The Tycoon's Contract Girlfriend

Chapter 5 An Unexpected Interlude in the Design Department

Chapter 5 An Unexpected Interlude in the Design Department

The air in the Thorne Group design department felt different on Monday morning. Thicker. Heavier. Nian Su pushed through the glass doors at precisely eight-forty-five, her sensible flats making no sound on the polished concrete floor. The usual Monday morning chatter—coffee orders, weekend recaps, the soft click-clack of keyboards—didn’t so much stop as warp into a lower, more deliberate hum. Eyes flicked toward her from behind computer screens. A pair of junior designers by the printer fell silent, their gazes sliding over her with a detached, analytical curiosity before turning back to each other. No one smiled. No one said good morning.

She’d been prepared for this. The party had been three days ago. Three days was more than enough time for a story—the boss’s mysterious, unnamed date—to circulate through the gossip capillaries of a place like this. Still, the reality of it, this tangible wall of unspoken judgment, settled in her stomach like a cold, dense stone.

Her cubicle, a modest square at the far end of the open-plan space, was exactly as she’d left it. Neat. Impersonal. A single succulent she’d bought to combat the sterile air sat by her monitor, looking oddly vulnerable.

“Nian. Good, you’re here.”

The voice was professional, devoid of warmth. Chen Jie, the department head, stood at the entrance to Nian’s cubicle. In her late forties with a severe black bob and glasses that never seemed to catch the light, Chen was the embodiment of corporate efficiency. Last week, she’d been brisk but fair, assigning Nian preliminary sketches for a new bridal line.

Today, her smile was a thin, polite line. “I trust you had a… pleasant weekend.”

“It was fine, thank you, Ms. Chen,” Nian said, keeping her tone neutral. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag.

“Good. We have a new project that requires a meticulous eye. The archival room on the fifteenth floor needs organizing. Design archives from the past fifteen years. They’re a bit of a mess.” Chen handed her a single sheet of paper with a barcode and room number. “Scan and catalog everything. Ensure the digital database matches the physical files. It’s foundational work. Very important for the department’s institutional memory.”

Foundational work. Institutional memory. Code for busywork for interns we don’t know what to do with. The bridal line sketches were gone, erased from her workload without a mention.

Nian took the paper. The edge was crisp against her thumb. “Of course. I’ll start right away.”

Chen nodded, the movement sharp. “The access code is on the sheet. Let me know if you encounter any issues.” She turned and walked away, her heels tapping a precise, retreating rhythm.

The silence in her corner of the office felt complete now, a vacuum. Nian sat down, powered on her computer, and stared at the login screen. The reflection in the dark monitor showed her own face, composed, betraying nothing. Inside, the cold stone shifted. This was the cost. The unspoken tax for walking into that ballroom on Sheldon Thorne’s arm. Not outright hostility. Just… erasure. A gentle but firm pushing to the margins where she could be observed without being a factor.

She logged in, collected a trolley from the supply closet, and took the elevator to the fifteenth floor.

The archive room was a time capsule. Windowless, lit by the faint, buzzing glow of fluorescent strips, it smelled of dust, aging paper, and the faint, sweet-chemical scent of old printer toner. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with black portfolio boxes, rolled blueprints tied with faded ribbons, and stacks of presentation boards leaning like drunken tombstones.

Nian spent the morning building a rhythm. Scan the barcode on a box. Open it. Remove the contents—sketches, fabric swatches, cost sheets, rejection memos. Log each item into the database with a brief description. The work was monotonous, the silence absolute except for the whisper of paper and the hum of the scanner. Yet, there was a peculiar peace in it. Here, she was just a function. A pair of hands organizing the ghosts of past projects. No one was watching. No one cared.

By noon, her back ached from bending. She took her brown bag lunch—a turkey sandwich and an apple—and rode the elevator up to the rooftop terrace, a seldom-used space with a few weathered picnic tables and a view of the city’s steel-and-glass canyon.

The wind up here was brisk, snatching at her hair. She sat at a table in the sun, unwrapping her sandwich. The first bite was tasteless.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A video call request from Yue Lin.

Nian swiped to answer. Her friend’s face filled the screen, vibrant and concerned, her dark hair piled in a messy bun. She was in her own studio, colorful fabric samples pinned to a wall behind her.

