Puppet Master: Chapter 5

Red Roses, Black Lies

[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes, mature/adult content, explicit scenes. It explores deep emotional connections between the characters with intense, passionate moments. Reader discretion is advised.]

The night should’ve ended with warmth.

Zhan had stayed at the penthouse longer than intended.

They sat quietly on the couch, tangled together—

Yibo’s fingers resting against Zhan’s bare chest, their bodies still warm from what had passed between them.

But reality didn’t wait for dreamers.

Zhan glanced at the time—close to midnight—and his heart skipped.

He hadn’t sent the reports today.

The one he was supposed to send every night.

He shifted gently, pressing a soft kiss to Yibo’s forehead.

“I need to go, BoBo,” he whispered.

Yibo looked up at him, slightly tired but present.

“Now?”

Zhan nodded, brushing hair back from Yibo’s face.

“Yeah. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”

Yibo gave a faint smile.

“Okay….”

Zhan smiled back, heart full.

He kissed his forehead one more time, then stood up quietly.

Zhan slipped on his shirt, buttoning it with practiced ease.

He reached for his jacket that was on the floor, shrugged into it, and grabbed his bag as well.

Just as he was about to leave, Yibo’s voice stopped him.

“At the office… maybe we keep it low for now. Just until we figure out the rest. You’re okay with that, right?”

Zhan turned back, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“Even I thought the same. Let’s keep it private.”

Yibo nodded once.

And then Zhan stepped out.

For the first time in a long time—he left with something dangerously close to happiness in his chest.

But the moment he stepped into his apartment, it vanished.

The lights were off—except for the faint amber glow of the hallway lamp.

But the air was… wrong.

And when he stepped into the living room, he saw her.

Sitting calmly on the couch, legs crossed.

Expression unreadable.

Zhan’s breath caught.

Without a word, she leaned forward and turned on the main lights.

The sudden brightness flooded the room, leaving no place for shadows.

“You work late,”

She said coolly, not turning her head.

“So late, in fact, you forgot your nightly report. And that I told you I’d be coming tonight.”

Zhan’s mouth opened, then closed.

He’d completely forgotten.

She turned her head slowly, eyes raking over him.

Then she stood up and walked toward him.

Her gaze scanned him once.

Twice.

She took in everything—the faint marks on his neck, the faint panic clouding his face, the way guilt pulled his eyes downward refusing to meet hers, the barely buttoned shirt, the subtle shift in his energy, the small bruise blooming on his lower lip, and the messy disarray of his hair.

And the truth unfolded before her eyes, brutal and undeniable.

She saw everything she needed to see.

The aftermath of intimacy.

The proof that he had crossed the line.

Her voice cut the silence—a breath, a snarl, a word half-born.

“You…!”

Her palm cracked across his cheek, sharp and stinging.

His head snapped to the side, but he didn’t lift his eyes.

Didn’t defend. Didn’t deny.

“You really let it get that far?! Are you even serious right now XIAN?”

Zhan didn’t react. Didn’t speak.

“All these years,” she said bitterly.

“Did I prepare you for this? For you to throw it all away in the final hour?”

“Tell me, did I put my trust in the wrong person?”

Her voice trembled—not with fear, but fury.

And something worse.

Disappointment.

She turned and sat back down heavily, shoulders sagging under a weight Zhan knew too well.

He moved slowly.

Knelt in front of her.

“Aunt—” he said softly.

“I haven’t let the plan fall apart. Everything is still going exactly as we intended.”

“My position is stronger than ever. His trust is complete.”

“But tonight… you slipped. Why?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Her eyes narrowed, heavy with worry.

“Tell me, Xian—this thing between you two… I hope it’s not just another step in the plan. Please tell me it’s not just another one of your strategies.”

Zhan met her gaze steadily.

He didn’t blink.

“Do you really think I could do that to him? It’s not part of the plan. It never was. I didn’t fabricate it. I didn’t use it. I didn’t even see it coming.”

“It just… happened.”

His voice dropped, rough and raw.

“But it’s the only thing that ever felt real.”

She stared at him.

Zhan looked down.

“He’s been surrounded by everything—wealth, power, prestige. But not once has he had someone who just… saw him. Not Wang Zheng’s heir. Not the CEO. Just… BoBo.”

He swallowed hard.

“I want to be that person for him. Not out of pity. Not to gain anything. But because somewhere along the way… he became the only thing that feels honest to me.”

Her eyes welled slightly—but no tears fell.

She reached out, cupping his cheek gently, her thumb grazing the spot she had slapped.

“You foolish boy…” she whispered.

“Do you even realize what happens if this collapse? One slip. One moment of emotion. And you destroy yourself. And him.”

