Empire of Desire: An Alpha’s Financial Reign - Chapter 46

The political landscape of Beijing had never witnessed such a rapid and dazzling ascent as that of Ni Jia. Under the meticulous orchestration of Han Zaijing—a political strategist whose instincts were as sharp as her ambition—Ni Jia transformed almost overnight from a prominent young scholar to a beloved icon in the capital’s emerging political class.

It wasn’t just her academic credentials, though they were formidable—degrees from the most prestigious institutions, fluent command of international affairs, and a groundbreaking thesis on urban equality reforms. Nor was it only her tireless activism in gender equality and social justice, which had ignited discussions across campuses and communities.

It was everything: her noble lineage, her personal charisma, her photogenic elegance, and, perhaps most crucially in the modern media age, her mastery of public image. With TK platform’s massive following and clever storytelling, Ni Jia wasn’t merely known—she was adored.

Among her peers, none could compare to the fervor she inspired. Her speeches were clipped and replayed on social media; her fashion choices dissected in lifestyle columns; her campaign strategies studied in academic circles. She had become not just a politician, but a symbol. To the youth of Beijing, she wasn’t just a councilwoman-elect—she was a beacon of possibility.

People began calling her “the national daughter”—an endearing and powerful title, one that reflected not only affection but also collective hope. When she took to the podium on the day her victory was announced, she stood as the youngest city councilor in Beijing’s history, her presence both commanding and tender. Her voice, firm yet filled with emotion, resonated through the city hall:

“Fellow citizens, standing here today is not a triumph of one individual, but of shared ideals and tireless faith. You have entrusted me with your voices, your concerns, your dreams. I vow to honor that trust—not just with words, but with action, with integrity, and with relentless energy. Together, we will build a city that listens, that heals, and that leads.”

The audience erupted into cheers. The applause thundered on, cameras flashed wildly, and Ni Jia’s name trended across every digital platform within the hour. Her face was on every news banner, her speech dissected by commentators, her policies analyzed by pundits.

In a quiet corner of the venue, almost invisible beneath a baseball cap and a surgical mask, stood Han Zaijing. She remained still, unmoving, as the woman she once held in her arms was crowned a political goddess. There was no applause from her—only silence and the tightening of her gloved hands. She had watched her rise, sculpted her public persona, and now, she watched her soar alone.

As night descended upon Beijing, the Ni family’s flagship hotel—an opulent five-star skyscraper—was bathed in dazzling light. The building shimmered like a lighthouse against the dark velvet sky, its name visible from miles away.

Outside, luxury cars formed an unending stream on the red carpet, while inside, an air of festivity hung thick over golden chandeliers, imported floral arrangements, and the soft clinking of glasses.

It was a celebration not only of political success, but of legacy. The Ni name now held a different kind of weight: no longer just a financial dynasty, but a force in governance.

Inside her suite on the top floor, Ni Jia stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows. Below her, the city sprawled like a painting—endless rows of lights, busy avenues, and the soft hum of a city that never sleeps.

Dressed in a custom white evening gown that hugged her slender figure and emphasized her poised elegance, she looked every bit the star the media claimed her to be. Her pearl necklace gleamed under the chandelier, a symbol of grace and restraint.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror—poised, smiling, invincible. But only she knew that the smile was carefully rehearsed, the shine in her eyes painstakingly crafted. She whispered softly to herself, “From now on, I don’t just carry the Ni family’s legacy. I carry a city’s expectations.”

The ballroom was a marvel—crystal chandeliers cast warm light over deep-red carpets, while string quartets played classical music that blended seamlessly with the buzz of conversation. Guests from every corner of power had come: politicians, entrepreneurs, foreign delegates, celebrities, and journalists. All eyes turned as Ni Jia entered the hall. Her smile was radiant, her steps graceful.

Every gesture was calculated yet natural, every word spoken with charm and clarity.

She moved through the room like a seasoned stateswoman. With one hand, she held a champagne glass; with the other, she extended handshakes that left lasting impressions. She wasn’t just attending a celebration—she was cultivating alliances, brokering unspoken deals, measuring the strength of political currents.

