It seemed Qiao An was the one eating and drinking, but the person truly enjoying the atmosphere was Sheng Bai. His long legs were stretched out under the table, and he leaned lazily against the back of the sofa, the buttons on his well-tailored three-piece suit undone. On his wrist, he wore a watch with an unreadable face—a useless accessory, apart from its exorbitant price.
Under the perfectly adjusted lighting, countless gazes drifted toward Sheng Bai. He, however, simply lowered his eyes to the glass in his hand. It was presumably an extremely expensive crystal glass, which he toyed with between his long fingers. The amber liquid swirled, condensation from the perfect sphere of ice misted the surface, and his fingertip traced a line through it.
Though he was in what should have been the most relaxed of postures, the Sheng Bai of today seemed utterly out of place.
