it as just another asset class."
I stood up, my chair scraping against the floor.
"Thank you for the dinner, Mr. Jiang. I have some work to finish."
I walked out of the room, my head held high, but my hands were shaking.
I didn't go back to the office. I went home.
As I sat in the taxi, the city lights blurring through my tear-filled eyes, I felt like a fool.
I had mistaken professional synergy for personal connection. I had mistaken a few shared meals for something more.
He had a Shen Yue. A woman from his world. A world of capital, and strategy, and red silk dresses.
I was just the duck girl. A funny anecdote he might tell at dinner parties one day.
"Did I ever tell you about the time a girl tried to buy me on a train?"
The thought was a knife in my chest.
The next morning, I walked into the office with a mask of pure professionalism.
I avoided the pantry. I kept my headphones on. I communicated with Jiang Chuan only through email and project management software.
He tried to talk to me twice.
The first time, he came to my desk. "Lin Wei, about last night..."
"I'm sorry, I have a deadline," I said, not looking up from my screen. "Can we discuss it later?"
The second time, he sent me a message. "Are you free for lunch?"
I replied: "Swamped. I'll just grab a sandwich."
I was building a wall. A high, thick, professional wall.
It was the only way to protect what was left of my pride.
The beta launch was a week away. The office was buzzing with a frenetic energy.
I was running on coffee and sheer willpower.
One evening, I was the last one left, running a final check on all the visual assets before handing them off to the developers.
The door to the office opened. It was Jiang Chuan.
He walked over to my desk and placed a familiar paper bag on it.
I didn't look up. "I'm not hungry, thank you."
"Lin Wei, we need to talk."
"The assets are ready. They're in the shared folder. My work here is done," I said, my voice flat.
"This isn't about the assets," he said, his voice strained. "Look at me."
I refused. I kept my eyes glued to the screen, my fingers frozen on the keyboard.
He let out a frustrated sigh. "Shen Yue and I are not together. We were, a long time ago. It ended badly."
I still didn't move. "Your personal life is none of my business, Mr. Jiang."
"It is your business when she tries to sabotage my company and insult you!" he said, his voice rising. "She's trying to force a merger with a competitor she has a stake in. She's using her position as an investor to create trouble. The things she said to you... that was her trying to destabilize the project. To destabilize me."
I finally looked at him. His face was tired, his eyes full of a frustration that seemed to go beyond just business.
"Why didn't you say anything?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "You just let her..."
"Let her what? Make a scene in front of my entire team?" he shot back. "That's what she wanted. I was trying to de-escalate, to handle it quietly. I handled it. I'm buying out her shares. It's costing me a fortune, but it's done. She's out."
I stared at him, my carefully constructed wall beginning to crack.
He looked so... vulnerable. It was an expression I had never seen on him before.
"I didn't... I didn't know," I stammered.
"Of course you didn't," he said, his voice softening. "I'm not good at this. Explaining. The... feelings part."
He gestured awkwardly at the bag on my desk. "I'm not good at it."
I slowly opened the bag.
It wasn't a duck.
It was a thermos, and a small, handmade-looking cake.
"It's a red date and walnut cake," he said, looking away, suddenly fascinated by a plant in the corner. "The app's algorithm suggested it. For... stress and lack of sleep. High in iron. Or something."
He was using his own app's algorithm to try and apologize.
It was the most Jiang Chuan thing I had ever seen.
And it was, in its own awkward, logical, data-driven way, incredibly sweet.
A tear I hadn't realized I was holding back slid down my cheek.
"I thought I was just a joke to you," I confessed, my voice thick. "The duck girl."
He looked back at me, his eyes searching my face.
"Lin Wei," he said, his voice low and serious. "From the moment you tried to buy my grandmother's duck with the most earnest, desperate look I've ever seen on a human face... you were never a joke."
He took a step closer. "You were... unexpected. You were a variable I hadn't accounted for."
"And?" I whispered.
"And," he said, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his stony expression. "My entire system has been trying to process that variable ever since."
