The rooftop bar of the Grand Yulan Hotel glittered against the Shanghai skyline, full of clinking glasses, low music, and whispered ambitions. Lu Zeyan stood apart from it all—an island of tailored black and unapproachable cool. He didn't drink to socialize. He drank to forget.
The whiskey in his hand was barely touched, condensation sliding down the glass like a silent countdown. He hated parties. Hated the fakeness. The eyes that lingered a second too long, the smiles too quick to fold into opportunity.
So when she walked in—red lips, windblown hair, eyes sharp and unreadable—he barely lifted his gaze.
Until she sat beside him.
No name, no small talk. Just one long look. Then:
"You're not here to drink," she said, lips brushing the rim of her glass. "Neither am I."
He didn't ask for clarification. He didn't need it.
One suite key later, they were entangled in high-thread count sheets, her moans rising like music, her body arching against his like she was trying to forget something too.
He didn't care what.
She didn't ask who he was.
And he didn't ask for her name.
When dawn came, she was gone.
Just the faint scent of perfume on the pillow remained, along with a lipstick stain on his collar—and a silence that felt heavier than usual.
Lu Zeyan buttoned up his shirt, slid on his watch, and returned to his world of numbers, power, and control.
It was supposed to be nothing.
But fate, as it turned out, had other plans.