To avoid unnecessary trouble, she deliberately put on a red fake ponytail and adjusted her makeup, making herself look just unfamiliar enough.
As they stepped inside, the club’s greeter handed each of them a small, exquisitely crafted woolen flower—yellow and white, about the size of a palm.
Lu Zhiling glanced at Jiang Fusheng in confusion. Jiang Fusheng smiled as if she already understood.
“These are for the final vote,” she explained softly. “You stick the flower on whichever Cowherd and Weaver Girl you support.”
(Cowherd and Weaver Girl: a famous Chinese legend about two lovers separated by the heavens, allowed to meet only once a year—often used to symbolize tragic romance.)
Cowherd and Weaver Girl… what a clever idea.
Jiang Fusheng was carrying a box and clearly struggling with it, so Lu Zhiling casually slipped the two woolen flowers into her pocket.
“Manager Huang.”
Spotting someone she recognized, Jiang Fusheng immediately walked over with the box.
Manager Huang, dressed neatly in a suit and tie, turned around and broke into a warm smile.
“Isn’t this Fusheng? Here on behalf of the old lady to see Young Master Bo again?” He paused, then shook his head. “Young Master Bo isn’t here tonight.”
“Ah? He’s not here?”
Following Lu Zhiling’s earlier instructions, Jiang Fusheng put on a look of surprise and said,
“My family asked me to deliver some tea to Young Master Bo. If he’s not here, what should I do?”
Before Manager Huang could respond, a voice drifted over from the side.
“Little Fusheng?”
Lu Zhiling turned her head.
Not far away, in a booth bathed in shifting lights, a young man with slicked-back hair lounged lazily against the sofa. His features were ordinary, but the expensive watch on his wrist caught the eye.
“Second Young Master Ji.”
Jiang Fusheng nodded politely.
This was Ji Jing—the second young master of the Ji family. One of the people who lingered behind Bo Wang, as Jiang Fusheng had mentioned before. A typical rich second-generation heir who spent his days indulging himself.
“Oh? Calling me ‘Young Master’ again?” Ji Jing chuckled. “The Bo family really has too many rules. Just call me Brother Jing.”
He winked at Jiang Fusheng.
“Why haven’t you replied to my messages? I’m getting lovesick.”
“…”
Jiang Fusheng had been sent out by the old lady several times to look for him before, and Ji Jing had stubbornly insisted on adding her contact information. This playboy flirted with everyone—never serious, never sincere. Only a fool would take his words to heart.
Seeing her remain silent, Ji Jing didn’t seem bothered. Instead, he waved his hand casually.
“Come on. Since Brother Wang isn’t here, brew me a cup of tea. I’ve had too much to drink—my head’s starting to ache.”
Jiang Fusheng exchanged a brief glance with Lu Zhiling, and the two of them walked toward the booth.
Several young men were already seated there, laughing and chatting under the dazzling, restless lights.
“This is our family’s tea master,” Jiang Fusheng said calmly, gesturing toward Lu Zhiling. “Let her prepare tea for Second Young Master Ji.”
As she spoke, she opened the box.
Inside, there was only a small tin of tea leaves. The rest of the space was filled with tea-brewing utensils. The teacup was a gaiwan—a blue-and-white porcelain bowl with a lid and saucer, elegant and restrained.
(Gaiwan: a traditional Chinese tea-brewing vessel used to control aroma and temperature.)
Lu Zhiling rolled up the light gauze sleeves of her dress and poured in the spring water she had brought with her.
“Why is your tea master still wearing a mask?” Ji Jing leaned back, licking his lips as his gaze slowly swept over her. “Take it off.”
Her features were delicate, pleasing to the eye—though her figure was a little too slender for his usual taste.
Someone beside him laughed.
“It really has to be Brother Jing. He’s the only one in our circle who dares flirt with Brother Wang’s people every single day. And it’s not like he even has a good relationship with Brother Wang—”
“Watch your mouth.”
Ji Jing cut him off sharply, his expression darkening.
Bo Wang tolerated him, but Ji Jing knew his place. He played around, yes—but he always remembered that he was a subordinate. If such careless boasting reached Bo Wang’s ears, he wouldn’t even know how he died.
After that, Ji Jing lost interest in Lu Zhiling’s mask entirely and focused instead on the tea she was preparing.
“Did you hear?” someone said casually. “Brother Wang came up with a new game the other day—Whack-a-Mole. It’s pretty interesting.”
“Whack-a-Mole?” Ji Jing raised an eyebrow.
The man’s smile turned strange.
“Yeah. The girl who played it has already seen a psychiatrist twice.”
“That sounds like Brother Wang,” Ji Jing replied indifferently.
The young men exchanged knowing smiles.
Lu Zhiling paused for a brief moment. The faint tension between her brows loosened before she calmly picked up the tea leaves and placed them into the gaiwan, root side down. Each leaf was uniform—carefully selected, identical in size and quality.
She lifted the kettle and poured the water in slowly.
The stream of water was gentle, steady, almost hypnotic.
Her gauze sleeves, rolled up to her elbows, swayed softly. Wisps of steam curled around her wrists, brushing past her skin and drifting upward, creating a scene of quiet elegance—graceful, refined, and unexpectedly captivating.
Without realizing it, the young men who had been laughing moments ago fell silent, their attention drawn toward her movements.
Inside the covered bowl, the tender green tea leaves slowly unfurled, like dancers stepping onto a stage. Their fragrance spread gradually, clean and pure, overpowering the heavy scent of alcohol in the air.
Ji Jing, who had been speaking so casually just moments before, inhaled sharply.
Almost unconsciously, he reached out his hand toward the cup.