But in this mirror, she saw a woman standing on the edge of something dangerous and irresistible, yearning for more than duty and legacy could ever offer.
With a faint exhale, she turned away, wrapping herself in the towel. Barefoot, she crossed the gleaming tiles and pushed open the double doors leading to her walk-in closet.
It unfolded before her like a boutique, spanning nearly fifty feet in width and length, a space lined with polished oak shelves, mirrored panels, and endless rows of designer gowns, shoes, and jewelry. Soft golden lights illuminated every corner, glinting off crystal perfume bottles and the polished buckles of luxury handbags.
Ruoxi stepped inside, the scent of cedar and faint rosewood filling the air. The closet felt less like storage and more like a private sanctuary, an extension of the world she was expected to embody, wealth, power, and perfection.
Her hands trailed lightly along the silken fabrics as she walked deeper into the space.
Tonight's company dinner party awaited, and with it, all the questions, whispers, and dangers that came with her choices. But for one moment, here in the quiet grandeur of her closet, she allowed herself to breathe… and to decide which mask she would wear next.
Her fingers drifted along endless rows of satin, silk, and glittering sequins. Each gown whispered wealth, each fabric a testament to the Song name. Yet she moved past them with little care, her touch lingering not on the jeweled embroideries or the couture pieces her sisters adored, but on a simple slip of cloth tucked at the far end of the rack.
It was an understated dress, one her mother would dismiss as *ordinary* and Yulan would mock as *cheap.* A bodycon, fleece-textured, its muted sheen almost defiant against the glossy fabrics around it.
It was modest in label, yet unforgiving in fit, it would cling to her like a second skin, tracing every curve, every line of her voluptuous figure.
Her lips quirked faintly. Perfection did not always need a price tag. Sometimes power hid best when wrapped in simplicity.
Ruoxi laid the dress across the velvet bench and reached for a thong, slipping the delicate strip of fabric between her fingers. Her chest rose and fell slowly, droplets from her still-damp hair trailing down between the swell of her breasts. Firm and round, they needed no sculpting bra. Instead, she took up a roll of skin-toned tape from a crystal tray, her movements precise and unhurried as she pressed it across her nipples, flattening the peaks into invisibility beneath the dress she would wear.
Just as she straightened, towel loose at her chest, the faint click of heels against marble cut through the hush of the closet.
Ruoxi's head turned, her eyes narrowing.
The door had cracked open. A maid, young and timid-looking, had stepped inside, her hands folded neatly before her.
"Miss Song, I came to...."
The words were swallowed in an instant.
Ruoxi's hand moved with the speed of instinct. She unwrapped the towel from her body in one swift pull and snapped it through the air with such precision that it cracked like a whip. The heavy, wet fabric struck the girl squarely across the face, jolting her back in shock.
Silence fell.
Ruoxi stood bared before the mirrors, unflinching, the pale light outlining the sculpted curve of her body. Her gaze, however, was colder than the steel hidden in her private arsenal.
"Did I give you permission to enter?" Her voice was silk laced with frost, low and dangerous. Each word carried the weight of command.
The maid trembled, her wide eyes darting to the floor. "N-no, Miss Song… I only thought..."
"You thought wrong." Ruoxi stepped forward, her bare feet whispering against the carpet, a towel hanging carelessly from her hand like a discarded weapon.
The curve of her mouth was sharp, almost cruel. "This is not the kitchen. This is not the hall. This is my sanctuary. And you…" she let her eyes linger on the girl's bowed head, "…have overstepped."
The girl dropped instantly to her knees, stammering apologies.
Ruoxi said nothing for a long moment, letting the weight of silence suffocate the air between them. Then, slowly, she draped the towel over the back of the chair, her every movement deliberate, commanding.
"Leave," she murmured at last, each syllable like the edge of a blade.
The maid scrambled backward, nearly tripping in her haste before the doors closed behind her.
For a moment, the closet was silent again, the golden lights glimmering faintly against Ruoxi's bare skin.
Her reflection stared back at her in the mirrored walls, not just heiress, not just daughter, but something sharper, darker.
Mafia queen.
She inhaled deeply, her composure sliding back into place as she turned toward the dress. The mask she would wear tonight was ready.
Ruoxi's voice echoed softly in the gilded closet, her words hanging in the air like a chant.
"I'm a good girl…"
She pressed her palm against her heart, tilting her head just slightly at her reflection.
Her lips curved in a smile, soft, demure, the kind expected of Song Ruoxi, the obedient daughter who bowed her head at banquets and never raised her voice.
But the smile never reached her eyes.
Those eyes glittered like cold glass, sharp enough to cut.
"Yes… I'm a good girl."
She tapped her chest again, once, twice, the motion delicate as though rehearsing sincerity for the world outside.
Then, just as quickly, her expression slipped, her smile flattening into something dangerous, something only the mirror bore witness to.
Her hand fell from her chest, sliding down her waist until it came to rest at her hip. The same hip that had once carried a silver pistol, hidden beneath gowns spun off silk, lay bare and enchanting.
Her phone buzzed on the bench, breaking the hush. She reached for it without hesitation, unlocking it with a swipe of her thumb. A single message glowed across the screen:
[The party begins at eight. President Mo will be present.]
A silence stretched, thick with anticipation.
Ruoxi set the phone down, her smile slowly returning, this time darker, tinged with the hunger of a predator.