Su Rui was lowering her head over breakfast when a flicker of red caught her eye—peeking out between the letters on the table.
She reached for it.
A wedding invitation.
The embossed gold lettering gleamed faintly in the morning light, spelling out the names of the bride and groom, the date, the place. She stared at the words, dazed, and in an instant her thoughts were yanked back—
back to the days when she and Shen Yichen were planning their own wedding, fierce and certain, full of heat.
The first time she saw him was at an unforgettable cocktail party.
She wore a black silk gown, its waist drawn tight, the skirt shimmering like midnight tide beneath the lights. The moment she stepped in, eyes surged toward her—admiring, envious, curious.
But she didn't care.
Because in the middle of all that noise, she had already seen the only person that mattered.
—Shen Yichen.
He didn't make a show of entering, didn't need any spotlight.
A simple black suit clung to his straight frame, clean lines along his shoulders and chest, the cut sharp against the rise of his collarbone and throat. His cropped hair was neat, his brows strong, eyes edged with cool restraint. His lips were drawn in precise lines, and the steel watch at his wrist caught the light just once before vanishing.
The crowd around him faded of its own accord. He was like a rivet in the chaos, holding everything in place.
The moment their eyes met, the air thinned, as if stripped away.
Su Rui's chest tightened—electric, a jolt of strangeness and familiarity at once. What made her certain was the near-invisible flicker in his pupils, a spark falling quietly into the dark.
She steadied her breath, began to walk—then stopped halfway.
Leaning against a high table, her fingertip traced the rim of her glass. She took a sip of champagne, her gaze skimming toward him, half invitation, half retreat—like a hunter casting the first feint, or prey offering its first flag of surrender.
At last, he came to her.
His pace wasn't hurried, each step landing like the tick of a metronome. He stopped before her, no small talk, just lifted his hand in a subtle bow, palm up, voice low and restrained:
"May I have this dance?"
She looked at those long, clean fingers, a curve tugging at her lips—half challenge. In the end, she let her hand fall into his.
Music swelled.
The waltz beat wound tight.
He led her into the floor, his palm firm against her waist—steady, warm, contained. Her fingertips rested on his shoulder, and with the first turn, her skirt stirred like a tide, the lights sliding across their faces. On the second beat, he spun her out, then back, the tension of his hold pulling her closer like a string drawn taut, humming inside her chest.
His breath brushed her ear—sharp with cedar and cold pine.
Her heartbeat slammed into the heat of his palm. Every pivot, every shift of weight, every glance that locked again and again was an unspoken call-and-answer:
You're here. I'm here. Closer. Still closer.
Someone at the edge of the floor gasped, the champagne tower trembled; flashes of cameras burst like sparks ignited by their presence. When she swept past his body, her lips grazing his jawline, his fingers tightened imperceptibly at her waist, holding her steady.
And then the world blurred—carpet, music, voices all retreating.
Only heartbeat and rhythm remained.
The final pose froze them in place. He bent slightly, she arched back, her gown cascading like water, strands of her hair brushing across the back of his hand.
She heard her own breathing in the stillness, and his too—calm, but heavier now.
A laugh threatened at her lips—not triumph, but the wild joy of being shoved to the cliff edge by fate, and choosing to leap.
She pulled back an inch—then, fearless, closed the space again. Her fingers brushed against his bow tie, nudging it loose. She drew his hand to her chest, pressing it to the frantic drum beneath her ribs. Her lips trembled, her voice warmed with breathless urgency, words grazing his ear:
"—Whoever you are, marry me."
The room fell dead silent.
Then, like a fuse lit, came the rush—gasps, clinking glasses, shutters firing in a storm. Someone dropped a glass, amber liquid exploding across the floor.
Shen Yichen's pupils contracted, then slowly widened.
He didn't step back. He didn't move away from her heartbeat.
Instead, he lifted his gaze, steady, piercing, and pulled his fingers in just slightly—like bringing her back into his palm.
The light fell at just the right angle, catching the faintest curve at the corner of his lips.
And in that breath between them, the world shattered into light.