Tomson Riviera Penthouse, 88th floor, 600 sqm, only black, white, and grey—like a due-diligence report that can never be closed.
Three minutes after walking through the door, Lin Zhi was pressed against the floor-to-ceiling window.
The Bund's neon shattered across the glass, lighting up her torn blouse.
"Lin Zhi," he bit her earlobe, "you know what I hate most?"
"Hate it when the target talks feelings." She gasped, yanking his tie.
"No," Fu Juanzhou gripped her waist and lifted her onto the dining table, "hate it when the target talks money but won't be direct."
He pulled a fountain pen and a folded A4 from his suit jacket and slapped it in front of her.
Term Sheet.
First line:
Investor: Fu Juanzhou
Target: Lin Zhi (all rights, perpetuity)
Investment Amount: Uncapped
Bet-the-Farm Clause: Voluntary exit by Target triggers 10× liquidated damages.
Lin Zhi scanned it and laughed so hard her chest shook.
"Mr. Fu, is this an angel round or a hostile takeover?"
Fu Juanzhou bit off the button between her breasts, voice low and vicious:
"Both. Bed first, court later. Your choice."
That night, they fucked on the 86th-floor dining table, on the living-room sofa, even in front of the always-on Bloomberg terminal.
The jumping K-lines became the coldest aphrodisiac.