The private jet was a capsule of surreal luxury, a silent, airborne extension of Ye Tingjue's mansion. The cabin was appointed with cream leather seats, polished wood paneling, and discreet gold accents. A flight attendant, as impeccably dressed and silently efficient as the rest of his staff, served them champagne and canapés that would have been at home in a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Lin Wanwan barely touched her food. She sat by the window, watching the patchwork of her home country recede below, feeling a profound sense of dislocation. Ye Tingjue sat opposite her, engrossed in a financial report on a tablet, seemingly oblivious to her inner turmoil. He was completely at ease, as comfortable cruising at thirty thousand feet as he was in his boardroom. This was his world. And for the foreseeable future, it was hers, too.
Their first destination was Venice. As the jet began its descent, Wanwan caught her first glimpse of the fabled city, a jewel box of terracotta roofs and shimmering canals emerging from the Adriatic Sea. It was breathtakingly beautiful, a sight that, under any other circumstances, would have filled her with wonder. Today, it felt like the backdrop for a gilded prison.
A private water taxi, as sleek and luxurious as the limousine back home, was waiting for them. It whisked them through the Grand Canal, past magnificent, decaying palazzos and under ancient bridges. Ye Tingjue pointed out landmarks with the cool detachment of a seasoned tour guide, his commentary interspersed with historical anecdotes about the powerful families who had once ruled this city of merchants and masquerades.
"Venice was built on commerce, power, and secrets, Miss Lin," he remarked, his gaze sweeping over the opulent facades. "A city where masks were not just for carnivals but a part of everyday life. A useful tool for navigating complex social and business transactions."
Wanwan understood the subtext. He was reminding her of her own role, her own mask: Miss Lin, the elegant companion, the "dear family friend" from Suzhou.
Their hotel was an iconic one, a historic palazzo turned into a five-star bastion of luxury. Their suite was a masterpiece of Venetian artistry, with frescoed ceilings, Murano glass chandeliers, and a balcony overlooking the Grand Canal. It was romantic, opulent, and utterly suffocating.
"We are here for the Biennale opening," Ye Tingjue informed her as they settled in. "And several business meetings. You will accompany me this evening to a private reception at the Palazzo Ducale."
He left her with a schedule of her own appointments—fittings with a local designer, a hairstylist, and a makeup artist. He was curating her appearance with the same meticulous attention he gave his business portfolio. She was an asset, and he intended for her to look the part.
That evening, transformed by a team of stylists into a vision of sophisticated elegance, Wanwan stood beside Ye Tingjue as they made their entrance into the Doge's Palace. The reception was a glittering affair, a confluence of old European aristocracy, new tech billionaires, and celebrated artists. The air hummed with a dozen different languages, the clinking of champagne flutes, and the murmur of high-stakes networking.
Wanwan played her part. She smiled politely, nodded at introductions, and murmured the few Italian phrases Signor Rossi had drilled into her. She kept her hand resting lightly on Ye Tingjue's arm, a silent performance of affectionate companionship. He was a commanding presence, moving through the crowd with an easy authority that transcended borders. People were drawn to him, their deference and curiosity palpable.
She felt the speculative gazes on her and the whispers behind elegantly gloved hands. She was the beautiful, unknown woman on the arm of the powerful Ye Tingjue. She remembered the words of the cruel woman at the gala back home—"Enjoy it while it lasts"—and steeled herself. This was a city of masks, and she would wear hers as best she could.
During the evening, Ye Tingjue introduced her to an elderly, distinguished-looking Italian man, Signore Valeriano, a renowned art historian and collector.
"Signore Valeriano, may I present Miss Lin Wanwan?" Ye Tingjue said, his hand resting proprietarily on the small of her back. "Miss Lin's family, the Lins of Suzhou, were master artisans in their own right. I thought you might appreciate the connection."
Signore Valeriano took Wanwan's hand, his eyes, bright and intelligent, studying her with interest. "Ah, Suzhou! The silk city. A place of great beauty and history. It is a pleasure, signorina."
"The pleasure is all mine, Signore," Wanwan replied, her voice steady, her Madame Dubois-approved etiquette kicking in.
"Tingjue tells me you have an appreciation for history," the old man continued, his gaze warm. "It is a rare quality in the young today. They are so focused on the future, they forget that the past is the soil from which it grows."
