The dinner had ended, but the war had only shifted rooms.
Behind the double doors of the east salon, soft jazz played over hidden speakers. Smoke from vintage cigars curled upward toward golden chandeliers. Bottles worth more than small apartments glistened behind a private bar staffed by a man who didn't smile once.
The afterparty wasn't about dancing or unwinding—it was about positioning. Here, conversations no longer needed metaphor. Here, secrets were traded like currency.
Lin Feng stood near the center of the room, a glass in hand. Not drinking—observing. The clusters were already forming. Lu Tianye held court near the leather armchairs, spinning a tale about overseas transitions. Zixuan lingered in a shadowed corner, his white tux now half-unbuttoned, still surrounded by sycophants disguised as friends.
The girls had each drifted, navigating their own circles. Lin didn't follow. Not yet.
Instead, he turned and walked toward the balcony.
