Unforgettable Touch - Chapter 2
In the CEO’s Office
The CEO’s office was in disarray. Documents were strewn across the desk and sofa, and two mobile whiteboards were filled with dense writing.
The man sat alone at the desk, back straight, unmoving. The screen in front of him had been lit for who knew how long.
Knock knock. A knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” the man said.
Patti pulled herself together, putting on a professional demeanor. She stepped inside in comfortable flats and placed a stack of documents by the man’s side, making the already cluttered desk even more crowded.
“President Shu, these are the latest research reports from the R&D department. They directly address the questions raised by investors last time.”
Shu Zhenshan pushed aside the work in his hands, pulling the report over without even lifting his head.
After flipping through it quickly, his eyes paused on a few pages, and his face grew increasingly expressionless.
Seeing this, Patti internally muttered, “It’s over.” Clearly, he was still not satisfied.
Looking at the crisp lines of her boss’s shirt, his immaculate hair, and the clean, defined line of his jaw that only became sharper the busier he was, Patti once again felt awe and admiration.
This was the fifth day in a row that their boss had been running on all cylinders. His schedule was packed tighter than a mosquito’s leg could fit into. Patti estimated he was averaging less than five hours of sleep per night.
Not long ago, Shu Zhenshan had proposed a new industrial expansion plan that was met with firm opposition from the board and shareholders.
The group had made its fortune in commercial real estate, later expanding into entertainment and finance. Under Shu’s leadership, he had gone against the market tide and developed these sectors successfully during an economic downturn—nothing short of a miracle.
As for future development, most of the senior executives advocated for steady progress and deeper international influence. But at this critical juncture, Shu suddenly proposed investing in robotics R&D.
Do what? Robots? Did he think he was filming a sci-fi movie?
One executive had even slammed the table in disbelief, thinking his ears were playing tricks on him.
What’s more, Shu didn’t just mention robots—he was talking about investing hundreds of millions. No wonder there was so much opposition. Any sane person would consider it far too risky.
So in the past few days, Shu Zhenshan had been busy convincing investors. He’d produced hundreds of pages of reports and plans, each one thoroughly familiar to him—
And in under five days, the investors’ attitudes had begun to shift.
Patti had no doubt that soon they’d be completely swayed by Shu Zhenshan, and would enthusiastically pour in money.
Shu seemed to possess a supernatural ability to persuade people—before you even realized it, you’d be following his train of thought and then, wholeheartedly, following him.
Even more impressive? He didn’t just sell dreams—he made them come true. Golden, fragrant, fresh-from-the-oven dreams that he personally tucked into your wallet.
So getting convinced by him wasn’t exactly shameful.
However, Patti could vaguely sense that something was different about this expansion project—it wasn’t like the others. Shu Zhenshan was too invested.
Even though this project was still in its early stages, Shu Zhenshan was willing to give everything to it without expecting returns. The more he stayed up, the more energized he became. The more he worked, the more invigorated he felt.
Patti and the second assistant had to work in shifts to avoid collapsing from overwork, yet Shu Zhenshan, under such hellish intensity, still looked immaculate. He even looked good enough that in her zombified state, Patti could still spare 0.01 seconds to admire how good-looking her boss was.
Their boss wasn’t human.
The inhuman Shu Zhenshan quietly read through the report for five minutes, then snapped it shut and pushed it aside with a thud. He asked flatly, “Anything else?”
Patti perked up and said, “Nothing else, just confirming your evening schedule. President Hao’s birthday party starts at five this afternoon. Do you need anything prepared?”
Shu Zhenshan paused before replying, “No.”
Oh right, today was Hao Le’s birthday. He’d completely forgotten. Ha.
“Got it. The stylist is already here, and the outfit is prepared,” Patti said, her tone perking up as she could barely hide her excitement about getting off work soon. The evening was all personal time, which meant she could finally have a break—bliss.
“Oh right, one more small thing.”
She placed a magazine on the desk. “The latest issue of Global Fortune, the one that interviewed you, is out. Would you like to take a look?”
Shu Zhenshan glanced casually at the cover, his expression unusually dazed.
His body reacted before his brain did—numbness spread from his spine to his limbs. His heart abruptly quickened, like the pounding bass at a music festival, shaking through his bones.
Patti was already mentally reviewing the latest episodes of Empresses in the Palace and didn’t notice his change.
Shu Zhenshan had never cared about these accolades unrelated to work. He certainly wasn’t vain enough to reread his own interviews. Naturally, Patti picked the magazine back up and said considerately, “If you don’t want it, I’ll just put it—”
“Leave it.” His voice was hoarse.
“Huh?” Patti blinked.
“Leave the magazine.”
“…Okay.” Patti did as told, though puzzled. Still, she didn’t ask questions.
“If there’s nothing else, go home.” Shu Zhenshan looked away and added gently, “Thank you for your hard work.”
Patti immediately responded that it was no trouble and hurriedly closed the door behind her.
The office fell silent. In the large space, only dust motes drifted slowly in the sunlight. The man sat quietly, the side of his face bathed in gold light.
On the magazine cover was his photo, his name “Shu Zhenshan” beside it. On the other side, several other interviewees’ names and subtitles appeared.
But because the surname “Ran” was so rare, his eyes were drawn not to his own name, but another—
Ran Buyue Redesigning the World.
