Crimson City.

Inside a five-star hotel.

Clothes were strewn all over the floor. A lace bra tangled with a man’s white shirt, the whole mess quietly screaming what had happened here.

Sylvia Crane opened her eyes, drained to the bone. Every inch of her body ached. It took her a while before she could prop herself up and sit on the bed.

The blanket slid off her body, exposing all those intimate marks from the night before.

Just then, a large hand yanked her back into a hot embrace. She was instantly swallowed by his heat. The man’s voice was low, rough, and way too tempting as he said, "One more time."

His hand reached toward the nightstand, but the box was empty.

Sylvia trembled. The second she remembered how relentless he had been last night, she couldn’t help begging again, "Yunchao... I really can’t take it anymore. Please, let me off this time."

She looked pitiful and soft, that innocent air not fully gone yet, like a frightened little rabbit that made people want to spoil her.

The man suddenly sat up, gave her a gentle look, then said helplessly, "We’re out. Shower."

The blanket slipped from his body, revealing that textbook build—broad shoulders, narrow waist, firm muscles running clean across his upper body, and below that, the faint outline of eight abs.

Sylvia’s face went scarlet. She hurriedly lowered her head, heart thumping like crazy.

The bathroom door shut, and soon the sound of running water filled the room.

She stared at the closed frosted glass door for a long while before quietly getting out of bed and picking up her clothes from the floor to put them back on.

The clothes had been thrown around everywhere, but they had come off neatly enough—because she had taken them off herself.

She hadn’t even finished dressing when the room door suddenly clicked open. Startled out of her skin, she let out a scream and clutched her chest.

Vivienne Whitmore stood in the doorway.

She wore a tight black deep-V bodycon dress that hugged her flawless figure. Her long waves framed her in lazy glamour and effortless luxury.

She lifted one slender finger and casually lowered her sunglasses, revealing a pair of stunning fox-like eyes. She gave Sylvia one dismissive once-over, then put the sunglasses back on.

Sylvia looked flustered as she hurried into her clothes, but a flash of smugness slipped through her eyes. With reddened eyes, she said, "Sister Zhiyi... no... Mrs. Whitmore, I’m leaving right now. Please don’t be mad."

Vivienne raised a brow slightly, the corner of her lips curving up as she let out a soft laugh. "No, I’m not angry. Why would I be? What rich young master doesn’t keep a few mistresses on the side? The kind that can’t even be brought into the light."

"If this were ancient times, I’d probably have to help my husband take a concubine too, huh?"

Sylvia Crane’s face turned a little pale. Her fingers tightened around the hem of her clothes, but she still forced a smile onto her face.

"I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean for this to happen. But feelings aren’t something you can control, right? When you love someone that much, you just... can’t help yourself."

Vivienne Whitmore stepped into the room in sky-high heels, graceful and steady. She walked over to the sofa and sat down like she owned the place, crossing one long leg over the other before slowly removing her sunglasses.

Her narrow eyes swept over the woman in front of her like she was looking at a piece of trash. There was lazy charm in every flicker of her gaze. Then she let out a soft laugh.

"You really need to know your place. At the end of the day, you’re just a toy. You don’t even qualify to step through the Whitmore family’s front door, so what gives you the right to talk to me about feelings?"

Sylvia secretly bit down on her teeth so hard her jaw hurt. The smile on her face was already starting to crack.

Vivienne kept that faint smile on her lips the whole time. She opened her bag, casually pulled out a thick stack of cash, flicked her wrist, and tossed it onto the floor.

The bills scattered across the carpet, bright and messy, like a red flower blooming open.

"You can go now. Think of that as payment for all your hard work serving my husband."

At that point, Sylvia finally couldn’t keep pretending. Her expression twisted, ugly and sharp around the edges. Through clenched teeth, she said, "Vivienne Whitmore, don’t push people too far."

Vivienne laughed.

She laughed freely, wildly, like she’d just heard the funniest joke on earth.