He reached out, his thumb gently wiping the tear from my cheek. His touch was warm.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have defended you better. I should have explained everything sooner."
My wall didn't just crack. It came crashing down.
The beta launch was a phenomenal success.
The user feedback was overwhelmingly positive. People loved the interface, the 'warm and human' feel of the brand. They posted screenshots of their orders, of the little stories behind the food producers.
My 'humanistic' design had worked.
The launch party was a huge affair, held in a trendy art gallery. This time, I wasn't an awkward freelancer. I was the lead designer, the architect of the brand's soul.
I was talking to a journalist from a tech magazine when I felt a hand on my back.
"Excuse me," Jiang Chuan's voice said. "Can I borrow my designer for a moment?"
He led me away from the crowd, out onto a quiet balcony overlooking the city.
The night air was cool.
"You did it, Lin Wei," he said, looking out at the glittering skyline. "They love it."
"We did it," I corrected him.
He smiled. "We did it."
We stood in comfortable silence for a while.
"I have something for you," he said, turning to me.
He handed me a small, elegantly wrapped box.
My heart started to beat a little faster.
I unwrapped it carefully. Inside, nestled on a bed of velvet, was not jewelry, but a beautifully crafted, miniature silver duck. It was a pendant, exquisitely detailed.
I looked up at him, speechless.
"So you never have to try and buy one again," he said, his eyes twinkling. "You have one of your own now."
I laughed, a bright, happy sound. "It's perfect."
"There's one more thing," he said, his expression turning serious.
He took a step closer, so we were standing just inches apart.
"Lin Wei," he began, his voice low. "My life, up until recently, has been a series of calculated decisions. Market analysis, risk assessment, projected ROIs. It was all very logical. Very... gray."
He looked into my eyes. "And then you fell into my life, a splash of vibrant, unpredictable color. You're chaotic, and you're passionate, and you argue with me about Pantone shades, and you make me try burnt scallion pancakes."
He took my hand. His was warm and strong.
"You're the most wonderful variable I've ever encountered. And I don't want to just 'process' you anymore."
My breath hitched.
"I want to be with you. Properly. No misunderstandings, no investors, no work getting in the way."
He paused, a flicker of his old awkwardness showing. "If... if that's a variable you'd be interested in exploring?"
I didn't answer with words.
I stood on my toes, looped my arms around his neck, and kissed him.
It was a kiss that tasted of champagne, success, and the faint, sweet promise of a future filled with many, many more delicious things.
When we finally broke apart, he was smiling, a real, wide, unguarded smile.
"I'll take that as a 'yes'," he murmured.
"Consider it a signed contract," I whispered back.
A few months later, we were on a train again.
This time, it was a slow, scenic route, winding through green mountains. We were on vacation. A real one. No laptops, no deadlines.
We had a small table to ourselves. On it was a picnic basket.
Jiang Chuan opened it.
Inside, alongside a bottle of wine and some cheese, was a familiar, vacuum-sealed shape.
A酱板鸭.
I laughed. "Are you trying to recreate the scene of the crime?"
"I'm trying to right a historical wrong," he said, a playful glint in his eye.
He took out a small knife and board and began to expertly slice the duck.
"You know," I said, leaning my head on his shoulder as I watched him. "I never did get to ask."
"Ask what?"
"Back on that first train. If you had known I was talking about the actual duck... would you have sold it to me?"
He stopped cutting and looked at me, pretending to think very hard.
"Hmm. A starving, beautiful, and clearly desperate designer," he mused. "Offering to pay a premium."
He leaned in and kissed the tip of my nose.
"No," he said softly. "I wouldn't have sold it to you."
I pouted. "Stingy."
"I would have given it to you for free," he continued, his voice a low whisper in my ear. "Just to see you smile."
He handed me a piece of the duck. It was, as always, perfect.
He then handed me a thermos box, steaming hot.
This time, he whispered, "Miss Lin, my duck is not for sale. But the person who makes the duck can be given to you."
来源：游戏孤狼 Lucas
