The clinking of cutlery and the soft cry of a live violin floated through La Vielle, the rooftop crown jewel of Shen Family luxury. Shanghai's skyline unfurled beyond the glass walls—glittering, infinite, like the secrets Xinyue kept buried beneath her crimson smile.
Li Xinyue sat alone at the private corner table. The black dress she wore—clean, sharp, ruthless—was more battlefield armor than evening attire. Her fingers toyed with the rim of her wine glass as she watched the elevator.
It opened with a soft chime.
And out stepped Qin Liang.
Tailored suit, smug aura, and that same arrogant tilt of the chin that made family banquets feel like royal decrees. Nothing about him had changed—except maybe the bitterness that now simmered just beneath his smile.
He approached but didn't sit.
"You wore black," he said, gaze unapologetically bold. "Still mourning your standards, I see."
Xinyue didn't blink. "I wore black to mourn wasted potential. Sit."
He chuckled—low, amused—but something in his eyes flickered.
"So this is how you greet your ex-fiancé?" he asked, sliding into the chair. "I expected at least a moment of hesitation."
"I only hesitate over real decisions," she replied, sipping her wine. "You were just a bullet point on my father's strategic merger sheet."
His jaw tightened. "And you replaced me with that nobody from the slums? That contract husband of yours—"
"It's Xinyue," she interrupted, voice like velvet-wrapped steel. "Only my husband earns the right to call me anything else."
He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Does he even know how to spell your name?"
"He doesn't need to," she said coolly. "He respects it."
There it was—the tension, electric and sharp. This wasn't dinner. This was a duel.
Qin Liang tapped his wine glass.
"Do you know why I asked you here?"
"To feel relevant again?" she offered without emotion.
"To warn you," he said, eyes hardening. "Your little fairytale contract might've tricked your board, even your father. But it won't last."
"I don't need it to last," she replied. "I only need it to work long enough."
His laugh was low, dangerous. "Still a strategist. But what happens when your pawn starts growing teeth?"
"You think Jiayan is just a pawn?" she said, tone softening with subtle edge. "That's your mistake."
Before he could respond, the elevator opened again.
Han Jiayan stepped out.
Rolled-up sleeves. Crisp white shirt. Dark jeans. Nothing about him screamed power—but he walked like he had the right to be there. His eyes scanned the room, settled on her, and never once flinched.
He approached the table.
"You weren't invited," Xinyue said, voice quiet.
"I figured you'd say that," Jiayan replied. "But I came anyway."
Qin Liang scoffed. "The stray mutt speaks."
Jiayan pulled out the chair, slow and deliberate. "Figured you two could use a buffer before this turned into a crime scene."
Qin Liang blinked. "You have no idea what kind of world she comes from."
Jiayan met his gaze without flinching. "Don't need to. I just need to know how to walk through it without flinching."
The violinist paused. Silence bloomed.
Xinyue smiled.
Not the cold, practiced curve she gave at boardrooms and fundraisers.
But a flicker—honest, sharp, dangerous.
Qin Liang stood abruptly. "This was fun. But you'll come crawling back. You always needed someone stronger."
Xinyue stood, wine glass still in hand.
"No. I needed someone worthy. And he's learning fast."
Qin Liang left, suit billowing like a cape of arrogance.
Jiayan exhaled.
"That went well," he muttered.
"Why did you come?" she asked.
He looked at her for a moment. "Because I figured you'd go alone. And I didn't like that."
"Protective?" she teased.
"Curious," he replied. "And… a little annoyed."
"Why?"
He leaned in slightly.
"Because I thought I was just part of your plan," he said quietly. "But now I think I've become part of your war."
She stared at him, the lights of Shanghai reflecting in her eyes.
"You're both," she whispered.
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