That morning, with birds chirping faintly in the distance, Mrs. Zhao stepped out of her lavish mansion, her face set in a haughty expression. She moved with a graceful yet commanding stride toward a sleek Rolls Royce parked in the driveway. Her autumn outfit—a tailored mocha blazer over a fitted silk dress and heels that clicked delicately on the stone steps—radiated class and sophistication. Every piece, from her diamond-studded earrings to her silk scarf, looked perfectly chosen, just as every aspect of her presence was polished and controlled.
Beside the car stood a female driver, her suit pressed and immaculate. The driver's expression was blank, professional, as she opened the car door, giving a respectful nod as Mrs. Zhao eased into the plush, leather interior. She barely acknowledged the driver, instead gliding into her seat like royalty, her hand brushing over the small breakfast tray and morning newspaper laid out neatly beside her.
