In the quiet darkness of the room, An Yanming downed yet another glass of whiskey. The whiskey slid down his throat, leaving a slow, lingering burn in its wake. It was sharp and punishing, as though the sting could keep what was left of his sanity intact.
He hadn't been careless enough to confront Song Qingwan without a lookout. But tonight—it was as though luck itself had turned its back on him.
Not to mention, he still had no idea how An Yancheng had managed to gain evidence of his shell company, he thought he'd wiped his tracks clean. Every transaction, every paper trail—gone. Or so he'd believed.
He laughed bitterly, rubbing his face. The sound that escaped him didn't even resemble amusement—it was closer to disbelief.
His reflection on the darkened window looked almost like a stranger's—haunted, hollow, and unfamiliar.
