LUMIGO — a name that echoed through the fashion streets of Shanghai, a city where style met ambition. Known for its trendsetting designs and bold campaigns, LUMIGO wasn't just a fashion brand; it was an empire of elegance, built on precision, creativity, and relentless passion. From sleek couture lines to globally celebrated runway shows, it held a commanding presence across Asia and Europe.
But behind its shimmering success lay the legacy of a visionary — Mr. He Jiancheng, He Ran's grandfather. A former tailor with an impeccable eye for fabric and form, he had started LUMIGO as a modest boutique tucked into the alleys of old Shanghai. Through decades of tireless effort, fierce discipline, and an unwavering commitment to quality, he transformed it into a global fashion empire. Even in retirement, his influence remained embedded in every corner of the company — from design ethics to staff conduct.
> "One thread out of place can ruin a masterpiece," he had once told a young He Ran, guiding his tiny hands across a sketchpad. That memory still lingered — the scent of tea, the soft scratch of pencils, and the quiet pride in his grandfather's eyes when He Ran had drawn his first suit sketch.
Inside the modern black-and-gold LUMIGO tower, that legacy lived on. The company pulsed with urgency and ambition. The design wing worked like a storm — sketching, stitching, and sampling under intense deadlines. The marketing department, meanwhile, ran like clockwork — launching campaigns, handling social buzz, and negotiating with international influencers.
Today, however, whispers floated through the halls — a familiar name was on everyone's lips.
He Ran was back.
After five long years abroad, he was returning not just as an heir, but as the new CEO of LUMIGO — ready to lead the empire his grandfather built and perhaps, unknowingly, about to reopen a chapter of his past with Shen Miao.
The alarm buzzed softly at 6:30 AM.
Shen Miao blinked her eyes open, the early morning light seeping through the pale beige curtains of her apartment. She stretched lazily, her soft brown hair spilling across her pillow in gentle waves.
No dreams again.
Or maybe the same dream—of someone she refused to remember when awake.
She slipped out of bed and moved with grace. Morning tea. Quick yoga. The routine she had mastered to protect her peace.
Her closet was a symphony of structured blazers and elegant midi dresses. But today, she reached for something different—a soft lavender blouse tucked into a high-waisted cream skirt. Simple. Sophisticated. The kind of look that said I'm in control, even if her heart wasn't.
She added pearl earrings, light pink lipstick, and tied her hair into a clean low ponytail. Her signature perfume — white lily and sandalwood — lingered in the air as she locked the door and headed out.
The ride to LUMIGO was filled with her usual playlist — slow piano tracks, bittersweet and calming. The city buzzed outside, but Shen Miao floated above it. Focused. Poised.
She arrived at the glass building just before 8:00 AM. The receptionist gave her a polite nod. As the Marketing Manager, she was known for her sharp insight, calm leadership, and almost magical way of turning ordinary launches into unforgettable experiences. Her schedule was a whirlwind — 9:00 a.m. concept meetings, 12:30 p.m. brand strategy calls, 4:00 p.m. campaign revisions, and often, silent brainstorming sessions that lasted until the moon hung high over Shanghai.
She didn't know yet — her next campaign would become the most personal one she'd ever lead.
> "Good morning, Miss Shen. There's a special boardroom meeting at 9:00 am. The new CEO took charge today."
Shen Miao raised an eyebrow. "Today?"
> "Yes, just this morning. It's confidential until the meeting."
A CEO change? That was sudden. Still, not her concern.
She nodded, heading straight to her office.
By 8:25, she was in the elevator to the top floor, tablet in hand, heels clicking confidently against the marble.
But everything paused at 8:30 a.m.
The elevator to the executive floor opened with a smooth chime. And then—he walked in.
He Ran.
Clad in a charcoal-grey tailored suit with a silk black tie, every line of his attire whispered power. He stepped onto the marble floor like he owned every square inch — because he did. His stride was calm, unhurried, confident. A striking presence — sharp jawline, quiet eyes, and a gaze that could silence a room.
Two senior board members followed closely behind, but He Ran was unmistakably the center of gravity. Employees turned. Conversations stopped. Even the air in the room seemed to hold its breath.
Phones were lowered, whispers hushed, and the only sound was the rhythmic echo of his leather shoes. He didn't glance around, yet everyone felt seen — assessed, weighed, and understood.
He was no longer the boy who had left five years ago.
He was now the king returning to his kingdom.
On the 28th floor, Shen Miao's eyes lifted from her screen just as the elevator doors parted.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She walked into the boardroom, prepared to meet yet another rich heir with too much power and not enough vision.
But then—
Her steps stopped.
The world shifted.
Time slowed.
Seated at the head of the table, in a tailored black suit and wearing an unreadable expression, was He Ran.
Her He Ran.
The boy who once walked beside Ran through corridors lined with teenage laughter.
The boy who vanished without a word.
Now a man — colder, sharper, hauntingly familiar.
Their eyes met.
He didn't flinch.
She didn't breathe.
Then he leaned slightly forward and said in a voice that sent a tremor down her spine:
> "Please begin, Miss Shen."
Her fingers tightened around the tablet.
The meeting had just started.
But her heart was already a storm.
— Flashback Begins —
The corridor smelled of chalk dust and rain.
Fifteen-year-old Shen Miao hurried down the hallway with an open book in hand, flipping pages as she walked — completely unaware of the boy turning the corner with a stack of notebooks in his arms.
They collided hard.
> Thud!
Books scattered. Her pens clattered across the floor. She landed on her knees with a soft yelp.
> "I'm so sorry—" a voice said quickly.
She looked up. He Ran. New transfer student. Neat uniform. Sharp eyes. Messy hair that somehow looked intentional.
He stared at her, startled. Then reached out to help.
> "Are you okay?"
> "I—yeah," she mumbled, brushing her hair from her face, suddenly shy.
He handed her one of her pens — the one with a cherry blossom cap — and smiled awkwardly.
> "You walk like you're running from homework."
She blinked, then laughed. "And you turn corners like you own the hallway."
He smiled wider this time, handing over her book. Their hands brushed.
> "I'm He Ran," he said.
> "Shen Miao."
A pause. A beat. Something unspoken passed between them.
> "Next time, I'll look before I turn," he said.
> "Next time, I'll look before I read."
They both smiled — that shy, curious smile you only give someone once, right before you start remembering them forever.
Back in the present, Shen Miao stood frozen in the hallway at LUMIGO. Her heart raced as she stared at the man before her.
Same eyes. Same presence. Same effect.
Years had passed, but her heart remembered him exactly like this — after a bump, a pen, and a smile.