In the table of contents, “Shu Zhenshan” was listed first. Three columns down: “Ran Buyue.”
The distance between the two names was exactly 18.6 cm.
This was the closest they’d been in six years.
Because the proposals submitted that day were too awful to look at, and he happened to have a sliver of spare time, Shu Zhenshan started reading Global Fortune—something he normally disdained.
The article detailed Ran Buyue’s career and design philosophy. Beside it was a photo from the interview.
In the photo, the young man sat in sunlight, long hair draped over his shoulders. He wasn’t looking at the camera but out the window, seemingly immersed in thought, disconnected from the world.
On the wall behind him was the logo of his current company.
The photo’s composition was flawed—the logo was too large and glaringly off-balance.
And with just one look, Shu Zhenshan could tell he’d lost weight.
Apparently, the food at that foreign company sucked.
His collarbones jutted sharply against the edge of his shirt, like a pair of thin, outstretched wings.
Shu Zhenshan knew they must feel bony to the touch.
Because he’d touched them many times.
He used to be able to wrap Ran Buyue completely in his arms, like a big shrimp hugging a smaller one. His hand on that slender waist, undoing buttons, moving up from the lower abdomen to the collarbone and throat.
He claimed it wasn’t lust—just a routine check to make sure Ran Buyue had eaten properly.
The scrawny youth had slowly been nursed back to health by him, reaching a healthy weight.
Eventually, Shu Zhenshan didn’t need a scale—just a glance at Ran Buyue could tell him if he’d gained or lost weight, how his mood and stress levels were.
Strangely enough, even across a photograph, that skill hadn’t disappeared.
But now, whether Ran Buyue was fat or thin, whether his cafeteria sold strawberry dumplings or pineapple potstickers, none of it had anything to do with Shu Zhenshan.
It was just an article about a Chinese designer. Shu read it word for word, calm, expressionless.
Knock knock. Someone tapped on the door.
Outside, Patti asked if he wanted the stylist to come over, as time was tight before the banquet.
“…”
Shu Zhenshan snapped out of his daze to find the magazine page crushed in his hand, wrinkled beyond recognition. He had no idea who’d done it.
Only when Patti asked again did he calmly tuck the magazine into a drawer and say, “I’ll go to the styling room.”
—
The stylist was already waiting, with a large makeup kit nearby and several sets of fine suits hanging behind.
“Mr. Shu, please pick one you like,” the stylist said enthusiastically.
Shu Zhenshan instantly felt a headache coming on. Inwardly, he cursed Hao Le for the hundred and first time.
Hao Le had always been the most dramatic one. Now at twenty-seven, he was still as playful as ever. He claimed 27 was his lucky number, so his 27th birthday needed to be grand.
He sent every guest a gold-embossed invitation card with fancy cursive stating the time, location, and a strict dress code: guests had to dress like it was the 1920s in The Great Gatsby—vintage, extravagant, full of decadent glamour. The invitation even warned that non-compliant guests would be denied entry.
When Shu had first received it, he’d been so stunned he couldn’t speak—but since it was Hao Le, it all made sense.
In less than a second, Shu picked the most classic tuxedo among the outfits.
A very understated choice. The stylist seemed a bit disappointed and tried to persuade him to try something else—perhaps the high-end tailcoat.
“A tailcoat really suits someone of your height and build. Don’t worry about going over the top. You can definitely pull it off.”
In any stylist’s eyes, Shu Zhenshan was a perfect model—sharp features, refined aura, yet with an unspoken dangerous edge. No outfit ever wore him—he always dominated the outfit.
Back when he was studying in the US, modeling agencies had approached him frequently. Hao Le had often teased him, “Ah Zhen, just become a model. Maybe you’ll even make it to Hollywood.”
Shu recalled the photo he’d just seen in the magazine. In his mind, the one who should’ve become a model wasn’t him—but someone else.
Fully dressed, he stood before the full-length mirror. The stylist examined him and nodded in satisfaction. “Looks great. Let me find you a pocket square.”
Shu opened the storage drawer. It was filled with neatly folded pocket squares—every fabric and pattern imaginable.
Typically, a tuxedo was paired with a white pocket square. The stylist quickly identified the highest-quality fabric and brand, suggesting, “How about this one?”
Shu rarely concerned himself with clothing choices—whatever the stylist gave him, he wore. But today, strangely, he shook his head.
After a moment of silence, he pointed elsewhere. “That one.”
The stylist followed his gaze and noticed, in the center of the drawer, a fully unfolded white pocket square—so plain it was nearly dull. It wasn’t even silk, but linen.
The stylist immediately tried to stop him. “This one isn’t really appropriate for the occasion…”
Implied meaning: it looked cheap. Wearing it would lower his class.
That thing could pass for a kitchen rag. Seeing it in Shu’s br3ast pocket would be absurd.
But the stylist quickly regretted saying anything.
Because he realized—if something so plain had been placed so prominently, as if it were a museum’s prized exhibit, it could only mean one thing:
It was special. And important.
Shu Zhenshan had already walked over, picked it up, folded it, and tucked it into his left br3ast pocket.
It wasn’t folded very neatly—more like two flat bunny ears sticking out.
The stylist’s voice softened involuntarily, as if afraid of disturbing it. “Mr. Shu, let me help you tidy that.”
Shu Zhenshan replied, “No need.” And with that, he turned and left, not letting the stylist touch it.
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