After My Rebirth, My Husband Pampers Me Everyday!

Chapter 158: A SHOW OF WEALTH

Whitmore greeted Zhang Wei with a smile that was polished to perfection, the kind he had learned as a child and used on everyone from housekeepers to ambassadors. It reached his eyes in shape but not in substance, and his hands stayed clasped behind his back as though he were allowing himself to be led rather than following.

"Of course," he said, and his voice carried a warmth that was carefully measured to mean nothing at all.

They moved toward the elevators, and the lobby opened around them in broad lines of marble and glass. The ceiling rose high above, catching the light and sending it back down in a way that made the space feel both grand and exposed. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Beijing lay stretched out in a haze of steel and movement.

Cavendish let his gaze move slowly across it all. He kept his voice low enough to sound private, but not so low that it wouldn’t carry.

"Not bad," he said, glancing at Whitmore as they walked. "For Beijing."

Zhang Wei’s fingers tightened for a moment against his side before he relaxed them again. He didn’t turn or answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the elevator doors ahead, and when they reached them he pressed the call button with a quiet, controlled motion. His jaw set briefly, then smoothed out into professional neutrality.

The doors opened without a sound, and they stepped inside.

Whitmore’s eyes took in the brass panels, the soft lighting, the way the cables moved almost silently above them. He let out a quiet breath through his nose, more reflex than reaction.

"The acoustics in these buildings are always rather unfortunate," he said, speaking as though he were noting the weather. It wasn’t an invitation to discuss, and he didn’t expect a reply.

Zhang Wei pressed the button for the thirty-second floor. His face didn’t change, but his eyes flicked once to the mirrored panel where Whitmore’s reflection stood. He would write the comment down exactly as it had been said the moment he had his notebook back.

When they reached the boardroom, everything was already in place. Crystal glasses held water that had begun to bead with condensation, tea sat steeping to the correct color, and the documents were aligned with precise, deliberate spacing.

Whitmore and Cavendish took their seats, and both of them let their eyes move once around the room in the same way they had moved around the lobby. It wasn’t admiration. It was assessment.

Cavendish shifted in his chair, testing the backrest, then sat forward with a faint frown.

"The lumbar support is completely inadequate," he said, as if noting a technical specification.

Zhang Wei didn’t react. He opened his notepad and wrote the words down exactly as spoken, the sound of his pen the only thing breaking the quiet.

The door opened, and the atmosphere in the room shifted before anyone spoke. It was subtle, but physical. Shoulders straightened by a fraction. Conversations that hadn’t been happening stopped anyway. Attention moved toward the doorway on its own.

Liuxian stepped in, and the room adjusted to him without effort. His presence didn’t require volume or gesture. It simply filled the space and made everything else recede.

"Mr. Whitmore," he said in English that was clear, precise, and entirely without effort. "Mr. Cavendish. Thank you for making the trip."

"A pleasure," Whitmore replied, and he meant it more than he had intended to. The realization showed in the slight lift of his brow before he controlled it again.

They sat down, and Cavendish opened his portfolio with a deliberate motion. He glanced at the figures in front of him, then raised his eyes to Liuxian.

"We’ve reviewed the preliminary figures," he began, choosing each word with care. "They’re not unimpressive. Though the projected margins do seem rather optimistic. In our experience, eastern markets tend to..."

"Outperform," Liuxian finished for him, his voice calm and unhurried.

Cavendish stopped speaking mid-sentence.

"Eastern markets outperform initial projections by an average of fourteen percent over a five-year period," Liuxian continued. "I can have Zhang Wei send you the dataset after this meeting." His gaze held Cavendish’s, steady and composed, giving nothing away while making his meaning clear. "Please. Continue."

Cavendish’s fingers tightened against the edge of his portfolio before he forced them to relax. He looked down at the pages in front of him, and Whitmore noticed. Whitmore’s hand moved up for half a second, covering what was almost a smile.

From that point the meeting ran with quiet efficiency. Figures were discussed, terms were outlined, and every projection Cavendish tried to question was met with an answer that had clearly been prepared for. Liuxian never raised his voice, and he never rushed. He answered each point with the patience of someone who had already worked through all the alternatives and found none of them convincing.

By half past eleven, the terms had been agreed and the next steps delegated. The careful, guarded quality in the room loosened. Shoulders dropped, voices lost their edge, and the business gave way to the men behind it.

Whitmore leaned back in his chair and studied Liuxian with a new level of attention.

"I must say, you run a tighter operation than I expected," he said.

Liuxian set his teacup down without a sound. The room seemed to notice the small gesture. He didn’t smile.

"Ah," he said quietly. "You truly look down on me?"

Whitmore blinked, the easy confidence in his posture faltering for the first time that morning.

"You’d find that I’m not one to be trifled with," Liuxian continued, his voice still even but carrying an edge it hadn’t had before. "I do own half of China."

The words landed heavily, not because they were loud, but because they were stated as fact. Cavendish stopped turning his pen. Zhang Wei’s pen froze mid-stroke over the page. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Then Cavendish exhaled, and the tension in his shoulders shifted into something else. He leaned forward, recalibrating.

"We flew in on the Gulfstream," he said, his voice conversational again, but measured now. "A G700. We only took delivery last month."

"How is she?" Liuxian asked, his expression smoothing back to neutrality, as if the moment had already passed.

"Extraordinary," Cavendish said. "The range alone makes everything else feel rather primitive."

"I’ve found the same," Liuxian replied. "Though I recently had the interior of mine reconfigured. The standard layout never quite suits long haul."

Cavendish paused, and his expression shifted as he processed it. "You modified a G700?"

"G800," Liuxian said simply, lifting his teacup to his lips.

The silence that followed was brief, but it carried weight. Whitmore glanced at Cavendish and caught the moment his expression recalculated.

"We have a property in the Cotswolds," Whitmore said after a moment, keeping his tone light. "Seventeenth century. We use it mostly in the summer."

"I have a villa in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat," Liuxian replied. "My wife prefers it in the spring."