“Hey! You’re alive! I was starting to worry you’d been adopted by the one percent and forgotten how to use a phone,” Yue Lin said, her voice tinny through the speaker.

A small, real smile touched Nian’s lips. “Sorry. It’s been… a week.”

“Uh-huh. A week that included the Thorne family gala. I saw the photos, by the way. On Society Sphere.” Yue Lin’s eyes widened. “Girl. You looked… insane. That dress. That necklace. Total ice queen vibes. In the best way!”

Nian’s smile faded. “It felt like a costume.”

“All the best armor does.” Yue Lin’s expression softened. She leaned closer to her camera, her voice dropping. “Speaking of armor… you okay? Back at the salt mines today?”

Nian took another bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly. “I’ve been reassigned. To the archives. Fifteen years of design history. I’m a glorified librarian.”

Yue Lin whistled low. “Ouch. The cold shoulder treatment. Classic.”

“It was expected.”

“Maybe. But listen.” Yue Lin’s tone turned serious, all business now. “I was talking to a friend who freelances for Thorne’s marketing wing. She said there’s been some serious internal shake-ups in the design department lately. Like, power-grab kind of stuff. Budgets getting shifted. Projects getting killed before they even start.”

Nian’s stomach tightened. She put her sandwich down. “What kind of shake-ups?”

“The corporate kind. Rumor is Elara Thorne—you met her, right? The blonde shark cousin?—she’s been pushing hard to get more involved in the creative direction. Not just as a board member with an opinion, but hands-on. She’s got her own ideas about what ‘sells,’ and let’s just say they don’t involve a lot of creative risk.” Yue Lin’s gaze was direct through the screen. “Just… keep your head down and your eyes open, okay? That archive room might be the safest place for you right now.”

The wind felt suddenly colder. Nian nodded, the motion stiff. “Eyes open. Got it.”

“Good. Now eat your sad desk lunch. I’ve got a client who wants neon pink sequins on a bridesmaid dress. I need to go talk someone out of a terrible life choice.” Yue Lin blew her a kiss. “Call me. For real.”

The screen went dark. Nian stared at her half-eaten sandwich, her appetite gone. Elara. The name alone brought back the feel of champagne-silk and cold, assessing eyes. We’ll have much more to discuss soon. The archive assignment wasn’t just marginalization. It was a relocation. Out of the way.

She finished her lunch in silence, the city sprawling below her like a circuit board of ambition and indifference.

The afternoon deepened the silence of the archive room. Box BY-7 was heavier than the others. Nian hefted it onto the scanning table, the dust making her nose itch. The label read: *Project Dawnbreak - 2019 - Discontinued*.

She opened the box.

Inside was not the usual chaos of multiple projects, but a single, thick portfolio. She lifted it out, the leather cover soft and worn at the edges. Setting it on the table, she untied the black ribbon and opened it.

The first page was a title sheet, the words Dawnbreak: A Fusion Series printed in a clean, modernist font. Beneath it, in elegant, hand-drawn script: Inspired by the moment night surrenders to light. Where Eastern ink-wash meets Western deconstruction.

Her breath caught.

She turned the page. And then another. And another.

The sketches were breathtaking. Not in a conventionally beautiful, commercial way, but in their audacious intellect. A necklace wasn’t just a strand of pearls; it was a study in negative space, where polished obsidian droplets seemed to float within a cage of fractured, white-gold lines, mimicking the bleed of ink on rice paper. A ring featured a diamond set not in a prong, but cradled in a twist of titanium that looked like a single, swift brushstroke frozen in metal. The designs were stark, philosophical, challenging. They demanded attention. They didn’t beg for it.

A clipped memo was paper-clipped to the final concept sheet. Market Analysis Conclusion: While artistically commendable, the “Dawnbreak” series lacks clear commercial viability. The aesthetic is too niche, the construction costs prohibitive for the target demographic. Does not align with current luxury trends favoring classicism and overt display. Recommendation: Archive. Project discontinued.

