"Grandma, don't believe it. The day Cousin gets married must be the day God resigns," Clara Bishop's laughter rang out, "After all, a miracle just happened!"
The old lady was tricked, so angry she scolded her disappointments once more.
But only a few light words.
How could the treasured scion of a great family ever bear harsh reproach?
Adrian lifted his eyelids slightly and reached for the permit on the coffee table.
The headshot on the front of the document, with a white background, showed a woman whose beauty was almost aggressive.
Snow-pale skin and clear eyes, her features exquisite and striking, like the most intricate lines drawn by a master artist—exquisite to the point of grandeur.
A thin mist unfurled from the cigarette, winding beneath his proud, chiseled brow, then sinking into the shadow in his eyes.
It disturbed the still and silent depths, ripples rising uncontrollably.
On the phone, the old lady now spoke earnestly: "Your Uncle Quinn's birthday is coming up, make some time to attend. Their daughter has just returned from a law firm in New York, it's a good chance for you two to meet."
Adrian stared at the photograph on the permit, his finely-boned face unmoved, yet his gaze deepened, shadowed and obscure.
The cigarette between his fingers had burned halfway, the scarlet ember bright and dim, creeping quietly toward flesh.
Ashes hung, ready to fall, as if something else burned alongside.
Hearing no response, the old lady called him twice: "Adrian? Adrian?"
"Not interested."
The cigarette burned out in utter silence, scorching and blackening the skin of his hand. Adrian did not frown even slightly, as if he felt nothing at all.
His lashes shifted faintly, eyes settling on the name etched into the permit—
Serena Stanton.
*
The presidential suite was fully equipped, with a 24-hour personal butler, making life attentive to every detail—there was no need to step outside.
While waiting for the weather to clear, Serena worked in the study, tapping at her keyboard, writing reports.
Sean Wallace had visited once as the hotel owner, but his purpose wasn't to check on her stay, but to invite her to reminisce.
"Still as dazzling as ever, gorgeous, after all these years."
Before Serena could reply, Sean Wallace spoke first, "I didn't even get to say goodbye all those years ago—you just left. You and he broke up, but that's none of my business. We never fell out. Surely you haven't become so important you've forgotten a person like me, right?"
"You jest, Young Master Wallace." Serena's lips arched with a polite, faint smile. "I haven't forgotten."
"That's good. So, are you here in Portryn for work or pleasure? Where are you working these days—anything I can help with?"
"On a business trip. I'm with a law firm at present," Serena replied cordially, her words tidy and concise. "No need, thanks."
Sean Wallace's face immediately lit with realization, and he grinned, "We haven't seen each other in ages. Staying cooped up here all day is bad for your mood—how about breakfast together? The restaurant just brought in a Michelin chef."
"Hotel service is impeccable; I've already eaten. Perhaps another time," Serena declined gently.
"Ah, what a pity." Sean Wallace shrugged. "In that case, there's nothing to be done—we'll do it another day."
Serena's attitude was steady and courteous, though a delicate distance flowed between her words. None of this dampened Sean Wallace's spirited, rakish enthusiasm.
He offered a gold-trimmed business card with a hearty laugh: "If you need anything, reach out anytime—no need to be a stranger with me."
Sean Wallace was a whirlwind—hurried in his arrival, hurried in his leaving. He'd barely chatted a few lines before taking his leave.
The polite conversation ended.
Serena returned to the study, rechecked the contract, and, seeing no issue, sent the email.
Closing her laptop, she stretched, letting her mind drift toward other matters.
This luxury hotel, it seemed, belonged to the Wallace Family, now managed by Sean Wallace.
Serena and Sean Wallace came from worlds apart—their acquaintance owed solely to Adrian Shaw.
The Shaw Family had deep aristocratic roots, generations of accumulated wealth and power; under its name, Crestview Bank had business sprawling across the globe, a leader among the elite.
As the Shaw Family's eldest son, the sole heir, Adrian Shaw had always been beyond the reach of ordinary people even from birth.
His wealth and power were staggering—he was a true child of privilege, never lacking for flattery and favor.
As for Serena, she was his opposite.
A girl who had clawed her way up from the slums, she could barely guarantee her most basic survival, let alone wealth or influence.
They were people from utterly separate worlds.
For someone of Adrian's background and lineage, his life had always run on rails profoundly different from ordinary folk's; mysterious, understated, unattainable.
By reason, it was impossible for Serena to have any intersection with him.
Yet she happened upon the bridge—
The Grant Family, who sponsored her education.
The Grant Family and the Shaw Family…
An abrupt ringtone broke Serena's chain of thought.
When she saw the caller ID, her eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly.
Speak of the devil, and he arrives.
Serena answered.
"Jasper."
On the other end came Jasper Grant's clear, gentle voice, solitary and pure: "The typhoon made landfall in Portryn, so I couldn't make it in time. Why didn't you tell me?"
Knowing he was concerned, Serena explained, "It's nothing. There's nothing to do if I go back either way. The typhoon will last a day or two; once flights are back to normal tomorrow, I can leave."
Jasper hummed. "Serena, once your flight's confirmed for tomorrow, let me know first thing."
Serena, rarely, felt a moment's distraction.
Unbidden, a different voice drifted through her mind—a teenage boy, lips lifted in a playful grin, spoke in a languid tone: "Zhuangzi dreams he's a butterfly, the butterfly dreams it's Zhuangzi; the 'Serena' in your name seems meant to gather up all life's waking dreams."
Serena was born in an impoverished region—one suffering not just economic hardship, but a stifling backwardness of thought.
Her father, a calculating and hypocritical man, had been disappointed to learn he'd had a daughter, not a son, and so gave her a name steeped in feudal superstition and crude ambition: Jodie.
The name Serena, she'd taken herself after escaping that nightmare of a place.
"Mm." Serena caught herself, her reply docile, "Once the typhoon passes, flights shouldn't be canceled anymore."
"Keep me updated on the flights," Jasper said. "What do you want to eat when you get back tomorrow? I'll make a reservation, help you settle your nerves."
Serena thought for a while. "How about some classic Valeray cuisine?"
At eleven, Serena had fled the mire of her family, and, half-starved and freezing, met the benefactor of her life—Jasper Grant.
Back then, Jasper was not yet the Grant family's second son.
He gave her, when she was on the brink of starvation, a plain white bun that seemed as precious as gold and jewels.
In those days Serena lived precariously, existence a daily ordeal, with no inkling that her future would undergo such dramatic upheaval.
Much less could she have known that she, this butterfly, would one day stir up so great a hurricane in another's story.
...
After a peaceful day and two nights in the hotel, the typhoon that had ravaged Portryn slowly receded.
As soon as the airport resumed partial flights, Serena booked the earliest ticket back to Valeray City.
Packing her suitcase and checking important documents, she suddenly realized her travel permit was missing.
She searched every corner of the suite to no avail, then stopped by reception to check out and asked the hotel staff as well.
"Hello, have you found a Portryn & Macau travel permit?"