The financial news anchor's polished voice filled the suite: "Oriental International's stock continues its fifth consecutive day of freefall, marking the conglomerate's first major crisis of investor confidence..."
Ye Chenghuan thumbed the remote lazily until a familiar silhouette froze his finger. Onscreen, Lin Peishan emerged from a glass tower flanked by executives, oversized sunglasses swallowing half her face. Reporters' microphones stabbed at her like silver daggers as an assistant barked, "No comment! All explanations will come at the press conference—"
The camera lingered on her Mercedes' taillights dissolving into traffic. Ye leaned forward, coffee forgotten. That ice princess ran a publicly traded empire?
Footsteps cascaded down the marble staircase. He looked up to find Lin reborn – violet cashmere hugging delicate collarbones, a silk scarf bleeding sapphire and crimson over her heart, faded jeans sculpting athletic curves. Her hair fell in a midnight waterfall, framing features so meticulously unadorned they mocked the concept of cosmetics.
"Accompany me," she said, winter incarnate.
"Midnight escapade? What's the occasion?"
The slamming door answered him. Outside, a Ferrari F430 growled impatiently, its ruby paintjob swallowing streetlights. Ye whistled at the stallion of Italian engineering. "Let a real driver handle this beauty, yeah?"
Lin's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, memories of his death-wish driving still fresh. "Get in."
The Ferrari became a comet tearing through fog-shrouded suburbs. Twenty minutes later, coastal pines parted to reveal Golden Sands International Club – a spaceship of glass and steel marooned between black waves and darker mountains. Valets swarmed the parking lot thick with Maybachs and Bugattis.
"Yours?" Ye stared at the pulsating neon sign.
Lin ignored him, sweeping past groveling managers into a cathedral of wealth. Elevator doors parted on third-floor tennis courts where the elite played at being athletes. Every head turned as Lin entered – men's gazes lingering below her scarf, women's nails digging into champagne flutes.
"Can you play?" She selected a racket with surgical precision.
"Enough to break your ego."
Her eyes flicked over his thrift-store ensemble. "Get him proper attire."
"Where's the fun in that?" Ye plopped courtside, lighting a cigarette as Lin disappeared into changing rooms. Around him, silicon-enhanced socialites bounced between forehands and flirting, their staccato laughter clashing with elevator jazz.
Gasps rippled through the crowd when Lin returned. Tennis whites transformed her into a snow leopard – ponytail lashing with every step, skirt flaring dangerously above toned thighs. Ye's cigarette tumbled from grinning lips as she bent to test racket tension, the movement stretching fabric taut over—
Thwack!
A yellow blur smashed his jaw. "I said a little!" He spat blood, theatrically clutching his face.
Lin's next serve buried itself in his shoulder. "Are we playing dodgeball now?"
By the fifth welt rising on his thigh, Ye threw down his racket. "You win, princess. Enjoy your human target practice."
"Get back here!" Perspiration gleamed at her hairline, the first crack in glacial composure.
He gestured at salivating spectators. "Plenty of lapdogs eager to fetch your balls."
Her racket trembled. "You started this."
"Fine!" Ye kicked off shoes and socks, calloused feet slapping hardwood. "But no mercy for crybabies."
The first return shocked everyone – his drunken-sailor swing somehow catapulted the ball into a physics-defying curve. Lin scrambled, silk strands escaping her ponytail as the sphere kissed the line.
What followed wasn't tennis but predation. Ye moved with feral economy, each lazy stroke bending reality. The ball became a hummingbird – here, there, gone. Lin's breaths grew ragged, chest heaving as she lunged and whirled, her pristine whites darkening with sweat.
"Last chance to surrender," he purred after fifteen brutal rallies.
Lin answered with a scream and overhead smash.
The sound haunts Golden Sands' staff to this day – a cannon report followed by Lin doubling over, racket clattering as she clutched her abdomen. Ye was already vaulting the net, all mockery gone.
"Stubborn little—" His hands hovered, unsure where to touch.
She slapped him away, rising on trembling legs. "Again."
He caught the tear before it hit the court. In that moment, the Ferrari heiress looked exactly what she was – a twenty-something shouldering empires, alone.
"Game," Ye announced to the silent crowd. "Your CEO needs champagne. Stat."
As he steered her past gawking members, Lin didn't resist. Some claimed later they saw her lean into him, just for a heartbeat. But that might've been the Château Pétrus talking.