Does not align. The words were a bland, corporate epitaph for this… this vision. Nian’s fingertips traced the lines of a bracelet design, a series of interconnected, asymmetrical loops meant to resemble breaking waves. She could feel the thought behind each curve, the tension the designer had sought to capture between control and chaos. It was brilliant. And it had been deemed unprofitable, shut away in a dark room to gather dust.

She was so absorbed she didn’t hear the door open. The first sign was the shift in the air, a subtle displacement of the stale atmosphere. Then, the voice, cool and flat, cutting through the quiet.

“You find that interesting?”

Nian jolted, her heart slamming against her ribs. She turned.

Sheldon Thorne stood in the doorway of the archive room. He wore a charcoal grey suit, no tie, his white shirt open at the collar. He looked out of place amidst the dust and shadows, a sharp, modern line against the faded past. His gaze wasn’t on her, but on the open portfolio, on the sketch her fingers still touched.

How long had he been there? His presence seemed to suck all the sound from the room.

He walked in, his steps silent on the thin industrial carpet. Without a word, he reached past her, his sleeve brushing against her arm. A faint, clean scent of sandalwood and something colder, like frost, cut through the dust. He plucked the sketch of the bracelet from the portfolio.

He held it up, his eyes scanning it. The fluorescent light gleamed on his wedding band, a plain platinum band she’d never noticed before. His face was a mask of detached analysis.

“The Dawnbreak project,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection. “Five years ago. It failed.”

But Nian’s eyes weren’t on his face. They were locked on his hand. The one holding the edge of the thick paper. His knuckles, where they gripped the sheet, were bloodless, the skin stretched tight over the bone, standing out in stark, white ridges against his tanned skin.

He wasn’t just holding it. He was clenching it.

Her gaze flew back to his face. It was still impassive, a perfect study in corporate disinterest. But the contrast with that white-knuckled grip sent a jolt of pure, electric curiosity through her. This meant something. To him.

He laid the sketch back on the table, smoothing the edge with a thumb. The action was careful. Almost… reverent. The word popped into her head, absurd and undeniable.

The silence stretched, taut as a wire. The question bubbled up in her throat, propelled by a sudden, reckless need to know. To pierce that calm exterior.

“Why?” The word came out softer than she intended. She cleared her throat, forced her voice steadier. “Why did it fail? The**… the concept is… it’s ahead of its time. It’s brilliant.”

Sheldon’s head lifted slowly. His grey-blue eyes met hers. For a few seconds, he didn’t speak. He just looked at her, and it felt different from his usual assessments. His gaze seemed to lose focus, to go through her, to some distant point in memory or regret. The air in the cramped room grew still, charged with something unsaid.

Then the moment shattered. His eyes cleared, hardening back into polished stone.

“At the Thorne Group,” he said, each word precise and chilled, “a creative idea that cannot be monetized is not brilliant. It is waste. It is garbage.” He said it like he was reciting a fundamental law of physics. Inevitable. Unchangeable.

He turned and walked toward the door, his posture rigid.

Nian stood frozen, the harshness of the words ringing in the silence. Garbage. He’d called this beautiful, tortured work garbage. But his knuckles… She watched him go, confusion and a strange, empathetic ache twisting inside her.

Just as he reached the threshold, his right hand came up—a flash of movement so quick she almost missed it. His fingers pressed against his temple, a hard, brief pressure. A gesture of weariness, of pain, so instinctual and unguarded it was more revealing than any expression. Then his hand dropped, and he was gone, the door sighing shut behind him.

The room felt emptier, colder. Nian let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Her hands were trembling slightly. She looked down at the abandoned sketch of the bracelet.

And that’s when she saw it.

In the bottom right-hand corner, nearly lost in the subtle shading of the drafting paper, was a tiny, handwritten notation. Not a designer’s name. Just two initials, in a swift, angular script that was familiar from countless memos and report signatures.S.T.

She stared. The letters seemed to pulse on the page.

Sheldon Thorne.

The project leader? The designer?

Her mind raced back to his white knuckles. The fleeting weariness in that touch to his temple. The careful way he’d placed the sketch down.

The memo had said the project was artistically commendable but unprofitable. What if the artist… had been him?

The cold, dismissed intern in the archive room had just stumbled upon a secret. Not a corporate secret. A human one. And she had no idea what, if anything, she was supposed to do with it.