Her voice wavered, heavy with fear and frustration.

“How long do you think you can carry this lie, Xian? What happens when he finds out? When he realizes you were never who he thought you were? What if he ends up hating you more than he ever loved you? Are you ready for that? Ready to destroy him… and yourself?”

Zhan swallowed hard, his voice rough and low.

“If that day comes… I’ll take it.”

His eyes lifted slowly, eyes darkened, full of quiet agony.

“If hating me makes it easier for him to heal… then I’ll let him hate me a thousand times.”

Zhan met her eyes.

“But I can’t keep lying to myself about what I feel for him. Not anymore.”

Her hand lingered on his cheek for a moment longer.

Then she nodded.

“Just be careful my boy. Love is beautiful—but it’s also reckless. It breaks rules. It ruins plans. Don’t let it ruin you. Or him.”

Zhan’s lips curved slightly, bittersweet.

“I’ll walk the edge,” he said.

“But I won’t fall without a reason.”

She smiled faintly.

Proud. Worried.

Zhan shifted closer, resting his head quietly on her lap, seeking the only comfort he had left.

A tear slipped silently from his eye, tracing a line down his cheek.

His voice broke in silence.

“Aunt… I love him more than anything now. And today… he told me.”

“But I… I couldn’t say it back.”

She exhaled shakily, running her fingers slowly through his hair.

“I know… I know, my boy. You couldn’t say it back… because he doesn’t know the truth yet. Because you’re still a stranger wearing the face he trusts.”

For a moment, Zhan said nothing.

Then, in a voice so low it almost broke, he whispered,

“I’m afraid…”

“Afraid that when he finally sees me for who I really am… he may never look at me the same way again.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, the ache clear in her touch as she cradled his head.

“I pray…” she murmured, “he never has to look at you the way you’re afraid he might.”

And in that room, where truths collided with duty, the storm inside them both only deepened.

——————————————————————–

In the days that followed, a quiet shift rippled through the office.

Mr. Wang Yibo—the CEO himself—walked the halls a little lighter, spoke a little softer.

Staff exchanged glances over coffee cups, whispers trailing behind polite smiles.

Mr. Qiao raised a brow more than once, pretending not to notice the rare curve of a smile on Yibo’s lips.

Even Wang Zheng, stern and watchful, paused longer than usual when studying his son—like sensing something had changed but not yet knowing how to name it.

Whatever it was, it didn’t go unnoticed.

The air around the CEO was different now—less like ice, more like something quietly, dangerously alive.

It didn’t take long before the staff started whispering behind their desks, throwing glances toward Zhan every chance they got.

“Mr. Zhan,” one of them finally asked with a playful grin, “what happened to the CEO? He’s… different lately. Happier.”

Zhan shrugged with a playful smirk.

“Maybe he met someone who makes him forget he’s the boss.”

The staff laughed.

None of them truly believed that someone like the CEO would ever date anyone.

Zhan let them believe it, hiding a secret smile behind his calm, professional mask.

Zhan and Yibo kept their communication and behaviour strictly professional at work—measured glances, formal greetings, and nothing more in front of others.

But behind closed doors and quiet corners—it was anything but professional.

Twice that week, Mr. Wang called him to the printer room for “layout checks”—but the moment Zhan stepped inside, the door clicked shut and professionalism crumbled into stolen touches and desperate kisses.

Another time, they slipped down to the parking lot—Yibo unlocking his parked car and pulling Zhan inside, mouths already crashing together.

Whispers. Kisses.

Zhan pressed against cold glass.

Yibo’s hands tangled in his hair.

“Bobo, this is a risk,” Zhan whispered against his lips, breathless.

“If someone sees us and tells your father, I’ll lose my job.”

Yibo pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

“No one’s going to find out,” he said with quiet certainty.

“And if they do—I know how to keep their mouth shut. You’re not losing anything, Zhan-ge. Not as long as I’m here.”

A small, mischievous smile tugged at his lips.

“Don’t you think it’s fun… sneaking around like this?”

Zhan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He smirked faintly, leaning in just enough for Yibo to catch the heat in his gaze.

“Careful, Mr. Wang… you might actually get addicted to this.”

And by the time they returned to their desks, ties were straightened, faces blank.

But every evening… ended at the penthouse.

It became their sanctuary—the place where silence wasn’t awkward, where laughter echoed louder than the city’s noise, where lips met without hesitation and hands found each other without thought.

It was in that private world they shared smiles and secrets, learning more and more that they were falling—hard, deeply and maybe irreversibly—for each other.

It was where Zhan discovered how soft Yibo could be, and where Yibo realized how deeply he’d started needing Zhan’s presence in his life.

