Ten Minutes to Hell
805 Words
Su Nian’en squared her shoulders and stepped through the entrance like a soldier marching toward execution.
No—
More like mutual destruction.
The elevator doors slid open.
And there she was.
Chen Ailin.
Glossy lips. Too-tight skirt. Every inch of her screamed calculated seduction. The instant their eyes met, Ailin’s smile curdled into something poisonous.
A glare sharp enough to draw blood.
Su Nian’en’s jaw tightened.
Of course Ailin blamed her for losing the personal translator position. As if Su Nian’en had begged for this nightmare.
As if she hadn’t been forced into it.
That morning, Jiang Qingwan and Song Wanzhi had cornered her by the door, voices dripping with venom.
“Watch that little slut Ailin closely,” Jiang Qingwan sneered. “If she so much as breathes near Xi Cheng, you tell us immediately.”
Su Nian’en had nearly laughed.
What was so special about Han Xi Cheng anyway?
Sure—money. Power. A face that made women forget their own names.
But beneath that polished shell? A bastard. A predator wrapped in custom suits.
Any woman who fell for him must’ve committed crimes in a past life. Karma blinding them to rot.
The assistant handling their onboarding was Zeng Shanshan—bubbly, loud, wildly mismatched with her serious title as Manager Guo’s assistant.
Su Nian’en liked her instantly.
Chen Ailin clearly did not.
The reason was obvious.
Their desk assignments.
“You hit the jackpot, Nian’en!” Shanshan whispered excitedly, eyes shining. “Your desk is prime real estate—right across from the CEO’s office. The second President Han opens his door, you’re the first thing he sees!”
Shanshan looked thrilled.
Chen Ailin looked ready to kill someone.
Su Nian’en felt only bitter irony.
Prime spot?
More like a front-row seat to hell.
He’d placed her there deliberately—like a guard dog chained outside his door.
“Manager Guo will assign duties once she arrives,” Shanshan added, leaning closer. “Oh—and if you get a chance, snap me a photo of President Han, okay?”
Before Su Nian’en could respond—
Click. Click.
The sharp sound of dress shoes cut through the air.
The office went rigid.
Three or four men in tailored suits strode in together, but only one commanded every eye.
Han Xi Cheng.
A black suit, hand-stitched. Probably worth more than her annual salary. It clung to his tall, lean frame with ruthless precision, as if designed by someone who worshipped his body.
Cold. Lethal. Elegant.
Power that didn’t need to announce itself.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Su Nian’en’s breath hitched. Instinct took over—she shrank slightly behind Shanshan.
But Han Xi Cheng slowed.
Then stopped.
Right in front of her.
His gaze locked onto her—dark, penetrating, burning straight through Shanshan as if she didn’t exist.
The office fell into dead silence.
Someone gasped.
It was Su Nian’en.
Her heart slammed violently against her ribs.
What is he doing?
Why is he staring at me—here, in front of everyone?
She wanted to glare back. To meet his eyes with defiance.
Her body refused.
Please. Just walk away.
He didn’t.
His right hand lifted—slow, deliberate. Long fingers slicing through the space between them.
Her breath stopped.
She turned her face away, too late.
His fingers clamped around her jaw—firm, unyielding—forcing her face back toward him.
The entire room stopped breathing.
His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth.
Cool. Precise. Almost clinical.
Wiping away a faint smudge of lipstick.
Then he released her.
As if nothing had happened.
“Miss Su Nian’en.”
His voice was low, measured, edged with ice. “As my personal translator, attention to detail is essential. Your appearance reflects my standards.”
A pause.
His gaze swept over her once more—slow enough to make her skin prickle.
“Fix your makeup.”
Another beat.
“Ten minutes. My office.”
No room for argument.
Cold. Absolute.
He turned and walked away, the other executives falling in behind him like shadows.
The door shut with a decisive click.
Su Nian’en stood frozen.
Her jaw still tingled where he’d held her. Her lips burned where his thumb had touched.
Around her, whispers exploded like wildfire.
She heard none of them.
All she could hear was the blood roaring in her ears.
That bastard.
He’d humiliated her—deliberately. In front of the entire office.
Criticized her makeup? Her professionalism?
He’s the one with problems. Him and his entire damn family.
If he hated her so much, why not just fire her?
Ten minutes. His office.
Like hell I’m going.
Yet even as defiance flared hot in her chest, dread coiled tight in her stomach.
Because she knew.
She would go.
She always did.
- Writer
