The phone buzzed incessantly with calls and messages from debt collectors. McKenna Rosalind lowered her head, swiping through the notifications on her screen.

**[On behalf of the concerned company, your mother, Ms. Karen Bateman, has an outstanding debt of 2.6 million yuan, now handled by our agency... As the guarantor, you are obligated to repay...]**

**[If you continue to ignore our calls, we reserve the right to pursue legal action, including dispatching personnel to your residence and workplace to investigate...]**

The northern wind howled, slicing through the air like icy blades.

McKenna’s fingers had turned red from the cold, stiffly navigating to her contacts before dialing her mother’s number.

The line rang—once, twice—dragging on for over ten seconds.

*"The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. Please try again later—"*

She tapped the screen, cutting off the robotic female voice mid-sentence.

Instead, she called her best friend, a police detective, hoping she could help track down her mother.

"Hey, Peaches—"

"Mercy! Have you seen Weibo yet? That scumbag Kayden Davison!!"

McKenna’s breath hitched. Even though they had broken up half a month ago, hearing her ex-boyfriend’s name still sent a ripple through her emotions.

"What happened?"

"You haven’t seen it?" Lillian Fitzgerald seethed. "It hasn’t even been that long since you two split, and he’s already announcing a new girlfriend! Posting those half-naked photos with some cringy, grade-school-level caption—disgusting..."

The voice on the other end grew distant as McKenna instinctively tapped into Kayden Davison’s Weibo. The top post, uploaded just half an hour ago, glared back at her.

The woman straddled Kayden Davison's lap, her bare back exposed in full view. Kayden's arms encircled her slender waist as he buried his face against her neck, leaving only his eyes visible—locked directly on the camera.

The backdrop was a king-sized bed in what appeared to be a luxury hotel.

The caption read: *Making private romance public.*

Lillian Fitzgerald scoffed, "I bet that scumbag's been cheating for ages!"

"Maybe."

A gust of cold wind rushed into her mouth, slicing her throat with a raw sting.

Lillian sounded concerned. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

McKenna Rosalind swiftly changed the subject, mentioning Karen Bateman’s situation—only asking Lillian to help track down her mother’s whereabouts, omitting the part about the debt.

After hanging up, she tucked a few wind-tousled strands of hair behind her ear and hurried back to her apartment.

She must have caught a chill—her head throbbed dully, her limbs weightless. A hot shower did nothing to ease the discomfort; if anything, it worsened.

She wasn’t the type to keep cold medicine on hand. Rifling through a drawer for sleeping pills, she found the bottle empty.

Slipping a long down coat over her nightdress, she stepped outside.

Midnight in Haicheng, and the city’s nightlife was just kicking into gear.

Dr. He once said adults only had a few ways to unwind—alcohol, sex, or, as a last resort, pills.

McKenna Rosalind stepped into a dimly lit bar and ordered a martini.

The swirling kaleidoscope of neon lights reflected in her cool, restrained eyes as she took a sip of the pink-hued liquor. The fruity liquid burned down her throat, searing her stomach, yet somehow dulling the throbbing ache at her temples.

She ordered three more.

The bartender, a seasoned man with a practiced smile, leaned in with a word of caution. "That’s strong stuff. Might wanna take it slow."

"Is that so?"

Her reply was indifferent. Delicate fingers—slender and poised—curled around the crystal stem of the glass. She swirled it once before tilting her head back, draining it in one smooth motion. The base of the glass met the wooden counter with a soft *clink*, and she absently brushed a lock of dark hair away from her shoulder.

A beam of amber light caught the porcelain smoothness of her face. Her eyes, usually sharp and striking, now glazed with the faintest haze of intoxication. Her lips, glossy from the liquor, parted slightly—an unconscious allure that even the bartender, who had seen his fair share of beautiful patrons, couldn’t help but pause at.

Nearby, a group of young women had gathered, their outfits barely-there, their faces painted in bold strokes of neon and glitter. One of them, her hair twisted into messy dreadlocks, was clearly drunk. She mistook McKenna’s glance for a challenge.

"Hey, *auntie*! What’re you staring at?"

The bartender frowned, but McKenna remained unfazed, simply lifting another glass to her lips.

The girls erupted into giggles, their chatter peppered with words like *match*, *one-night stand*, and *thrill-seeking*.

The night was intoxicating, desires running high—most people came here to indulge.

A crisp notification chime sounded, and the girl with dreadlocks suddenly squealed, "Look, look! That guy drives a Maybach! The black one is so damn cool! I'm gonna hit the jackpot!!!"

"Let me see!"

"Holy shit! Definitely some loaded trust-fund kid! We gotta milk him dry!"

The others wore expressions of envy, while the dreadlocked girl smirked triumphantly. "He said he'll be here in ten minutes!"

Perhaps out of some innate hostility toward women prettier than her, the dreadlocked girl turned her head and scoffed at McKenna Rosalind, her eyes brimming with disdain.

McKenna paid her tab and pushed the door open.

A cold wind slapped her face. The forecast had warned of snow tonight.

She tilted her head up, gazing at the oppressive night sky. The city lights turned the darkness into a false daylight, faintly revealing the thick clouds hanging low.

The wind grew fiercer, howling as it rushed into her down jacket.

She turned to leave, but before she could take a step, her peripheral vision caught something across the street.

A man dressed entirely in black leaned against a pitch-black Maybach, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other gripping his phone. The distance was too great to make out his face, but the wind tousled his hair as his gaze cut straight through the bustling traffic.

Their eyes locked.

McKenna couldn’t quite place the feeling—her nape prickled as if electrified.

The dreadlocked girl’s earlier taunt—"Auntie"—flashed through her mind, and the alcohol surged hot in her veins.

She wove through the traffic and strode right up to the man.