On weekends, they started going for long rides—Yibo on his bike, Zhan holding him from behind, wind in their faces, the road stretching ahead like freedom.

Sometimes they didn’t even have a destination.

Just the ride. Just the two of them.

And it wasn’t just rides.

They explored new places together—hidden cafes tucked into narrow alleys, cozy restaurants serving dishes they couldn’t even pronounce, trails leading to waterfalls where they cooled their feet in icy streams and trekked hand in hand, laughing at nothing and everything.

Late at night, when the city fell silent, their calls stretched for hours—talking about everything, stitching memories through laughter, sleepy whispers and promises they couldn’t say out loud.

Sometimes, under the excuse of business expansion meetings, they even travelled together—to Paris, to London—wandering foreign streets like tourists.

Stealing quiet moments like a couple on their honeymoon.

Little by little, without realizing, they stitched themselves into each other’s lives—thread by thread, memory by memory.

They built a world of their own—hidden away from the one that would never let them exist.

And Zhan learned.

Yibo—ice king of the corporate empire—wasn’t icy at all.

Not behind doors.

He was warm. Playful. Talkative.

He loved old movies, late-night ramen, and couldn’t sit still when music played.

He had a thing for bikes and car racing—dangerously good behind the wheel.

But the biggest surprise of all? He could dance. Really dance.

Like someone who had rhythm stitched into his bones.

Zhan found himself falling deeper—and faster.

Especially seeing how Yibo treated him.

When it was just the two of them, Yibo didn’t act like a CEO.

He was just BoBo—his BoBo.

Soft, affectionate, endlessly caring.

And Zhan, who had spent his life surviving, was suddenly being loved.

————————————————————————

But his mission never paused.

Small comments.

Subtle questions.

He continued planting thoughts.

“Did your father ever ask you what you wanted? Or did he just decide for you—and call it love?”

Yibo looked away, jaw tightening.

“He did what he thought was best,” he muttered, but the words sounded hollow even to him.

“When was the last time you made a decision for yourself, BoBo?”

For a long moment, Yibo said nothing.

Then, he whispered, “I don’t remember.”

“You know, sometimes I wonder…”

Zhan said quietly, voice low but steady.

“You’ve given everything to this company. Your ideas, your work ethic, your name—and yet…”

He paused, his gaze locking onto Yibo’s.

“Your father still treats you like you’re just another piece on his chessboard. Like none of it… none of you… really matters to him.”

Yibo inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, but caught himself before saying anything.

His hand tightened slightly on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening under the pressure.

His gaze dropped for a second—but he masked it behind a practiced calm.

Zhan watched him carefully, the faintest flicker of something crossing his face.

A cold, quiet satisfaction.

The cracks were there—clearer now.

Zhan could almost taste it—the slow, inevitable victory of pulling Yibo away from his father’s grip…

One doubt at a time!

One night, Zhan finally asked: “What about your mother?”

Yibo had shrugged, eyes flickering.

“She passed away a few months after I was born. I don’t remember her at all.”

Then he asked softly, “What about you? Your parents?”

Zhan smiled sadly. “Orphan. Got used to being alone early on.”

Yibo let out a short breath, his voice low.

“Then we’re not so different. Just because I have a father doesn’t mean I wasn’t alone. The way he raised me… it wasn’t love. Not the kind that matters.”

He hesitated for a moment, then added, his voice softer,

“I missed my mom… more times than I can count.”

Zhan looked at him—just for a second.

A thousand words clawed at his throat, but none escaped.

So he only smiled—soft, broken.

———————————————————————–

It was a Saturday night—the kind that felt endless—in the penthouse, under the heavy stillness of midnight…

They had collapsed into sleep, tangled in each other, caught in the silent aftermath of something deeper than touch, heavier than breath.

Later, Zhan woke first.

Barefoot, shirtless, dressed only in his pants, he stood silently near the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the city lights.

His reflection blurred against the glass, lost in thoughts too deep to speak aloud.

Behind him, the bed shifted.

Yibo stirred, reaching out instinctively, finding nothing but cold sheets.
With a frown, he sat up, scanning the room through sleepy eyes.

He spotted Zhan’s crumpled shirt on the chair.

Without thinking, he tugged it on—still warm with Zhan’s scent—leaving it unbuttoned as he rose.

Crossing the room in soft, careful steps, he slipped his arms around Zhan from behind, pulling him close.

He pressed a slow, tender kiss to Zhan’s bare shoulder.

“Why are you awake?”

He whispered against his skin.

Zhan didn’t answer immediately.

He only leaned back into Yibo’s chest, his heart beating painfully slow.

“Nothing.”

He murmured eventually, though his voice said otherwise.

