At the end of spring, Shen Jing accompanied Zhou Luchen back to New York.
Where he was, she was.
Hand in hand, they moved through the glittering social scene.
Initially, whenever media cameras were present, Shen Jing would always withdraw her hand, keeping her distance and pretending not to know him well. Being with Zhou Luchen meant inevitable media attention and exposure, both of which she despised—the interviews, the reports.
Mr. Blaire raised his champagne glass to her, an overtly mocking smile on his face, as if telling her not to bother hiding anymore.
Exceedingly boring.
Shen Jing stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, her gaze lowered, overlooking the splendid New York nightscape as she pondered matters.
Zhuang Ming, who was always nearby to protect her, asked with concern, "Madam, are you wishing to go home?"
Shen Jing's fingers leisurely adjusted the shawl on her shoulders. "It's cold. I suddenly have a craving for hot pot."
