Lin Wanwan was wearing a costume for a role for which she was dreadfully unprepared, and the black sheath dress felt strange against her skin. It was the most provocative item of clothing she owned, but it was modest by the standards of what she thought women wore to the Crimson Pavilion. Her hair insisted on framing her face with flyaways that spoke more of exhaustion than allure, and she had spent an hour trying to control it. Her only concession to makeup was a dab of her roommate's seldom used lipstick, which was too bold for her taste. She noticed a scared doe posing as a tigress in her reflection. It had a more pathetic than predatory effect.
The seventy-two-hour countdown throbbed in Xiaoyu's brain like a fever. Every passing second brought her closer to an unimaginable chasm. This venture venture was a last-ditch, desperate gamble, her only chance. She took her battered handbag, which held her ID, her almost empty wallet, and the crushing weight of her hopes, and stepped out into the cool night air, steeling her nerves.
A trip to a different dimension was the taxi ride to The Crimson Pavilion. Wanwan felt like an intruder as the taxi departed from her rough, dark neighborhood and arrived in the glitzy center of the city's entertainment district. Like fallen stars, neon lights reflected in the puddles as they bled across the streets covered in rain. With their glass facades gleaming with a carefree opulence, the buildings became taller and sleeker.
The Crimson Pavilion itself was a massive building that was more of a contemporary stronghold of hedonism than a nightclub. Red velvet ropes and statuesque bouncers in sharp black suits stood on either side of its entrance, their eyes unblinking and their faces unimpressed. Before it, a stream of pricey cars purred to a halt, disgorging women who exuded confidence and diamonds as effortlessly as they breathed and men dressed in fitted suits. Aware of the bouncers' contemptuous looks, Wanwan paid the driver, her hand shaking as she calculated the fare. Her bravery faltered for a second. She was attempting to navigate through a shark tank with the agility of a minnow.
She inhaled deeply, gripped her bag, and moved toward the door, attempting to appear as though she belonged somewhere she didn't. She partially anticipated ridicule and rejection. Perhaps, however, she was an anomaly they were unsure how to classify because of her very ordinariness, her wide, anxious eyes, and the obvious desperation that clung to her. Or maybe her "innocent look" helped her, as Meili had suggested. One of the bouncers, a massive man with a scar across his eyebrow, glanced at her and unclipped the velvet rope with a barely noticeable nod.
A flurry of sensations hit Wanwan as soon as she entered. A deep bass beat vibrated through the soles of her cheap heels as the air throbbed. Swirls of colored light danced across the velvety walls, illuminating alcoves where silhouettes whispered and laughed. The air was heavy with the smell of cigar smoke, a pricey perfume, and something else, something incredibly decadent. It was a realm created for power and pleasure, a world of deliberate excess.
Her eyes found it difficult to adapt to the luxurious darkness. With faces flushed from excitement or alcohol, the main floor was a sea of bodies that were swaying to the music. Waitresses in scandalously short, crimson uniforms balanced trays filled with glowing cocktails as they moved through the crowd with practiced ease. Wanwan's cheeks scorched. It was a miracle she hadn't already drowned because she was so out of her depth.
She looked around, remembering what Meili had said about "the most secluded VIP booth, the one overlooking the main floor, number 8". The club was a maze of elevated platforms, dark corners, and velvet drapes. There were multiple VIP areas, some hidden away in more private areas and others on raised dais. It was like looking for a single, distinct star in a galaxy to find a specific "Booth 8" in this glittering chaos.
In an attempt to blend in, she stayed away from the edge of the dance floor, looking up at the mezzanine floors and any raised alcoves. Her heart beat frantically against the club's unrelenting pulse, hammering against her ribs. Every involuntary look from a customer felt like a condemnation. She pictured them looking past her cheap dress and her fake calm to the roiling desperation underneath.
She searched anxiously for what seemed like an eternity before settling on a section that matched Meili's description. Set back from the main crush, it was a set of booths on a slightly raised tier that provided a commanding view of the dance floor below. One caught her eye because it was a little more centered and shaded, but they weren't numbered so she could see them from where she was standing. Even in this already exclusive setting, it exuded exclusivity.
And there was a man sitting inside its darkened walls.
From her perspective, he was alone, or at least seemed to be. Unlike some of the other wealthy patrons, he lacked an overtly flamboyant entourage or laughter. Rather, he sat quietly, one arm leaning against the back of the soft velvet seat, watching the scene below with a kind of disinterested amusement, like a king looking around his court. Instead of shouting brand names, he was wearing a perfectly tailored dark suit and whispered of bespoke craftsmanship. He had a casual yet authoritative stance. She could feel a sense of power and an unnerving stillness about him even from a distance.
Her breath caught. He was imposing, tall, and always immaculately dressed in dark suits. Meili's explanation.
She quickly searched for the tie pin that was supposed to be on his neck. Details were difficult to make out in the moody lighting of the club. Although he was not wearing a tie in the traditional sense, his dark shirt's collar was unbuttoned, and as he moved, something faintly glinted in the V. Was that a pin? Was it a small, dark stone? She had no way of knowing. It might have been a shadow, a cufflink, or a light trick. However, it was something. He was also in what might have been the booth.
It had to be him. The mysterious sponsor was present. He was her last hope.
Fear stabbed through her, cold and sharp. What should she do? Wander over there? How would she respond? "Pardon me, sir. Could it be that you're a quirky philanthropist who likes to help desperate young ladies with their problems?" It was a humiliating thought.
But then she saw a picture of Xiaoyu in his hospital bed, weak and pale. The solemn face of Dr. Chen. The deadline of seventy-two hours. There was no room for failure. She needed to be brave.
