Against the Algorithm

Chapter 21: Lines No Longer Imagined

Not now.

Not ever.

And as Yao continued to eat in silence, her face slowly relaxing into something unguarded, something soft, something almost peaceful, Sicheng watched her from the corner of his eye and let that quiet, territorial certainty settle deep in his chest. Because if she needed his hoodie to sleep? Then she would keep wearing it. For as long as she damn well wanted. And maybe longer than that.

Sicheng knew there were things that required his attention, responsibilities waiting in the pristine quiet of his office—paperwork in need of completion, quarterly reports that demanded review, and, more personally, a series of carefully monitored investment portfolios, hand-picked and crafted with exacting precision not for himself, but for the girl who, without flourish or fanfare, had entrusted him with something far more significant than just her money: her trust.

Yao hadn't asked for much—just a few stable, intelligent investments to start, a portfolio structured not to impress but to educate, a foundation to help her grow what she had rather than let it sit untouched, to turn passive inheritance into active strength—and for someone like Sicheng, who had spent years turning instinct into empire, who had made ZGDX not just a team but a brand, who had watched his wealth multiply with each calculated risk, each exacting move on a chessboard the world called business, this wasn't just easy. It was personal. Because she had asked him. Because she had trusted him—not a bank, not a stranger, not a consultant with graphs and projections—but him, the man who had sat across from her countless times and watched her process the world in quiet, methodical beats, the man she turned to not for reassurance but for certainty.

And that?

That wasn't something he would ever treat lightly. So with that knowledge settled squarely in his chest, with the weight of her quiet faith anchoring him in place more than any obligation or title ever had, he finally turned his attention back to the room, to the gathered chaos of his team scattered around the dining table, half-eating, half-bickering, wholly unaware of how short their morning peace was about to be. His voice, when it came, was calm, even, but laced with that unmistakable authority that needed no volume to command a room.

"Everyone needs to be in bed early tonight."

A pause.

And then—cooler, smoother, just enough steel beneath the surface to make it clear this wasn't a request.

"The photo shoot is tomorrow. I don't want to deal with tired idiots dragging their feet all day."

As expected, the collective groan was instant, a wave of dramatic suffering rippling through the team, but not one of them dared challenge it—not really—because they all knew that when Sicheng laid down the law, there was no loophole, no sidestep, no negotiation clever enough to save them from what would follow if they disobeyed. They knew. They always knew. Because Lu Sicheng didn't make rules just to make noise—he made them because they meant something, because they worked, because if he said something, it was because it mattered. But just as the team began to settle, just as they resumed chewing and muttering and pretending like they hadn't been thoroughly shut down, Sicheng moved.

Deliberate.

Measured.

Not hurried—but not subtle either.

There was something intentional in the way he stood, in the way he crossed the space between his seat and hers, in the way his steps were just slow enough to draw the eye but not enough to make anyone fully register what was about to happen.

Until it happened.

Without preamble.

Without warning.