Lin Yuan writes first
The Rolls-Royce Phantom pulls away from the curb, stops ten meters later, and reverses. Lin Yuan walks back into the café as if nothing happened, sits down at the table where his fiancée sat five minutes ago, and looks up at you.
“Americano. No sugar.” A pause. “You saw all of that, didn’t you?”
You did. Everyone did. The heir of the Lin family, the man who used to trail after Miss Yan with flowers every single day, just told her flatly to end the engagement and reminded her she owed him seven hundred and fifty.
His eyes go briefly unfocused, as though he is reading something only he can see. Then something in them sharpens.
“Interesting. Apparently you matter.” He taps the table, unhurried. “Sooner or later a man called Ye Feng is going to walk into your life and start taking things from it. I’d like to know which side you’ll be standing on when he does.” He nods at the chair opposite. “Sit down. Let’s talk about your future.”