Her keynote speech, delivered mid-way through the night, was yet another testament to her intelligence and strategy. Seamlessly blending personal anecdotes with policy goals, she spoke of bridging the gap between government and innovation, how her family’s business empire could work with the administration to bring smart infrastructure and accessible healthcare to Beijing.

“The Ni family enterprise has never shied away from responsibility. We believe that innovation is not a luxury but a civic duty. We will invest in the city’s future—not for profit, but for purpose. Together, we can reimagine what Beijing means to the world.”

The applause was thunderous.

As she descended the stage, she was joined by her elder brother, Ni Zemin. Their eyes met under the chandelier’s gentle glow—an unspoken exchange of pride and burden.

“You’ve grown up, Jia Jia,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Tonight, you shine brighter than anyone.”

She smiled, her eyes glistening. “Thank you, brother. You’ve always believed in me. I won’t forget that.”

The dinner continued well past midnight. Ni Jia mingled with industry leaders, spoke with international guests in fluent French, and answered policy questions with the ease of someone born to lead. But beneath the polished surface, something fragile stirred in her.

By the time the final guest had been escorted out, her mask of perfection began to crack. Alone again in the hotel suite, she instructed her driver to take her to Huaxin University. It was a decision made not by strategy, but by longing. That campus apartment—tiny, humble, and filled with memories—was where her heart still lived.

The drive was slow. Beijing at night was a city of neon and nostalgia. She rested her head against the window and let the silence wrap around her. Every familiar street corner whispered fragments of the past—laughter shared under dim lights, whispered confessions behind lecture halls, and the quiet intimacy of two souls who once believed they had all the time in the world.

The campus was eerily quiet. As she climbed the familiar stairs to the apartment, her footsteps slowed. Her heart pounded—not out of fear, but emotion. The door creaked open.

Time had stood still here. Everything remained untouched: the second-hand couch, the slightly stained carpet, the cluttered bookshelf filled with shared memories. She ran her fingers across the chipped coffee table they once fought to assemble, then sank onto the old bed they had once shared.

And then, without warning, the tears came. Quiet, painful tears—the kind that had no audience. Tonight, she was not a councilwoman, not a celebrity, not a political icon. She was just Ni Jia, a girl who missed the person who once made her feel safe.

Suddenly, the door creaked. Han Zaijing stood there.

“Jia Jia?” Her voice was hoarse, almost pleading.

She turned sharply, rising from the bed. Her expression was proud, defiant. “Why do you think I’m here?” she said coldly. “To remember the pain you caused.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” she said, voice trembling. “You orchestrated my career like a chessboard so you could walk away without guilt. That wasn’t love. That was escape.”

Han Zaijing’s gaze didn’t waver. “If I said I never stopped loving you—would it change anything?”

Ni Jia stared at her, torn between fury and despair.

“You introduced me to political power,” she whispered, “so I could survive without you. And now you think your mission’s complete.”

She turned to leave, but she stopped her. “Zaijing… have you really let me go?”

There was silence, then a voice—low, bitter, vulnerable.

“I never let go. I just hid everything I was. Because if you saw the real me… I was terrified you’d hate me.”

She left, closing the door behind her.

Alone, Ni Jia stood before the drawer she always kept locked. Her hands moved on their own. Inside were dozens of medical reports—pheromone tests, dated weekly from their first year in university.

Her breath caught. A letter lay beneath the stack. In trembling hands, she read: “Jia Jia,

When you read this, I may be gone.

SSSS-level pheromones aren’t a blessing. They’re chains. I’ve hidden this from you not out of pride, but fear. Fear that loving me would become a burden.

If I can’t build a legacy strong enough to protect you from my fate, then loving you would be the cruelest thing I could do.

I never stopped loving you. This is the only way I knew how to keep you safe.

Forgive me.

—Zaijing”

Her sobs filled the room.

In a downtown bar, under the haze of smoke and neon, Han Zaijing drank alone. She looked nothing like a political genius tonight—disheveled, unguarded, undone. The music thundered. Strangers danced. And as she raised her glass once more, a dark plan took root in her mind.

If the world wanted to use her pheromones, then she would use them first. Ruthlessly. Strategically.

After all, if love couldn’t save her, perhaps power could.