Chapter 3: Sushi, Schemes, and CEO Dreams

At the sushi bar, I snapped a pic. The place was all sleek wood and neon, the kind of spot where the chef torched the salmon right in front of you. “Daddy! This sushi is amazing. Let’s come together next time!”

In the photo, I was scooping fresh uni with a spoon, winking at the camera.

Camellia took ages to reply: “When’s next time?”

I hesitated. Honestly, I wasn’t dying to see Dad—every time we met, it was just blind dates and schmoozing. This time it was a guy six years older; next time it’d probably be some notorious New York playboy. That’s just how our world works.

I replied: “Next time is next time, Daddy.”

Sent an angry cat sticker.

Camellia: “…….”

I could sense he was annoyed. I tried to appease him: “Daddy, don’t be mad! Getting mad makes you age, and that’s no good.”

Camellia: “You think I’m old?”

Why is my dad so chatty today? Usually, it’s two lines and he’s gone. Guess running away really did break his lonely old heart.

I poured on the flattery: “Daddy, you’re the most handsome, the best. So successful, so charming—most people your age could only dream!”

“Transfer more money to your baby, okay?”

Camellia: “Transfer 200,000.”

What’s that saying? No matter what kind of man, you have to know a bit of child psychology—especially with my unreliable dad.

Just as I finished eating, HR messaged me—my title was changed to CEO’s assistant. Fifty grand a month, my own office!

Dad, I’m not coming back. Suddenly, I realized: life outside the family bubble isn’t so scary after all!

If I work a bit longer, maybe I can acquire the company myself.

These past few days, I kept thinking—I’ve never seen Caleb Foster in any of our circles. I asked around, but no one had any gossip on him. Owning a listed company like this, could he really be so squeaky clean? Wait, is it possible the boss who promoted me has a crush on me? I looked at myself in the hotel mirror. Well, who could blame him? If my blind date was a guy like this, who’d run away!

I was daydreaming when a message popped up in the work group, instantly dousing my excitement. Normally, I ignore group chats after hours, but someone was gossiping about why Caleb Foster came back to the States. I clicked in. Well, well, Mr. Perfect came back to get married to his fiancée. Office romance, my foot. What a joke!

I stabbed at my phone, my perfect manicure flashing under the bar’s dim lights. Out on the street, New York’s Friday night thrum was in full swing. I cradled my phone in both hands, trying not to let on how much the news stung. The sushi suddenly tasted like sand. If life were a rom-com, I’d at least get a dramatic rainstorm and a pop ballad. Instead, just the glow of my screen and the dull ache of reality.