A corner of the dark curtain was lifted, and a sliver of moonlight slipped in.
By the floor-to-ceiling window, a man stood, clad in a black shirt. His tall, lean figure was chiseled, the sharp lines of his jaw stark under the cool hue of moonlight.
Rosalind Birch lay on the bed, staring at his broad back, heart thudding a bit faster than it should.
He turned, expression cold and bored. His brows were sharp, and his narrow peach-blossom eyes held a chill, their dark depths glinting with lazy desire.
He walked over, leaned down, fingers lifting her chin, raising a brow.
"Your heart’s racing," he said.
She barely breathed.
He gave a low laugh, his pale wrist—wrapped with black prayer beads—pressed casually against his waist, gaze fixed on her.
"What do you call me?" he asked lazily.
Her fingers curled tighter around the collar of his shirt, heart pounding like mad.
"Uncle..." she whispered.
He smiled, eyes darkening, lips brushing down inch by inch.
——
"Miss, we’re here. Twilight Club."
The sudden brake jolted Rosalind awake in the back seat.
Her waist still felt warm—leftover heat from a dream already dissolving into reality.
“79 yuan,” the driver said from the front.
She glanced down, then paid and stepped out.
The rain had just stopped. The pavement shimmered with dampness.
As soon as her foot hit the ground, her white shoes caught some water.
She opened a clear umbrella, the ink-blue qipao trailing down to her ankles, just barely revealing a stretch of fair skin. Her waist was tiny, and the fabric hugged her curves perfectly.
In the soft rain, the woman under the umbrella looked like she stepped out of an ink wash painting.
She hadn’t gone far when her phone buzzed.
Messages flashed across the screen:
[Remember to wear the qipao.]
[Where are you? You’re not seriously ghosting me, are you?]
[??? Hello? My uncle’s already inside!]
The last text had come just a minute ago.
Expression calm, Rosalind sent her location: [I’m by the little garden out front. Can’t get in.]
The reply was instant: [Wait there.]
Five minutes later, a young man in a deep burgundy suit approached, looking none too pleased.
"How long have you been here?" Jackson Lewis asked, face all stormy, though the flicker in his eyes when he saw her was impossible to miss.
Rosalind met his glare without much emotion. "I got here ten minutes earlier than we agreed."
He glanced at her cheap transparent umbrella—probably from a corner store. Displeased, he yanked it from her and tossed it aside, pulling her under his own.
Rosalind furrowed her brow and subtly stepped away.
He scoffed, looking down at her with a cold smirk.
"Cut the act."
A daughter cast out by the Birch family—did she really think she was still the dazzling belle of Capital City?
She didn’t respond, just kept that gentle, quiet look as she spoke,
"Mr. Lewis, it’s written in our contract—you can’t touch me."
Her voice was soft and slightly sweet, like a drizzle in a misty Jiangnan spring, lingers in the ears.
Jackson clenched his jaw. Staring her down, he sneered, "Rosalind, how long’s it been since you were in the capital? You still think you’re some kind of debutante? There are tons of women who throw themselves at me. You think I want you?"Rosalind Birch didn’t say a word. Rain streaked down her jet-black hair, her face calm and distant, beautiful in a cold sort of way.
Jackson Lewis cursed under his breath, tossed the umbrella at her, then strode forward with a voice full of warning, “When you see my uncle later, better use your brain.”
“Just remember, your job tonight is to catch his eye.”
Trailing behind him, Rosalind pressed her lips together and gave a soft “Okay.”
…
They passed through a long hallway lined with relief sculptures until they stopped at the entrance of an old-style private room.
Jackson straightened his clothes and glanced awkwardly at Rosalind, frowning slightly. “My uncle’s not exactly friendly. Try not to say anything weird later.”
Rosalind nodded, holding onto her woven bag. “I get it.”
He took a deep breath, forced a smile, and pushed the door open. “Uncle, I…”
Inside, a small group of men lounged around the table, glancing over with amused expressions.
“Nathaniel’s not here yet,” someone said.
Jackson visibly relaxed, pulled out a chair, and motioned for Rosalind to sit down.
The men at the table—all familiar faces in the circle—squinted at Rosalind, clearly sizing her up.
“This your girlfriend, Jackson? Gotta say, she’s quite the looker.”
Someone chuckled, “She looks kinda familiar, though. Like I’ve seen her somewhere.”
“She one of us?”
Rosalind quietly sat off to the side, staying silent.
Jackson poured himself a drink and snapped, “Cut it out. Can’t y’all find someone else to mess with?”
Just then, the door behind them stirred.
The room froze for a beat.
“Nathaniel,” someone greeted respectfully from outside.
Within seconds, the once-chattering room went dead silence.
Rosalind stiffened. Under the table, her pale fingers clenched ever so slightly, heart thudding hard against her ribs.
Not a sound could be heard, aside from the soft hum of the chandelier above and the faint steps of glossy leather shoes pressing into the thick carpet.
The man took the seat at the head of the table, an elbow resting carelessly on the surface. Dark sandalwood beads wrapped around his pale wrist emphasized the clean sharpness of his bones. Above it, his Adam's apple and chiseled jawline stood out like carved stone.
“Nathaniel.”
“Nathaniel.”
Everyone addressed him with careful politeness.
Dressed in a black shirt, his expression was unreadable, the sharp ridge of his brow and the long slash of his eyes giving him a fierce, almost indifferent look. His gaze held a kind of vague hunger, cold and distant like some snow-covered peak you don't dare approach.
He gave off this weird mix of being untouchable yet incredibly dangerous.
Rosalind quietly moved her gaze away from him, hand still curled tight in her lap.
Jackson stole her a glance, then gave her a subtle nudge and led her closer to the main seat.
“Uncle,” Jackson said, voice low and a little anxious, trying to sound sincere, “This is my girlfriend, Rosalind.”
Rosalind stood still, steadying her breath as she looked up at the man with clear eyes, her voice soft and sweet. “Uncle.”
Under the lights, the man absentmindedly toyed with a tea cup in his hand. The glossy reflection off his dark sleeve caught the eye—almost too sharp.
He heard her, looked up, and let his eyes rest on this girl in a deep blue qipao, damp black hair clinging softly to her cheeks.
His face gave nothing away. A few seconds passed. His sharp eyes slowly scanned down from her face, his brows slightly arching. Then, he tapped a long finger against the table, voice flat, bored, yet clearly heard.
“Take off the qipao.”