Jianhua grips my hand tightly—not out of affection, but like he's afraid I'll vanish before he gets the full picture. Something's gnawing at him. I have a good idea what it is, and wait patiently for the others to leave.

  “What’s going on with the market?” he can't barely control himself, eyes locked on mine. “Unlocked shares? You know something. You’re not telling me.”

  It’s Bao Fang's reaction that spooked Jianhua. That man’s too transparent for this world. How he’s survived in finance—where predators feed without hesitation—is a mystery.

  “Just a hunch,” I say, lightly. “Some of the state-owned securities firms are bundling Total Return Swaps with Bearish Notes and Reverse Convertibles…”

  “Speak like a human,” Jianhua snaps. “I wish John were here.”

  For a Beijing University graduate, he's remarkably resistant to learning. Years in finance, and still allergic to its mechanics.

  “You know what shorting is?”

  “Of course.”

  “And margin trading?”

  “I’m not an idiot,” he growls.

  “Some of the state-owned firms are quietly building products that let outsiders short A-Shares—with margin calls. Big bets. Big leverage.”

  “Maybe they’re just hedging?”

  “If they were hedging, they’d short their own books. Not hand outsiders the gun. You know how tightly shorting is restricted in A-Shares.”

  The Red Party believes in a strange concept under the righteous-sounding name of financial sovereignty—markets aren’t neutral. They’re instruments of governance. Currency exchange rate, capital flow, stock indexes—they’re meant to obey policy, not consensus.

  Right now, the Party wants the Shanghai Composite to rise. That’s the directive. Anything that threatens that trajectory is supposed to be locked away—available only to state actors.

  But these state-owned firms are designing specialized financial instruments for shorts, futures, margin trades—that circumvent the system. Quietly. Precisely. Inviting outsiders into the vault.

  It's a silent rebellion, without gunpowder.

  Jianhua frowns, then grins. “Son of bitches. They’re engineering a crash—and cashing in.”

  He feigns outrage, but can't hide his excitement. Once he sees the play, his greed kicks in. So does his political instinct. That’s when he gets dangerous.

  “And I was wasting time chasing Antz Financial shares,” he mutters. “While they’re printing money without me.”

  “Antz is part of it,” I remind him. “A 400 billion IPO dilutes the market. So do the local government swap bonds—another trillion.”

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “No wonder they’re doubling the quota month,” he says, eyes narrowing.

  I have my sources. He has his.

  Another trillion. Days away.

  “You said retail investors only put in 1.3 trillion. That’s nothing compared to 2.4.”

  “They’re planning a fall so steep, with leverage, they could make trillions in a week,” Jianhua whispers, half in awe.

  And wipe out millions of families. The ones taking out loans to buy stocks? They won’t ever recover.

  But neither of us care, do we?

  “With a move that bold,” he says, “they’ll need political cover.”

  I nod. He’s found the most critical piece of the puzzle.

  “Xi built the boom—propping up securities while the economy sagged. Keyang wants the housing bubble to keep breathing.”

  “This is the line struggle of the new era,” Jianhua says, voice low. “Ruby Dream and ‘houses are for living, not speculation’ versus Internet+ and real estate zealotry.”

  “Exactly,” I conclude. “All of it—every note, every swap—is for the leadership transition in 2017.”

  We both pause, the silence thick as lacquer. The air feels thinner now—like the room itself is holding its breath.

  Then Jianhua leans forward, eyes gleaming. “So,” he says, voice low and hungry, “how do we gut them—without burning down the whole stage?”

  … …

  I own a villa tucked deep within Jiufeng Forrest. A private sanctuary known to almost no one. Only one man has ever crossed this threshold.

  Through the window, I track his stately Red Flag limousine winding up the driveway. 15:28—thirty minutes early. His eagerness to please me is palpable, predictable, delicious.

  I step off the treadmill, my skin glistened with sweat, every muscle taut and humming. I’ve curated the exact look to get him hard on sight—primal, dangerous, irresistible.

  My white sports bra clings like a second skin, deliberately undersized to push my breasts together into a valley of shadow and light. The sky-blue shorts might as well be painted on, cutting high enough to reveal the taut curve where thigh meets ass. Each breath I take makes fabric strain against flesh—a performance of restrained power. I know exactly what he’ll see first. And second.

  "Come in," I command, shifting my body just enough to create a narrow passage. His breath hitches audibly as he squeezes past, his sleeve brushing against my chest. The contact is electric, intentional.

  Inside, he moves toward the chair by the door without instruction. Our ritual begins. In this house, he belongs to me. From threshold to threshold. His nakedness will be his first act of surrender.

  He takes off his shoes and slides them under the chair, then fumbles slightly with the buttons of his shirt under my intense gaze. With shaky hands, he folds each item as neatly as he can and places them on the chair. Throughout this slow unveiling, his eyes dart between the floor and my body—stealing hungry glances at my breasts, my hips, the shadow between my thighs.

  I feel the pulse between my legs. Not just arousal—anticipation. His movements carries the same mixture of reverence and dread as the first time. This is Xialai's talent: he inhabits his submission completely, his repetition of the ritual making it more, not less, potent.

  But I know what he is beneath the polish. A climber. A predator in training.

  That’s the game. At work, he plays the loyal subordinate. In bed, he plays the devoted submissive. But one day, he’ll ascend. And I wonder what will happen to us when the submissive finally becomes dominant in his public life.

  He’s down to his boxers now, hunched slightly, trying to hide the erection straining against the thin fabric. I let the silence stretch, let him stew in it. The wet spot forming at the tip betrays him completely. I know exactly how hard he is. How wet. How he aches for permission.

  “Now,” I snap, voice clipped, one brow raised in mock irritation. He flinches. I love that. The way a single word from me can short-circuit his brain.

  He flinches, wounded pleasure flooding his eyes. Then, with exquisite reluctance that only heightens my arousal, he slides his boxers down.

  He's magnificent in his vulnerability—fully erect, completely exposed in the harsh natural light of the entryway rather than the forgiving shadows of a bedroom. His cheeks flush deep crimson, the shame of his display visibly arousing him further.

  I allow my lips to curve into the barest suggestion of approval before turning toward the stairs. "Come quickly," I order, my voice a blade wrapped in silk. "We have important business to discuss. The fun comes later.”