Angel Lin owned the room.
Not officially. Not publicly.
But everyone here knew she was the center of gravity.
The rooftop terrace of the Veritas Gallery glowed under golden lights. Waitstaff in white gloves passed trays of wine, and laughter floated like perfume in the air. It was an invitation-only gathering—art, wealth, and quiet politics dressed up as cultural appreciation.
The kind of room Angel belonged in.
She was dressed in a satin-white halter gown, all curves and charm, smiling like nothing in her life had ever gone wrong. She greeted socialites by name. Dropped careful compliments. Spoke just enough Mandarin to seem cultured, just enough English to seem international.
Behind every glance was calculation.
She was already thinking about the press photos that would leak tomorrow. How many likes. Who would notice.
And she was waiting for Lucas.
He hadn't arrived yet.
But he would. He always did. Late enough to be important, early enough to seem indifferent.
Angel turned toward the stairs, ready to welcome him—
—and stopped.
A girl was entering from the side elevator.
Not a guest. Not from their circle. Not even dressed for the event.
Black coat. Black slacks. A sleeveless high-neck top. Simple. Clean. Deliberately understated.
Angel's eyes narrowed.
"Who let her in?"
One of the staff glanced her way, confused.
"She's not on the list," Angel snapped, her voice still honey-sweet. "Escort her out. Quietly."
But the girl—Ava Zhang—was already walking straight toward the gallery wall.
Not to mingle.
To hang something.
A small frame.
Unassuming.
No spotlight.
But the moment Ava placed it against the wall, the gallery's automatic sensor triggered—the motion activated a silent alert, reserved for pieces with internal chips.
The light above it clicked on.
Everyone turned.
And there it was:
A still photo.
Black and white.
Blurry. But clear enough.
Angel.Locke.Their lips pressed together.
Timestamped.Location tagged: The Hollow Club.Date: Two nights ago.
Gasps broke.
Soft, sharp, elegant gasps.
The kind that tore reputations in half without anyone raising their voice.
Someone whispered—
"Is that her?""That's Angel…""Isn't she engaged to Bai?"
Angel didn't move.
Couldn't.
The image on the wall had split her world in half—and Ava had walked away from it like she'd just hung a painting of a cloud.
But Angel wasn't built to freeze.
She was built to win.
She forced her heels forward.
Each step sharper than the last.
"Wait."
Her voice was velvet-wrapped steel.
Ava paused near the exit, one hand on the glass door.
She turned, slowly.
Not afraid. Not smug.
Just... present.
Unbothered.
Angel stopped three feet away from her, lips tight, smile artificial.
The other guests weren't listening—yet—but their eyes were already drifting toward the confrontation. Whispers stirring like wind before a storm.
Angel leaned in.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Ava tilted her head slightly.
"I thought that was obvious."
Angel's voice dropped lower, barely above a hiss.
"I don't know who you think you are, but if you're trying to play some sad little revenge game for attention—"
"Attention?" Ava said, voice calm. "You think this is about you?"
Angel's jaw tensed. "You have no right—"
"No," Ava said, stepping forward just enough to close the space between them. "You have no right. You don't get to cheat in secret and smile in public. You don't get to wear white and pretend your hands are clean."
Angel reached out, grabbing Ava's wrist, nails digging in hard.
"You don't belong here."
Ava looked down at the hand. Then back up.
"You're right."
"What?"
"I don't belong here," Ava said flatly. "But neither do you."
And with perfect calm—
Ava slapped her.
Not hard. Not hysterical. Just sharp.Precise.Audible.
The kind of slap that didn't just sting.
The kind that left silence behind it.
Gasps.
Real ones this time.
Every head turned. Every camera that wasn't supposed to be out… was.
Angel froze.
Eyes wide. Shocked. Humiliated. But worse—
Powerless.
Ava leaned in close, voice low, for her alone.
"You lost the moment I walked in.You just didn't know the game had started."
Then she turned.
And walked out.
Angel stood alone.
Cheeks burning.Wrist stinging.Mind reeling.
The slap hadn't just landed on her face—it had fractured the mask she wore so carefully, so flawlessly.
People were still pretending not to look.Still pretending this was art, or gossip, or a misunderstanding.
But she saw it in their eyes:
Pity.Curiosity.Amusement.
That was the worst part. They weren't even angry at her. They were entertained.
A low voice drifted behind her.
"She slapped her. Like, right across the cheek."
"Was it real?"
"It was surgical."
"Who was that girl?"
Angel turned sharply, eyes scanning the crowd, posture tight like a predator cornered. She reached for a wine flute from a passing tray; not to drink, but to anchor herself.
Her smile snapped back into place.
Too wide. Too forced.
"Oh, just a jealous little thing," she said airily to the nearest group, letting out a laugh. "I think she has a crush on Lucas. Poor girl. I don't even know her name."
Lie.
But delivered like truth.
One of the older women raised an eyebrow. "Is she the same girl from the Bai tower incident?"
Angel blinked.
Quick. Sharp.
"Tower?"
"Someone left white orchids with a burned receipt," the woman said delicately. "It made rounds in some circles. People assumed it was you."
Angel laughed again too quickly. "Oh, no. I don't send flowers."
She turned toward the entrance just as Lucas walked in.
Not rushed. Not smiling.
He wore black tailored, collar open, no tie. Hands in his coat pockets.
Eyes sweeping the room like a scanner.
And when his gaze landed on the wall—the photo of Angel and Locke—he didn't blink.
He just stared.
Everyone watched him.
Waited.
Angel moved quickly toward him, switching into damage-control mode.
"Lucas," she said softly, brushing invisible dust from her dress. "I didn't know this was tonight. Someone must've slipped that up there as a prank."
He looked at her.
Not with anger.Not with betrayal.Not even disappointment.
Just exhaustion.
The kind that comes when the illusion you've been politely maintaining finally becomes too embarrassing to hold onto.
He let out a quiet breath.
A small, almost unnoticeable exhale.
Then said, evenly.
"Let's call off the engagement."
Angel froze.
The sound around them dimmed; conversations stalled mid-word, wine glasses paused in midair. Someone in the back laughed, too loud, clearly not understanding what they'd just heard.
But Angel heard it.
Every syllable.
"Lucas, don't. This isn't what it looks like."
He didn't answer.
Didn't argue.
Just turned toward one of the gallery staff.
"Please take that down," he said, gesturing to the photo. "It's outdated."
And with that—
he walked away.
Left Angel standing alone.
Left the lie where it belonged:Exposed. Powerless. Unworthy of a second glance.