Marco was dealing with the sudden upheaval in his family back home. Meanwhile, under the night sky on the other side of the city, Emily slipped into the sharpest, most dazzling battle armor she owned. It was a form-fitting sapphire-blue satin gown, cut so sharply it felt like a weapon tailored just for her. The deep V-neckline dipped to the perfect point—not crude exposure, but a dangerous elegance that had just stepped over the edge of refinement, the kind that made it impossible to look away.
The satin flowed down along her sternum like liquid, showcasing her most captivating features without restraint. The crisp cinching at the waist wordlessly declared just how absurdly slim her waist was. And the gown flared subtly outward at the hips into a soft curve—an elevated kind of sensuality. Not seductive, but powerful; a cold arrogance that said, I know you'll be drawn to me, but I don't particularly care.
The back was completely bare, the opening gliding from her shoulder blades all the way down to the dip of her waist—a curve as refined as a crafted artifact. With every step she took, light moved across her back as if it were something captured and commanded by her. The hem clung to her legs, outlining them with breathtaking precision, and her heels made her ankles look almost dangerously delicate. Each step carried a light yet dominating rhythm—as if she wasn't walking, but announcing to whom the night belonged.
Her blonde hair was gathered up casually, with a few loose curls resting near her ears—revealing the luminous whiteness of her neck. Her perfume drifted with each movement—a fragrance expensive enough to dominate a room, cool, sharp, and dangerous. Emily was beautiful without mercy. Not like a soft flower, but like a gemstone with sharp edges.
Tonight, the qipao Zola wore was unlike anything she had worn before. It wasn't "pretty" in the ordinary sense—it was a kind of elegance that made people hesitant to approach. The base color was a gentle olive green—serene but not dull—like a wisp of willow-smoke green plucked from an ancient painting. Delicate dark patterns were embroidered on the fabric, appearing only when the light struck at an angle, revealing floral silhouettes—subtle yet luxurious.
Over it she wore a pale-pink gauzy long outer robe. The wide sleeves draped softly, spreading a gentle glow whenever she moved; the layering of pink and green made her look like a handscroll of a court lady momentarily lifted by the wind. There was no deliberate exposure, yet it outshone any garment that revealed skin.
The ornament on her chest was the finishing touch—a jade-green pendant in antique style, edged with fine gold filigree, catching tiny glimmers of light when she leaned toward the lamp. Positioned just above her sternum, it made her whole presence appear more upright, elegant, carrying an unspoken pride. The skirt was layered gauze, spreading slightly, trailing after her like drifting mist whenever she walked. Every step was steady, calm, containing the quiet self-possession she had cultivated over the past year.
Zola knew her strengths well and brought her Eastern elegance to its fullest expression. Her outfit wasn't sharply seductive like Emily's, but its restraint made it even more dangerously compelling.
Zola sat there quietly, calmly, and yet impossible to ignore. It was as if the lobby beneath the building was merely a temporary frame—and she was the painting itself. At some point she had grown used to this—waiting for cars, parties, midnight departures.
Emily finally arrived. She opened the car door, and a wave of perfume swept in, as if the night itself had slipped into the leather seats. She held up a small makeup mirror, tilting her face as she inspected the perfection of her makeup—picky, yet elegant.
"Your qipao looks beautiful," she said suddenly, lifting her gaze to Zola with unreserved admiration.
Zola felt her ears warm after two seconds of being stared at; Emily's compliments always slipped under her defenses as if prying them open gently.
Then Emily suddenly let out a light "Oh!" as if she had just remembered something, her eyes lighting up.
"There will be a few people from your country at the party tonight," she said, a mischievous smile in her tone.
Zola looked up. "Hm?"
Emily leaned closer, eyes gleaming with the thrill of gossip, lowering her voice deliberately: "Their entrance is… something else."
She finished with a wink at Zola—an ambiguous little spark that felt like it brushed a nerve better left untouched.
"So we'd better get there early," she lifted her chin. "I don't want to miss their grand arrival."
Neon lights flickered outside the window, reflecting on the slit edge of Zola's qipao like a thin line of burning fire. As their car slowly entered the long driveway of the villa, Zola almost thought the world had been blurred by light. The entire villa looked like a gemstone embedded into the hillside; the lights around the pool spread into a sheet of liquid blue, reflecting on the glass walls like a collaboration between water and starlight.
The rattan chairs on the terrace, the fire pits, the champagne tower, and the white drapes billowing in the wind made the place resemble a celebrity's holiday feast.
As soon as the car stopped, Emily stepped out with the ease of someone returning to her territory. A few girls at the villa entrance spotted her instantly and rushed toward her with excited screams, a cloud of perfume and sequins crashing into her arms. They hugged, spun, and laughed without holding back.
They were unexpectedly warm to Zola as well—immediately asking for her Instagram, exclaiming, "It's only eight, the night is still young!" overflowing with excitement.
