The Master of the Game

As the plane landed at the capital airport, the clouds hung low and heavy. I pulled my suitcase out of the arrivals hall, my fingertips still warm from the ink on my plane ticket stamped "early return." A year ago, when I left, Kevin Quentin was here to see me off as well. He wore an off-white trench coat, and his eyes held the starry sea I once believed in. "Wait for me to come back." I stood on tiptoe to hug him, my voice tinged with the hope of my fellowship abroad and the sorrow of parting. He stroked my hair and said "Okay," his fingertips brushing my earlobe—now, that touch feels like coarse sandpaper. The taxi passed the glass curtain walls of the CBD, reflecting back my slightly weary face. The mobile phone still held the video screenshot from last week: Kevin Quentin standing before the floor-to-ceiling window of his new company, the city skyline stretching behind him. "Eileen, I'm waiting for your return with a surprise." He smiled brightly, behind him the green plant unfurled fresh leaves. I cut short my study abroad early, just to give him an unexpected embrace. The taxi stopped in front of the glass skyscraper of Stellar-Path Group; the receptionist's makeup was flawless, and even as she stopped me, her mascara hadn't smudged. "Do you have an appointment?" Her voice was sickeningly sweet. "I'm here to see Kevin Quentin." As I announced my name, the wheels of my suitcase gently clicked against the marble floor. "Mr. Quentin is currently in a meeting." She appraised me from head to toe, her gaze sharp like a scanner. "And you are?" "His girlfriend." Before I could finish speaking, the meeting room door at the end of the corridor swung open. Kevin Quentin wore the gray suit I had given him; his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the Patek Philippe wristwatch—a graduation gift from my parents. He looked down, smiling at the girl in his arms, carefully lifting a small piece of cake with a fork to her lips. The girl lifted her head and parted her lips, her hair brushing against his chin as she smiled, her eyes curling into crescent moons. It was Violet Fraser, his first love from high school. My fingers suddenly grew cold, and the suitcase handle dug painfully into my palm. As the girl swallowed the cake, Kevin Quentin reached out to wipe the corner of her mouth, his gesture so natural it seemed rehearsed a thousand times. "Mr. Quentin, this lady is here to see you." The voice from the reception shattered this warm scene. Kevin turned his head, and the smile on his face froze the moment he saw me, like a poorly made film abruptly paused. Violet Fraser also turned her head, a flicker of panic flashing in her eyes before she masked it with an innocent expression and shrank back behind Kevin Quentin. I suddenly remembered the warning my parents gave when they transferred five million into my account before I left: "Eileen, this money is for Kevin Quentin's startup, but you must keep a close watch on it." At that moment, Kevin held my hand, his fingertip tracing the silver chain around my wrist: "Eileen, once the company is on steady ground, we will get engaged." Inside the briefcase lay the business proposal I had stayed up countless nights revising, its cover adorned with a star trail pattern I had drawn myself. That was what we agreed on—a starry sky we would build together. I watched Kevin Quentin frantically push Violet Fraser away, saw his fingers trembling as he adjusted his tie, and witnessed the forced calm on his face as he walked toward me. "Eileen, why did you come back early?" His voice was dry, like sandpaper scraping against rusty iron pipe. Violet Fraser peeked out from behind him, timidly saying, "Hello, I'm the new intern..." "Is that so?" I smiled faintly, pulling out the neatly bound Project Proposal from my briefcase. "Mr. Quentin is so swamped with his duties, does he even have time to feed cake to an intern?" Kevin Quentin's face instantly flushed a deep liver-red as he reached out to pull me back: "Eileen, don't misunderstand, it's not what you think..." I stepped back to evade his hand, my fingertips clutching the cover of the Project Proposal, the star-trail design gleaming coldly beneath the light. This was the labor of my heart and soul, rewritten countless times late at night over coffee, the details I argued over with him in endless video calls, the future we vowed to build together. In the end, all those hopes were nothing but a one-woman show. "Kevin Quentin," I heard my voice unusually calm, like the surface of a frozen lake, "What is this?" I threw the Project Proposal at his feet; the sound of the papers scattering rang harshly in the silent hall. Before he could answer, I bent down to pick up the top few pages and, in front of him and Violet Fraser, tore them to shreds, piece by piece. As the paper fragments fell, I clearly saw the shock in Kevin Quentin's eyes and the barely concealed smugness at the corner of Violet Fraser's mouth. "A misunderstanding?" I looked into his eyes and spoke every word deliberately, "Then tell me, this five million startup fund—this is how you 'start a business'?"