She had perspiration on her palms. She used the material of her dress to covertly wipe them. She took a series of shaky, shallow breaths and started to move, her legs feeling like concrete. With every step she took toward that booth, she had to resist the instinct that told her to turn and run.
She could see him more clearly as she got closer. In the changing light, his features were crisp, well-defined, and almost harshly beautiful. His strong jawline, high cheekbones, and lips, while neutral at the moment, hinted at a potential for both sensuality and cruelty. His dark hair, swept back, adorned his wide forehead. And his eyes—even from this distance, they seemed to have an unsettling focus, presently focused on the crowd below, but she had the impression that they could analyze her soul in a single look. You should not take this man lightly. His visage was a sleek, dangerous predator. She kept thinking about what Meili had said about him being "scary."
He had yet to notice her. In the crowd gathered around the VIP areas, she was just another faceless person. She arrived at the boundary of his marginally elevated space. Here, there was only an implicit barrier of wealth and status—no velvet rope.
"Pardon me," she said in a pitiful squeak. She cleared her throat and made another attempt, this time louder but still trembling. "Pardon me, sir?"
He was still focused on the scene below, so he didn't react right away. Or maybe he was deliberately ignoring her. She experienced a slight sense of embarrassment. Perhaps she was in the wrong booth with the wrong man. This entire situation could have been a fruitless endeavor.
Putting her hand lightly on the polished wood railing between his booth and the common area, she took another tentative step. "Sir?"
His head turned this time, slowly and purposefully. His dark, unreadable eyes locked with hers. Like polished obsidian, they reflected the club's lights without revealing his innermost thoughts. Wanwan briefly forgot to take a breath. His presence was even more overwhelming up close. The air crackled with the icy self-possession that surrounded him, an almost tangible aura of command.
His expression was a mix of mild surprise and patent disinterest, and he raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Yes?" His voice cut effortlessly through the background throb of the music with a low, rich baritone that reverberated with a subtle authority. She felt an uncontrollable chill.
It was this. She only had one chance. Her meticulously prepared speeches and the persuasive arguments she had mentally rehearsed vanished like a mist. She lost all mental clarity. She could only feel the intimidating strength of the man in front of her and the crushing weight of her desperation.
She took a deep breath. "I was informed..." I mean, I heard," she stammered, looking away from his piercing eyes and first at the pricey-looking watch on his wrist before shifting her attention to the dark suit fabric. "They mentioned a man here who occasionally lends a helping hand to others. " God, she sounded like a beggar and an idiot.
He curled his lips, but it wasn't a smile. It was something more critical and distant. "Helps people?" he asked again, with a hint of barely perceptible laughter in his voice. "In what way?"
Wanwan's cheeks were burning. "With... challenging circumstances. monetary ones. She had said it there. It was the shameful, ugly truth. "My brother is really ill. He needs surgery, but I don't have the funds. There is nowhere else for me to go." The final words caused her voice to break, revealing the depth of her suffering. She compelled herself to look into his eyes, her eyes were beseeching. "I heard you... You can occasionally be kind to people who are less fortunate. If they're brave enough to ask."
He looked at her intently for a long, quiet moment. It wasn't the lecherous look she had feared. It was different, more calculating, more clinical. He observed her cheap dress, the unshed tears glittering in her eyes, and her nervous fidgeting. Perhaps he saw the flicker of defiance, the stubborn will that had brought her here, but he also saw the desperation.
With a soft purr that was somehow more menacing than a shout, he pondered, "Bold." "Or just careless." He leaned back a little and tapped the velvet armrest with one hand in a slow, steady rhythm. Something at his collar was the source of the faint glint she had noticed earlier; it wasn't a tie pin, but rather the metallic sheen of a very understated, opulent-looking collar stay, possibly with a small, nearly undetectable dark stone set into it. Her desperate mind reasoned that it was close enough. He had to be the one.
She said, "I'm desperate, sir," in a firm but barely audible whisper. "I'll do anything." The implication of the words hangs heavy in the air between them. She was overcome with self-loathing, but she refused to give up. Her persistence was crucial to Xiaoyu's survival.
His eyes flitted over her once more, remaining there for a brief moment longer. A strange, intense, unreadable light came into his eyes. He repeated, "Anything?" in a long, icy, silky voice.
Wanwan nodded, her heart thumping frantically against her ribs. She had the impression that she was perched on a precipice, with the wind threatening to rip her away.
He remained silent for a considerable amount of time, as though he was considering her, her words, and her essence. The tiny, charged space they occupied felt like the only reality as the noise from the club faded into a distant hum. Finally, a slow, mysterious smile appeared on his lips. It had a certain predatory satisfaction, but it was neither warm nor friendly.
He said, "Interesting," in a low voice that had a new edge and a tinge of determination. He made a hazy motion toward the vacant booth next to him. "Perhaps you ought to elaborate on this situation. And what exactly this 'anything' means."
A deep sense of unease fought against relief so strong it nearly made her knees buckle. He hadn't written her off completely. He was paying attention. This was her opportunity. She felt as though she had successfully grasped the opportunity. She was unaware that she was the one who had just swum straight into the carefully crafted net of Ye Tingjue, the business emperor, a man whose curiosity, once aroused, was unstoppable.
The aroma of his pricey cologne, which was dark, woodsy, and completely masculine, filled the air as she settled into the plush velvet seat next to him. She could feel his closeness, the power emanating from him. Like a silent predator watching its willingly ensnared prey, he watched her, his dark eyes shining in the twilight. It was a young night, and Lin Wanwan had just entered a game with a player who consistently won, whose rules she didn't understand. The red gamble was under way.