THE REAL PROTEGE

Goldie now operated as his logistics head, keeping Fatty's dramatic and eccentric impulses grounded.

"Sir," he said, tapping his tablet.

"You cannot host six simultaneous store openings and ride a unicorn parade through Vienna in the same weekend," Goldie said flatly, her voice the embodiment of exhausted logic. He didn't even look up from his tablet — he was too busy with a firework display Fatty had insisted should spell out "Lily's Leap" in five languages. He'd just aged five years in one sentence.

Goldie hadn't expected Fatty to go full eccentric the moment they landed in Belgium.

What he expected even less was that the market would embrace Fatty like a cult leader with a glitter budget.

Fatty's eccentric ideas — edible perfume, floating pastry shelves, enchanted loyalty cards that sang your name — weren't just tolerated. They were celebrated. His boutique in Antwerp had a waiting list. His Brussels flagship had been featured in three fashion magazines and one spiritual wellness journal. The unicorn parade? Already sold out.

Goldie sighed again, deeper this time.

"You're a walking contradiction," he muttered. "And somehow, a profitable one."

Fatty gasped, clutching his chest as if Goldie had just asked him to choose between oxygen and sequins.

"So you're saying… I have to choose my glory?"

Goldie didn't dignify that with a response. He was too busy trying to cancel a marching band made entirely of pastry chefs.

When Fatty wasn't orchestrating boutique empires or pitching perfume that smelled like nostalgia, he was glued to Lily's Shanghai updates — watching them on loop like they were sacred scripture.

"I miss her like Belgium misses decent sunshine," Fatty sighed, draping himself across a velvet chaise that hadn't been approved by procurement.

"She leaps… and my soul levitates."

Goldie blinked.

"…"

Fatty's arrival in Belgium had been less of a relocation and more of a cosmic event. He didn't just shake up the business — he detonated it. His father nearly had a heart attack every time Fatty burst into the conference room with a new idea, usually involving holograms, edible glitter, or a scent called "Lily's Whisper."

The madness escalated quickly.

Fatty insisted their following product line be infused with Lily's essence — her elegance, her unpredictability, her ability to make him feel like gravity was optional.

Each proposal was more outrageous than the last: mood-reactive dumplings, self-playing guzhengs, loyalty cards that whispered affirmations in Mandarin.

The boardroom became a stage.

Fatty, the star.

Everyone else?

Just trying to keep up.

And Fatty would always argue:

"I'm not eccentric," he declared. "I'm visionary. The world just needed a little sparkle therapy."

Goldie pinched the bridge of her nose.

"And apparently, Belgium agrees."

A Quiet Night in the Master's Bedroom

The moonlight spilled softly across the silk curtains, casting pale ripples over the master bedroom's polished floor. The air was warm with steam from the adjoining bath, and the scent of jasmine lingered faintly in the room.

Ling Li, wrapped in a pale robe, stepped out from the shower, her damp hair cascading down her back like ink on parchment. She padded quietly to the bed and sat beside Four Eyes, who was half-reclined against the headboard, a leather-bound book open in his hands.

She leaned slightly against him, her fingers brushing his arm.

"Honey," she began, voice low and thoughtful,

"In two weeks, it's Lily's gymnastics competition in Shanghai. I was thinking… how about you and the twins fly to China ahead of us?"

Four Eyes looked up from his book, brow lifting.

"You need to start taking over your business again," Ling Li continued.

"It's expanded so much, and you haven't personally visited the office yet. If we all fly together, it might be too eye-catching."

He closed the book slowly, setting it aside with deliberate care.

"No way," he said, turning to face her fully.

Then, with a quiet smile, he pulled her gently into his arms.

"How do you suppose I live my life away from you, hm?"

His voice was soft and teasing, but a tremor of truth lay beneath it. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

Ling Li shivered, her breath catching.

"You!" she protested, half-laughing.

"It's only two weeks! And you need to establish yourself as a Chinese businessman so you don't get too associated with me and Otako."

Four Eyes tilted her chin with two fingers, his gaze steady and warm.

"But I don't mind living under you," he murmured, eyes gleaming with mischief.

He kissed her nape, slow and deliberate, and Ling Li's shoulders tensed with a quiet gasp.

"Be serious!" she said, swatting his arm lightly.

"I am serious," he whispered. With a sudden playful motion, he tackled her gently onto the bed, pinning her beneath him with the ease of someone who knew every inch of her strength.

He kissed her lips — soft, lingering, reverent.

"I truly can't live without you by my side," he said between kisses.

"You should tie me to your waist. Make me your accessory."

Ling Li laughed, her cheeks flushed, her robe slipping slightly from her shoulder.

"Aiya… I truly don't know what to do with you!" she whined, half-exasperated, half-delighted.

"Of course you do," Four Eyes murmured, his voice low and velvet-smooth.

"You can make love to me. That usually helps."

She rolled her eyes, but her fingers curled around his collar, pulling him closer.

"You're impossible," she whispered.

"I'm yours," he replied.

And in the quiet hush of the night, beneath the weight of duty and the warmth of devotion, they folded into each other — not as leaders, not as strategists, but simply as husband and wife, tangled in love and laughter.

Morning Light and Mission Lists

The sun filtered through the frosted windows of the master bedroom, casting soft gold across the silk sheets and the carved lacquer panels that framed the room like a shrine. But the light felt thinner today—muted, as if the sky itself hesitated to intrude.

Ling Li sat cross-legged atop the bed's edge, her robe loosely tied at the waist, the silk slipping off one shoulder to reveal the curve of her collarbone. A steaming cup of ginseng tea rested in her palm, untouched. In her other hand, she held notes —written in her precise, elegant calligraphy, but the strokes were sharper than usual. Rushed. Intentional.

Four Eyes stirred beneath the covers, his bare chest half-buried in pillows, hair tousled from sleep and the night before. He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the light and the sight of her already in motion.