She looked again, her breath hitching. Indeed, another pair of pristine shoes had emerged from the vehicle. The air thickened with anticipation as every single pair of eyes remained glued to the car door.
A black trouser leg came into view, the fabric impossibly sharp, perfectly tailored. The edge of a crisp, immaculate white shirt peeked out, followed by the smooth lapel of a jet-black suit that gleamed under the ballroom lights. Then came the man himself.
Mo Zilin.
The collective gasp from the crowd was deafening. His striking mixed features—defined cheekbones, piercing eyes, and a strong, chiseled jawline—were enough to leave the crowd in awe. His hair was sleek, a dark wave perfectly styled, exuding sophistication. The tailored suit hugged his frame perfectly, accentuating broad shoulders, a trim waist, and long legs.
The chaos erupted immediately.
"Mo Zilin! It's really him!"
"Over here! Mo Zilin, look this way!"