"I am… beginning to understand that, Signore," Wanwan said, the words carrying a double meaning only she and Ye Tingjue could comprehend.
They spoke for a few more minutes about art and history before another guest claimed the old man's attention. As they moved away, Wanwan glanced at Ye Tingjue.
"Why did you do that?" she asked in a low voice. "Why do you keep insisting on this… Suzhou connection?"
"Because, Miss Lin," he replied, his voice a soft murmur against the din of the party, "a narrative, repeated often enough, becomes a truth. It gives you a history, a context, and a shield. In a world like this, a beautiful woman with no discernible background is a target. A beautiful woman with a noble, albeit faded, lineage is an object of intrigue."
His logic was cold, cynical, and undeniably effective. He wasn't just controlling her; he was protecting his investment, ensuring his "companion" was perceived not as a common mistress, but as something more refined, more mysterious. It was all part of his calculated performance.
Later that night, back in the opulent suite, the masks came off. The silence between them was heavy, filled with the unspoken tensions of the evening. Wanwan stood on the balcony, staring at the dark, shimmering water of the canal, the distant sound of a lone gondolier's song drifting on the air.
Ye Tingjue came to stand beside her. "You performed well tonight, Miss Lin."
"Was it a performance you were pleased with, Mr. Ye?" she asked, a hint of bitterness in her voice.
"You are a quick study," he acknowledged, ignoring her tone. He looked out at the water, his profile sharp against the ambient light. "This city… it reminds me of my mother. She loved it here. She said it was a place that understood the beauty of impermanence, of powerful legacies slowly fading into time."
It was the most personal thing he had ever said to her, a rare, unguarded glimpse into his own history. Wanwan found herself holding her breath, waiting.
"The Jiang family," he continued, his voice low, "was once like one of these palazzos. Grand, respected, a pillar of Shanghai's commerce. But my grandfather, my mother's father, made a series of… ill-advised decisions. He trusted the wrong people. He extended credit based on a gentleman's agreement, a bond of honor with your family, the Lins."
He turned to face her, his eyes dark and intense in the moonlight. "Your great-grandfather, Lin Zian, was a brilliant artist, a master of his craft. But he was a poor businessman. He took a substantial loan from my grandfather, using his family's famed embroidery techniques—their future production—as collateral. The agreement was meant to forge a powerful alliance between art and commerce."
Wanwan listened, mesmerized, the pieces of the puzzle starting to slot into place. This was the truth he had promised, delivered here, in this city of secrets.
"But the market shifted," Ye Tingjue went on, his voice flat. "And Lin Zian… he defaulted. Not just on the money, but on the agreement. He sold his techniques to a foreign buyer for a fraction of their worth, breaking his exclusive pact with the Jiangs. He took the money and vanished, leaving my grandfather with a catastrophic financial loss and a stain on his family's reputation. The Jiang family never fully recovered. It was the beginning of their decline."
"And your mother… she blamed my family for this?" Wanwan whispered.
"She blamed them for their lack of honor," he corrected her. "The money was secondary. It was the broken trust that she could never forgive. It haunted her."
A wave of conflicting emotions washed over Wanwan. She felt a pang of shame for the actions of an ancestor she had never known, but also a surge of anger at the injustice of it all. "So this is why I am here?" she demanded, her voice rising. "To pay for my great-grandfather's lack of honor? How is that fair? How is that just?"
"Justice, Miss Lin, is a luxury," he said, his voice turning cold once more. "This is not about justice. This is about… balance. An account left unsettled for generations is finally being addressed. Your family took from mine. Now, I am taking from yours."
"You are taking my life!" she cried, her composure finally shattering.
"I am giving your brother his," he countered, his voice like ice. "A life for a life. A legacy for a legacy. It seems a perfectly balanced equation to me."
His cold, brutal logic left her speechless. In his mind, this was a transaction, a simple rebalancing of a historical ledger. Her feelings, her freedom, her very self—they were irrelevant variables in his grand, generational calculation.
The fragile truce of the past few weeks was shattered, replaced by a stark, chilling clarity. She now understood the full scope of his motivations. He was not just a captor; he was a self-appointed agent of historical retribution, and she was the price. The city of masks had revealed its ugliest truth, and Wanwan knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that there would be no easy escape from the ghosts of Suzhou. They had followed her all the way to Venice.