"You shamelessly played mistress, slept with my husband, got caught in bed by me red-handed, and you’re seriously saying I’m the one going too far?

Sylvia Crane, I knew you had no shame, but do you really have to make it this obvious?"

Sylvia was so angry her breathing went uneven. She honestly couldn’t figure it out. She was the one who’d won, wasn’t she? She’d taken Vivienne’s man. So why wasn’t Vivienne furious at all? Why was she the one getting mad enough to explode?

She stared hard at Vivienne’s exquisitely beautiful face, trying to find even the tiniest crack, some sign of pain, embarrassment, jealousy—anything.

But there was nothing.

Vivienne reached into her bag, took out a cigarette, and lit it. The tip glowed a deep, dangerous red. But the way she held it was still elegant, almost unreal, gorgeous enough to make people stop breathing. She looked less like a normal woman and more like some femme fatale straight out of a legend, every move dripping with effortless allure.

Standing by the bed, Sylvia wore a white dress. Her long hair was slightly messy, and her lightly made-up face looked soft and delicate. On any other day, she would’ve been considered pretty.

But next to Vivienne, with that natural, bone-deep seduction in her every look and gesture, Sylvia was washed out completely.

It was like comparing a rich, dazzling peony to some random little white wildflower by the roadside. There was no contest. Not even close.

Vivienne treated her like she wasn’t even there. She took a few slow drags from her cigarette, calm and unbothered. Then, as if she suddenly remembered something, she casually pressed it out.

That relaxed, leisurely posture made her look less like a wife catching her husband cheating and more like someone dropping by on vacation.

She hardly ever smoked. Sometimes one cigarette in a week, even half a month, only when she was seriously annoyed. But now? She couldn’t smoke at all.

A long while later, the bathroom door creaked open.

Maxwell Whitmore stepped out with only a towel wrapped around his waist. The bathroom behind him was still hazy with steam, blurring the air around him. His body looked ridiculously perfect, all raw male energy and heat, the kind of presence that hit like a visual sucker punch.

Drops of water still slid over his bronze skin, tracing the lines of his muscles little by little, making him look even more dangerously attractive.

Sylvia Crane’s face turned red on the spot, and she dropped her head fast.

Vivienne Whitmore, though, only gave him a lazy once-over. Her expression didn’t shift as she said flatly, “Tell your mistress to get out. I need to talk to you.”

Sylvia’s eyes reddened almost instantly. She bit her lower lip and said in a soft, aggrieved voice, “I’m sorry, Vivienne. I shouldn’t have let myself fall for Maxwell... I couldn’t control my feelings.”

The moment Maxwell saw Vivienne, surprise flashed across his face. Right after that, anger flickered in his eyes.

“Do you have any damn shame? Even if you chased me all the way to the hotel, I still wouldn’t spare you a second look.”

Vivienne’s expression darkened. She was clearly running out of patience. “I’ll say it one last time. Tell your mistress to get out.”

Fire practically burned in Maxwell’s eyes. He was furious, beyond furious, but in the end he still didn’t dare do anything to Vivienne. He took a deep breath, forced his temper down, grabbed the car key from the nightstand, handed it to Sylvia, and said, “Go wait for me in the car first. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Sylvia bit her lip again and looked at the two of them uneasily, clearly not reassured. Still, she had no choice but to leave, turning back every few steps as she walked out.

After she was gone, Vivienne pulled a divorce agreement out of her bag and said lightly, “Sign it. We’re getting divorced.”

Maxwell’s fist clenched tight. His face looked so dark it was almost frightening. Then, when his anger hit the ceiling, he suddenly laughed.

“You want a divorce? Dream on. What, not fun anymore? You got your sister killed. I will never let you off for that. Not in this lifetime.”

A cold smile suddenly appeared on Vivienne’s face. Her voice was full of mockery as she said, “Do you really think sleeping with women who look like my sister means you were ever devoted to her? Please. You just found yourself a decent excuse for being a cheating, disgusting mess.”