Lu Zhiling lifted the cup and offered it to him.
Ji Jing tilted the lid slightly, letting it chase away the thin veil of steam before lowering his head. The first sip slid smoothly down his throat—mellow, soft, carrying a restrained sweetness that lingered long after he swallowed, curling gently at the back of his senses.
He paused, then looked up at her, a trace of surprise flickering in his eyes.
“Taiping Houkui?”
(Taiping Houkui: a high-grade green tea known for its large flat leaves and lingering orchid fragrance, often reserved for distinguished guests.)
Lu Zhiling gave a small nod.
A faint smile tugged at Ji Jing’s lips. “Interesting.”
He took another sip, then another. His grandmother adored tea, and he had grown up surrounded by it, but he had never once thought of tea as something remarkable—until now. Noticing his reaction, the young men nearby immediately leaned forward, asking for a cup of their own.
Lu Zhiling poured calmly, one cup after another, her movements unhurried and precise. The fragrance spread quietly through the air, light yet persistent, drawing curious glances from farther away. More people drifted closer, but there were only so many cups. Those who missed out could only watch, regret written plainly on their faces.
Ji Jing rotated the teacup between his fingers. Inside, the leaves remained vividly green, as fresh as when they had first touched the water.
No wonder it’s the Bo family, he thought. Even their tea is on another level.
His gaze slid to the small tin resting nearby. A card was still attached.
Guiqi Tower
Feng Zhen
Phone: 186XXXXXXXX
He glanced at the bodyguards behind him.
“Remember this place,” he said casually. “Buy some for my grandmother.”
By now, everyone had already seen the name on the tin. Lu Zhiling’s purpose for the night was complete.
She had learned tea from her second aunt, a woman deeply immersed in traditional tea ceremony, ever since she was young. Selecting the leaves, controlling the water, understanding timing—these things had long since become instinct.
Making money was never easy.
But making money from the wealthy—especially by moving within Bo Wang’s circle—wasn’t.
Jiang Fusheng watched the way people admired the tea in their hands and finally understood why Lu Zhiling had insisted on asking Feng Zhen to rent a location and open a teahouse.
If these wealthy men and women all became regular patrons of Guiqi Tower, how could it not be profitable?
Excitement bubbled up inside her. She immediately began praising the tea with enthusiasm, explaining its virtues, eager to seize the moment while interest was high.
Then—
Bang.
A celebratory cannon went off, and the Black Spade Club’s final competition officially began.
A piercing spotlight flooded the long catwalk that stretched deep into the seating area. One by one, beautiful women and handsome men stepped onto the stage.
The women’s outfits were bold and dazzling, each one louder than the last. The men wore matching white shirts and black trousers, the top buttons undone just enough to reveal smooth lines of skin beneath.
The music was thunderous.
For Lu Zhiling, whose hearing was unusually sharp, it felt like punishment.
She wanted to leave, but Jiang Fusheng was completely entranced, eyes glued to the stage.
“Just a little longer,” she pleaded excitedly. “Just a bit more—look at them, they’re so handsome!”
Lu Zhiling said nothing. The noise churned in her stomach, nausea rising. She pressed a hand against it.
“I’m going to the restroom,” she said quietly. “We’re leaving as soon as I get back.”
Jiang Fusheng didn’t hear her at all.
With no other choice, Lu Zhiling left alone. She stopped a waiter, who vaguely gestured down a corridor.
The hallway was worlds apart from the chaos outside—quiet, dim, almost eerily still. As she walked, the noise faded behind her, replaced by silence. Too much silence.
She walked for a while but saw no restroom, no sign—nothing.
She had gone the wrong way.
Turning back, she suddenly heard a faint sound nearby. Instinctively, she turned her head.
The door beside her stood slightly ajar.
Inside, a tall figure stood in the shadows.
Black trousers traced the long, powerful lines of his legs, the waistband resting low, curving in a subtle arc. He was drinking water, one hand tucked casually into his pocket.
His profile was striking—deep-set eyes, a straight nose, sharp contours sculpted with almost excessive precision.
Sweat dampened his short hair. His white shirt hung open, completely unbuttoned, revealing a strong, defined torso. The lines flowed downward—broad shoulders narrowing at the waist, disappearing beneath a tightly fastened black belt.
Lu Zhiling froze.
A man’s waist… could it truly be this arresting?
She couldn’t find the right words for it—only a quiet, wordless awe settling into her chest.
This had to be one of the Cowherds Jiang Fusheng had mentioned earlier.
(Cowherd: male performer in themed club events, styled as the romantic counterpart to the Weaver Girl.)
Jiang Fusheng had been shouting “handsome” at the men on the catwalk, but standing here, face to face with this presence, Lu Zhiling realized how hollow those exclamations had been.
This man was different.
He wasn’t just part of the show.
He was likely the centerpiece.
Bo Wang finished the glass in one motion.
Then, as if sensing something, he turned his head abruptly.
His gaze locked onto her—cold, sharp, and lethal, like a blade finding its mark.