Chapter 85: Submission

Two weeks.

It’s been two weeks since the morning I kissed Bael and then ran away like an idiot, and somehow life has settled into something that feels dangerously close to normal.

Not the careful, distant normal from before.

A different kind.

The kind where we eat dinner together when his schedule allows, where he doesn’t pull away when I migrate to his side of the bed at night, where I wake up most mornings with his arm still around me like he put it there deliberately instead of by accident.

The kind where he stops by the study occasionally to make brief comments about my designs, practical observations that somehow calm me down more than any amount of reassurance would.

The kind where I’ve stopped questioning whether I’m allowed to be close to him because apparently I am.

We don’t talk about it, don’t define it, we just... exist like this.

And it’s terrifying how comfortable it’s become.

How easy it is to fall into these quiet domestic habits without examining what they mean or where they’re going.

But I don’t have time to think about that today.

Because today is submission deadline day.

I’ve been awake since five AM, obsessively reviewing files I’ve already reviewed a hundred times, second-guessing design choices I finalized weeks ago, finding tiny flaws that probably don’t even exist.

The residential cluster density is fine.

I know it’s fine.

But what if the judges think it’s too high?

What if the green corridor integration reads as excessive instead of sustainable?

What if the circulation patterns that seemed elegant two weeks ago now seem unnecessarily complicated?

I pull up the site plan for the fifteenth time this morning, staring at it like something will magically reveal itself as wrong.

"You’re going to invent problems that don’t exist if you keep doing that."

I jump slightly, turning to find Bael standing in the study doorway.

Already dressed for work, looking annoyingly put-together while I’m still in pajamas with my hair sticking up and probably visible panic on my face.

"I’m just reviewing," I say.

"You’ve been reviewing since before dawn. I could hear you pacing."

My face heats up slightly.

"I’m submitting in three hours. I need to make sure everything is perfect."

"It won’t get more perfect by staring at it." He checks his watch. "Get dressed. We’re leaving in forty minutes."

Right.

The actual submission.

The part where I have to physically hand over months of work and then wait to find out if it was good enough.

My stomach twists.

I force myself to close the laptop and stand up, legs slightly unsteady from sitting too long and nerves.

Bael is already gone, heading back downstairs, and I’m left standing there trying to process the fact that his blunt practicality somehow steadied me more than an hour of self-review.

***

Forty minutes later, I’m dressed and downstairs with all my submission materials organized in a leather portfolio that Bael apparently had delivered yesterday without mentioning it.

Professional.

Expensive.

The kind of thing that makes the work inside look more credible just by association.

I’m expecting the driver to be waiting outside.

Instead, Bael is standing by my car, tablet in hand, already working on something.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Getting in the car."

"Why?"

He glances up, one eyebrow raised slightly. "I’m heading in the same direction. It’s efficient."

That’s obviously a lie.

Dingshan Real Estate is on the opposite side of the city from Wuchen headquarters.

There’s no possible way he’s "heading in the same direction."

But he’s already getting into the back seat, settling in with his tablet like this is completely normal, and I’m too nervous to argue about it.

I get in beside him.

The driver pulls out smoothly, and Bael immediately goes back to whatever he was working on... emails, probably, or contract reviews, something that requires his complete attention.

Which he gives it.

Completely.

Like I’m not sitting here vibrating with anxiety.

I try to sit still.

Try to look calm.

Fail at both.

My leg starts bouncing without conscious input, a nervous habit I thought I’d broken years ago.

I pull out the submission documents for what has to be the twentieth time today, scanning through the cover letter even though I’ve memorized every word.

The paper crinkles slightly in my grip.

Too tight.

I’m holding it too tight.

I force myself to relax my fingers, smooth out the slight wrinkle I’ve created.

Set the documents back down.

Try to sit still.

Last maybe thirty seconds before my leg starts bouncing again.

Bael says nothing.

Just keeps working, scrolling through something on his tablet, occasionally making notes.

I pull out my phone.

Check the submission portal for the third time this morning even though nothing has changed.

Reread the confirmation email about the deadline.

Put my phone away.

Thirty seconds later, pull it back out.

My leg is still bouncing.

The documents are back in my hands somehow.

I’m rereading the cover letter again when Bael speaks without looking up.

"You’re shaking the whole seat."

I freeze.

Look down at my leg, which is indeed bouncing hard enough to create a noticeable vibration.

"Sorry," I mutter, forcing myself to stop.

He doesn’t respond.

He just goes back to his work like the interruption never happened.

I sit there, consciously keeping my leg still, trying not to fidget, trying not to reread documents I’ve already memorized.

It lasts maybe five minutes.

Then my hand drifts toward the portfolio again.

I catch myself.

Stop.

Look out the window instead, watching the city pass by.

The traffic is heavier than usual.

We’re moving slowly, which means more time sitting here with nothing to do except spiral.

I check my phone again.

Still nothing new on the portal.

Still the same deadline.

Still the same submission requirements I’ve triple-checked already.

My leg starts bouncing again without me noticing.

Bael makes a call.

Something about quarterly projections and market analysis, his voice low and controlled, completely focused on whoever he’s talking to.

I try to listen, try to distract myself with his work conversation, but my brain won’t cooperate.

Just keeps circling back to the submission.

To all the ways it could go wrong.

To all the things I might have missed.

The call ends.

Silence settles again.

Just the sound of traffic outside, the quiet hum of the car, Bael’s fingers moving across his tablet screen.

Normal sounds.

Calming sounds.

Except I’m not calm.

Can’t be calm.

Not when I’m about to hand over months of work and have no control over what happens next.

By the time we pull up to Dingshan Real Estate’s headquarters, my heart is racing and my hands are slightly shaky and I feel like I might throw up.

The building is sleek, modern, exactly the kind of place that makes you feel like you should have dressed better even when you’re already dressed professionally.

I gather my portfolio, double-check that all the documents are in order.

Bael is still working on his tablet.

Hasn’t looked up.

Hasn’t said anything since that comment about shaking the seat.

I expect him to get out.

To come in with me, maybe, or at least walk me to the door.

But he stays in the car.

Right.

Because that would be excessive, and would draw too much attention.

Would make this into something bigger than a simple submission.

I’m reaching for the door handle when his voice stops me.

"Runze."

I turn back.

He’s looking at me now, tablet lowered, expression unreadable in that way that used to frustrate me but now feels familiar.

"Call me when you’re done."

That’s it.

Four words.

Simple instruction.

Practical.

Casual.

Except it doesn’t feel casual.

Feels like someone expecting me to come back.

Like someone who wants to know immediately when I’m finished, who’s planning to be available when I call, who cares enough to ask.

My throat feels tight.

"Okay," I manage.

Then I’m getting out of the car, portfolio in hand, walking toward the building entrance.

I don’t look back.

Can’t look back.

Not when my face is probably doing something embarrassing and my chest feels too full and my heart is beating too fast for reasons that have nothing to do with the submission.

Just focus on the task.

Submit the designs.

Get through this.

Think about what "call me when you’re done" actually means later.

When I’m not about to walk into the most important professional moment of my life.

When I can afford to fall apart about the fact that I’m completely, helplessly in love with Bael Wuchen.

Later.

I’ll deal with that later.

The lobby doors slide open as I approach, cool air brushing against my face.

People in business attire move through the entrance with purpose, some carrying portfolios like mine, others talking quietly into phones.

Competition participants.

My grip tightens slightly on the handle of the portfolio case.

This is real now.