Soon the girls were dragging Emily and Zola around the villa, taking photos at every scenic corner. Most of the time, Zola held the phone, finding angles, adjusting lighting, pressing the shutter. The pool lights reflected onto Zola's hand. The girls chatted about who they knew, who got a new boyfriend, who would show up tonight—a self-contained, buzzing social universe. And Zola sat quietly off to the side, selecting photos for her own Instagram.
Just as the girls were enthusiastically choosing photos on the sofa, a piercing, aggressive roar cut through the night air—not one engine, but several revving at once. The sound was like a beast dragging its claws across stone, making even the villa's glass panels tremble.
"They're here—they're here!" someone squealed, a mix of excitement and disbelief sharpening her tone.
Then the entrance lit up with a string of headlights so blinding they bordered on rude. The first car was a custom black-and-gold supercar, its body slicing through the night like a blade, the reflections sharp enough to sting the eye. A burst of flame from the exhaust flashed in the dark—like a provocation.
Following it was a pure-white sports car, its windows tinted so dark it made no effort to hide its arrogance. When its wheels turned, the chrome glimmer scattered like snowflakes, covering the entire driveway with its shine.
Then came the third car with a blaze-purple body—not garish, but the kind of midnight lightning purple that shifted from black to violet to a metallic gleam under the lights.
The colors were exaggerated, the wraps radiant, the exhaust louder with each arrival. That roar wasn't just mechanical noise—it was a clear message: We're rich, and we're here for everyone to see.
People in the villa surged outward instantly, as if drawn by a giant magnetic field. The pool lights reflected off the car bodies, scattering into shards of color, turning the entire scene into something legendary and impossible to overlook.
Murmurs began spreading through the crowd:
"Are these the ones?"
"Yep, those insanely rich kids from China," someone whistled with disdain. "They're dying for the whole world to know how rich they are."
At last, in the collective held breath of the crowd, the car doors slowly opened.
The first to step out was a young man in a dark suit with an ostentatious jeweled chain on his chest. He moved so slowly it resembled a red-carpet descent, even removing his sunglasses to gaze toward the villa—his eyes openly saying, Now that I'm here, the night can begin.
From the second car came two excessively handsome boys in designer brands, diamonds on their wrists worth more than three years of a normal person's wages. One of them even revved the engine deliberately before getting out, as if determined to etch himself into everyone's memory.
Then a girl stepped out wearing a fully silver formal jacket, a wave of perfume spilling out with her. Her steps were light, her face carrying a perfectly trained social smile—the kind that would be right at home at a corporate press conference.
The pressure at the villa entrance spiked instantly—not the usual kind, but the kind that made people breathe faster.
Emily raised an eyebrow and glanced at Zola, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Didn't I tell you? Their entrance is always that flashy."
Zola stood amid the crowd, the pale green of her qipao looking unusually soft under the lights. She watched those dazzling, loud, extravagantly confident young people draw near and sighed softly in her heart.
This was not a world she belonged to.
When the doors of the cars finally swung open, the crowd parted as if swept aside by an unseen wind, forming a path with effortless obedience. Light, perfume, phone lenses, and hungry anticipation all tilted toward the same point—as though the stage had been waiting for its stars to arrive.
They did not rush in. They simply stood at the mouth of the drive, letting the crowd's attention break over them in slow, indulgent waves. They didn't need to speak. Boys and girls were already flocking to them—hands outstretched to carry their things, straighten a collar, offer a drink, murmur greetings. The fervor bordered on devotional, the atmosphere unmistakably that of a fan meet rather than a party.
Names rose from the crowd like sparks:
Ethan Yang, leading the pack with the cool assurance of someone who expected doors to open for him; the impossibly symmetrical twins, Luca and Levi Zhou, whose very posture suggested we are accustomed to light; and the girl in the silver jacket— Bella Xi— moving with the kind of trained grace that made space rearrange itself around her.
They were ushered into the villa on a tide of admiration. No hand reached for a door; no one checked the path ahead. The crowd paved the way instinctively, composing the next perfect tableau before the group even stepped into it.
As they passed Zola, Bella lifted her gaze—a cool, effortless flick of the eyes. Not provocation. Not curiosity. Just that familiar, practiced disinterest of someone who had seen a thousand versions of the same scene, the same people, the same attempts to matter.
Zola felt her heart draw tight. Her body reacted before her thoughts did, nudging her a half-step behind the girl beside her, and in that moment she saw it—how her hair, her qipao, her stillness cut awkwardly against the shimmer of sequins, the taut satin, the disciplined silhouettes around her. Embarrassment burned a small, humiliating path up her throat. Then something colder rose to meet it:
They were from her country too, yet all of them had abandoned names in their own language.
But the thought landed like a slap—because she had done the same. From the moment she arrived in this country, she had been desperate to shed her old name, to invent something clean, untarnished, something that could bury what she didn't want to carry anymore.
And what about them?
She looked up again—at the radiance, the ease, the immaculate confidence trailing them like expensive smoke. People with bottomless resources, people welcomed effortlessly, people who never had to hide, never needed a second skin.