Yibo tightened his hold a little more, chin resting lightly on Zhan’s shoulder.

And then, with a small smile against the hush of the night, he asked,

“Invite me over to your apartment sometime?”

Zhan’s heart stopped for a beat.

“I… it’s kind of a mess,” he said quickly.

“Small place. You wouldn’t like it.”

Yibo chuckled. “Try me.”

But Zhan smiled and said nothing more.

He couldn’t let Yibo see that world.

Not yet.

So he held tighter to Yibo’s hand and hoped the lie would hold just a little longer.

———————————————————————–

One afternoon, Zhan stepped out of Yibo’s cabin to collect a report.

Yibo, needing a file urgently, walked over to Zhan’s desk.

He opened the top drawer, flipping through folders—until something metallic caught his eye.

A small key, looped on a simple chain.

Curious, Yibo picked it up—and instantly recognized the tag.

It was a spare key to Zhan’s apartment.

He held it for a moment.

Then slid it into his pocket.

For a second, he let himself imagine it—and smiled, small and secret.

That Sunday, Yibo messaged Zhan that he was heading out with his father for a round of golf and wouldn’t be able to meet.

Zhan replied with a simple: “Okay, have fun.”

And he added casually, “I have some personal errands to run too. Might be good to get some air.”

But Yibo had no intention of golfing.

He got dressed casually, picked up a bouquet of red roses, and drove alone to Zhan’s apartment.

A light smile played on his lips the whole way there.

He could already imagine the surprised look on Zhan’s face.

When he reached, the door was locked.

He just looked around, took the spare key out of his pocket.

He used it.

The door clicked open, and he stepped inside.

The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and lavender.

Everything was in its place.

Neat. Minimal.

A carefully built world of silence and order.

Yibo moved through it quietly—running his fingers across the edge of the table, peeking into the kitchen, brushing a hand over the soft throw on the couch.

In the bedroom, a small framed photo caught his eye.

Him and Zhan.

Zhan had printed and framed their selfie.

Yibo picked it up gently, a soft smile pulling at his lips.

His fingers brushed over Zhan’s face in the photo.

He smiled to himself, murmuring under his breath,

“Can’t wait to see your face when you find me waiting here, Zhan-ge.”

He gently placed the photo frame back on the table beside the bed.

Then he stepped out of the bedroom, stretching lazily as he wandered toward the next door down the hall.

It was then, out of the corner of his eye, that he caught something odd.

A door.

Slightly ajar.

Just enough to hint.

He walked past it without a second thought—

then suddenly stopped.

His gaze jerked back to the door.

Inside, through the narrow opening, he could make out a massive board.

Red string. Notes. Dozens of photos.

His photo!

At the center.

He froze, heart skipping.

He pushed the door open fully.

What he saw punched the air from his lungs—fragments of his life pinned to a wall.

A cold wave of disbelief crashed through him, stealing the strength from his fingers.

The rose bouquet in his hand slipped and hit the floor with a soft rustle.

And the world stopped.

There were photographs.

Stacks of files. Surveillance notes. Printouts. Video stills.

His name. His schedule. His life.

Everything. Tracked. Monitored. Collected.

And it all started months ago—before Zhan had ever set foot in Wang Corps.

The silence in the room was deafening.

Yibo stared at the wall like it had personally betrayed him.

His chest rose and fell unevenly.

A cold weight settled in his gut.

His knees buckled slightly, and he grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself, feeling as if the ground had been ripped from under his feet.

He was being watched.

All this time.

He felt sick.

Then—

A sound.

Soft. Behind him.

He didn’t turn right away.

He didn’t need to.

The voice reached him.

Low. Calm.

“You shouldn’t have come, BoBo.”

Yibo turned slowly, dread pooling in his stomach.

The man standing in the doorway wore the same face, the same eyes—but he was no longer his Zhan-ge.

Not the man he thought he knew.

He stood straighter now—shoulders squared, presence heavier.

Yibo barely recognized him.

This wasn’t the Zhan he trusted all this time.

This wasn’t the Zhan who made him laugh.

This wasn’t the Zhan who kissed him like he meant it.

This was someone else entirely.

Calculated. Unreadable. Cold.

It was like watching a mask fall off in real time.

For a fleeting second, he wanted to believe it was all a nightmare—that if he closed his eyes and opened them again, the room, the wall, the betrayal would vanish like smoke.

But No. It was all real.

Yibo’s throat tightened painfully.

His voice turned rougher.

“Tell me it’s not you…”

His next words cracked, barely holding together.

“Tell me none of this is real… “

Zhan didn’t answer.

His hand tightened briefly around the door handle, as if he needed a second to steady himself.

Then, without a word, he turned and shut the door behind him.

[To be continued…]