The second I stepped out of the airport, that wave of heat nearly knocked me out—seriously, one of the reasons I can’t stand Fengcheng is because it feels like a sauna three-quarters of the year. While I was still in a daze, Holly Collins came strutting over, heels clacking loud in those 14cm stilettos. Her long, flaxen curls framed her face just right, and that deep red backless dress made her skin look almost porcelain.
"Geez, that flight delay was brutal. I was hoping to catch you for lunch—and get you to treat me too, of course," Holly tapped her diamond-studded watch with manicured nails. "Look at this, even dinner's past."
"CartierSA limited edition? I’ve only been gone for two weeks—did you win the lottery or something?" I fastened my belt just as she floored the gas pedal. The hot wind that slammed into my face? Not pleasant. I’ve never understood the hype around convertibles—they’re no good for rain or shine, just look cool and that’s it.
"It’s just a watch. Doesn’t take hitting the jackpot to get one, you know?" She’d already put on these oversized sunglasses that covered half her face, making it impossible to read her expression. "Lucas gave it to me."
I just smiled. Honestly, with her title as Frosted Forest’s top star, a fancy watch was nothing out of the ordinary.
As soon as we pulled into the underground garage of Frosted Forest, the blast of cool air was a relief. I finally exhaled.
Ding—elevator doors opened, and Holly stepped out first. "I’m gonna go touch up my makeup. I’ll join you for the meeting later."
"Alright." Doors closed again. I looked at my paper-pale reflection in those mirrored walls, shut my eyes for a second. When I opened them, the elevator had reached the top floor.
First thing I did in my office? Washed my face. Had to look more awake. I stared at all the business suits hanging neatly in my closet but ended up picking a cheongsam. Black velvet, silver trim along the edges, pearls for buttons. I opened a drawer, grabbed my makeup kit, and carefully worked on my face. Smoky eyes were my go-to—it was like putting on armor. Once I was done, I threw on a wig: rich, long chestnut curls. You could call them seaweed-like if you were feeling poetic. None of this was optional—it was my version of a battle suit, hiding every trace of fear and softness underneath.
I stood by the window, peering into the never-ending stretch of night outside. For most people, this time meant clocking out and winding down. But at Frosted Forest, the night had only just begun.
I’m Flora Weatherwax, owner of one of Fengcheng’s hottest nightspots—Frosted Forest. Before I took it over, this place was called “Night Owl.” No kidding, I spent years calling myself a soul with taste—I could never stomach a tacky name like that. If the me from three years ago saw me now, she’d probably slap me across the face. Twice.
Knock, knock. The sound pulled me out of my thoughts. I sat down slowly in my boss chair.
"Come in."
Ethan Carter walked in with a file in hand. "Miss Weatherwax, Director Johnson’s arrived. He’s in ‘Floating Flowers.’ These are June’s financials, by the way."
"Just leave them there. I’ll go over them later." I smoothed down the skirt of my dress as I got up. "Time to go greet the director."
"Alright." Ethan followed me toward Floating Flowers.New boss, new rules. The leadership in Fengcheng had just reshuffled, and if I wanted things to go smoothly from here on out, I needed to make some strategic moves. This guy Michael Johnson was now overseeing public security — the last person Frost Grove could afford to piss off. He didn’t have to do much; just sending his guys over for frequent inspections would be enough to turn the place quieter than a cemetery.
Right as I reached the private room door, Holly showed up too. She’d touched up her makeup and swapped her dress — now in a white halter mini that looked as fresh as a cup of plain sundae. “Flora, look at us — black and white duo! Total power combo. This night’s gotta be a win.”
“Let’s hope your words bring luck,” I said, opening the door with a smile locked in place. The man sitting center couch looked around fifty, a bit on the heavier side, wearing a laid-back outfit. “Mr. Johnson, what an honor. Sorry we didn’t give you a proper welcome.”
“You’re being too polite, Miss Weatherwax,” Michael said with a small nod.
His expression was hard to read — people like him were always the trickiest. Let’s be real, a man who’s worked his way up the official ranks for this long definitely had more life experience than I could count. I picked up a wine glass from the table and poured some red: “Having you here tonight is rare, Mr. Johnson. This one’s on me.”
“You’re pretty straightforward, I like that,” he said, easing up just a bit.
I’d never met him before, but from the way he talked, there was clearly a wall up. The whole night, red, white — he kept the drinks flowing my way. Holly helped where she could, but I still ended up tipsy. Thank God I’m the quiet drunk type, no drama. I made sure to personally walk Mr. Johnson out. As soon as the night air hit me, though, my stomach churned, and I stumbled to the restroom. Let’s just say I made friends with the toilet — violently. And on top of that, the red envelope I gave him? Still in my bag. That wine was a complete waste.
After I threw up, my stomach felt a little better, but the alcohol rush hit harder — empty stomach from a plane ride didn’t help. I rinsed my mouth, held onto the wall for balance, and headed to the elevator. Just as I passed the terrace, it felt like someone whacked my head with a hammer. A tall figure stood there, back to me — clean-cut chestnut hair, crisp white shirt showing off a lean build, tailored trousers sharp enough to slice air. Maybe it was the hallway lights or just how drunk I felt, but it looked like he had a soft glow around him.
"Ryan..." I started, freezing the second the name left my lips — the last person I wanted seeing me like *this* was Ryan Spencer.
Before I could take it back, he turned around. My chest tightened, sheer panic rushing in like a breakup text at 3am. I prayed under my breath, just let it not be Ryan, and I swear I’d trade anything. The universe must've pitied me — because the face staring back wasn’t his.
Not even close.
This guy was way too striking — chiseled features, sharp eyes under bold brows. He had this calm but somehow intimidating stare, like he saw way more than he should. And the air around him? Ice cold. There was no way Ryan ever pulled off that kind of edge.
His gaze was so intense I had to look away. I forced a polite smile. “Sorry, thought you were someone else.”
He didn’t say anything, just watched me with curious eyes. Judging from the way he was dressed, he clearly wasn’t someone random off the street. But I was in no shape for small talk. That little scare had sobered me up a bit, enough to walk toward the elevator without tripping.
That was how I met Alexander King. Later, I’d realize — maybe fate was playing games that night. Always one mistake away from a bigger mess.