So why didn't they use names in their own language? Was it pride? Was it carelessness? Or had they long ago severed themselves from the names that once belonged to them?
The thought slipped into her heart like a thin, cold needle—not quite jealousy, but something quieter, darker, almost mournful.
The shockwave of the luxury convoy still hung in the air, yet the villa had already erupted into chaos. Bella stepped into the hall, and it was like a drop of liquor falling into boiling water—an instant explosion.
She smiled brilliantly, the kind of smile born to exist beneath spotlights. Her silver jacket caught the light with every turn, flare, and flick of her hair; each movement ignited another round of cheers. She drank the champagne handed to her as if swallowing something electric, and the charge lit her from within. She was dazzling—almost blinding. This was her natural habitat. She thrived here, soaked in the attention, reveling in it, feeding off the frenzy.
Zola instinctively took a step back. She did not belong to this brightness. These people were too bright, too wild, too utterly fearless. The heat of their social energy pressed against her skin, so scorching she felt the urge to disappear into the walls.
But Emily caught her wrist, giving a gentle tug. "Come on, baby. You have to see how they play."
The game began.
The hall was quickly cleared, the lights dimmed, leaving only the shifting blue reflections of the pool dancing across the ceiling. Ethan was pushed into the center—blindfolded, holding a long staff. He stood tall, the lines of his shoulders and back sharp and unyielding, yet the blindfold lent him a dangerous vulnerability.
The girls reacted like lit fireworks. Some walked on deliberately soft footsteps; some held their breath; some lingered just within the reach of his staff, staying there a touch too long.
The first round hadn't even started before one girl bent over laughing: "I'm totally going to lose—I'm scared he'll recognize me!"
But "losing" meant stepping into Ethan's space and letting him catch your wrist… or your waist… or whatever he happened to reach for.
Ethan knew that. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. And the girls began losing—unabashedly, enthusiastically.
When he extended the staff and pointed to the first girl, she launched herself at him like an octopus—arms coiling around his arm, cheek brushing against his jaw, clinging to him as though she meant to melt into him. He didn't refuse. He even lowered his head slightly, letting the tip of his nose graze the crown of her hair. The girl nearly collapsed; a scream of delight burst from the crowd.
The second girl was bolder. The third—bolder still. Someone "being pointed out" let out a deliberate, breathy moan; someone lightly pinched the bone of Ethan's wrist; someone pressed herself against his hip, as though pulling him fully into her embrace.
Luca and Levi watched from the side, their laughter openly wicked. Soon enough, girls began "losing" in their direction as well—and once chosen, they simply threw themselves at the twins, clinging like vines fragrant with champagne.
The twins accepted all of it without hesitation. Luca slid a hand across a girl's back, guiding her closer; Levi, arms hooked by two girls at once, only lifted a lazy hand to support the waist of one of them—as though the frenzy was something he'd lived in his whole life.
The entire scene was so intoxicating it bordered on cinematic. Zola stood at the edge, utterly overwhelmed.
But Emily nudged her forward, whispering into her ear, "Relax. This is their game."
Zola's heartbeat stumbled, chaotic and loud—but she couldn't look away. The scene was wild, bright, dangerous, and for the first time, she felt herself standing exactly at its brink:
One step closer, and she could be swallowed whole.
But a moment later, Zola realized she had vastly overestimated her own relevance.
Those girls—the ones orbiting Luca, Levi, Ethan—weren't merely eager.They were devout.They strategized their losses with the precision of gamblers: a misstep here, a deliberately slow dodge there. Every shriek, every sway of the hips, every "oops, I lost again"—was a ladder rung designed to get them closer to the center.
Zola watched two girls practically collide in their attempt to be "accidentally" chosen by Ethan, and the absurdity of it all loosened something tight in her chest.
If she wanted to squeeze into that feverish little galaxy, she would have to work ten times harder than any of them—and that alone was enough to reassure her.
She let out a small breath, almost a laugh.Thank God.There was nothing she needed to fight for here.
For the first time that night, her shoulders relaxed.Freed from the fear of being seen, she allowed herself to look— Really look at the C-country stars around her.
Bella, for instance.
Bella was not in the game. She stood at a remove, champagne in hand, watching the chaos with an amused, feline detachment. The silver of her jacket caught the rotating lights, turning her into her own spotlight. And though she wasn't participating, people clustered around her anyway: boys leaning in too close, girls eager to impress her, bodies orbiting her with the same helpless gravity.
Bella didn't need to shriek, flirt, or "accidentally lose."Her presence alone seemed to rearrange the space.
Zola studied her more openly now—the cool tilt of her chin, the lazy curve of her smile, the effortless authority in the way she shifted her weight from one leg to the other.
These people had mastered a language she had never learned. They didn't enter rooms—they altered them.
And Bella, surrounded by her chosen satellites, looked as though she'd never once in her life needed to fight for attention.It came to her the way light comes to glass.