Chapter 9 - The Recovery of the Warehouse
By the first week of September, the heat of the summer had broken, replaced by a clear, golden autumn light that turned the soot-covered tiles of the West District into plates of old gold.
The workshop on Tenth Street didn't look like an abandoned garage anymore. The old rusted iron doors had been replaced by large, industrial glass panels, the interior cleaned of forty years of engine grease, the concrete floors polished until they reflected the blue sky from the skylights. The sign over the entrance read: LIN DESIGN & LOGISTICS HUB.
Lin Changlong stood in the center of the floor, wearing a clean gray worker’s shirt, his face healthy and full of color after three months at the Renji private pavilion. He was holding an old mechanical wrench in his hand, his eyes wide as he looked at the three new automated delivery vans parked in the bay.
"Xia," her father said, his voice shaking with a deep, emotional gravel. "This... this is too much. The cooperative said the title was fully cleared. They even sent me a letter of apology signed by the district supervisor."
"It’s not too much, Dad," Xia said, coming out of the office annex with a stack of architectural blueprints in her lap. She was wearing her old canvas tote bag, but her shoes were new—black leather with thick, reliable rubber soles that didn't let the river mist in. "The district needed a logistics partner for the new commercial plaza. Ethan just... found the efficiency in the route."
"Your husband is a very clever operations man, Xia," Changlong said, shaking his head with a proud, confused smile. "He spent two hours yesterday explaining to me how to use an Excel sheet to track tire wear. He’s very traditional for a guy who works in 'consulting.'"
The glass doors slid open with a soft, electronic hiss.
Ethan Vance walked in, wearing his gray summer suit, his sunglasses tucked into his pocket. He didn't have his bodyguards with him today; he carried a simple brown paper bag that smelled of steamed dough and warm scallions from the morning market.
"The buns are three yuan now, Miss Lin," Ethan said, walking over to the workbench and setting the bag down next to her drawings. "The vendor told me the price of flour has gone up four percent because of the supply chain delays in the North."
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Xia looked up, her blue eyes bright with a sharp, brilliant love that had survived the corporate boards and the family audits. "You’re an operations man, Ethan. Fix the flour."
"I’ve already bought the mill, Xia," Ethan said simply, his hand reaching out to trap hers against the blueprints. The platinum watch on his wrist caught the sun, but the red marriage booklet sitting on the desk next to her purse caught it brighter. "The margin is now zero."
