Serena Stanton's fingers rested lightly on the rim of her crystal glass, ice cubes inside lending a coolness that seeped through, extinguishing the unreasonable heat from earlier.
Hearing Luna Quinn's inquiry, she turned her head, unhurriedly replying, "Fruit and vegetable juice is rich in vitamins, it can boost immunity. Miss Quinn, you might want to give it a try."
The evening breeze stirred, lifting a few strands of Serena's smooth, jet-black hair, drifting gently toward the man on her right as she turned.
A refined, familiar scent mingled with the notes of tuberose carried by the wind, as if it had passed through the erosion of years, floating once again beside him.
Adrian lightly lifted his eyelids, his gaze landing on slender, immaculate, beautiful fingers—snow-white, like top-grade white jade.
Gregory Grant, a doctor, chimed in for popular science: "Studies have confirmed that the nitrates in beet juice can dilate blood vessels, lower blood pressure, and protect the cardiovascular system."
"Why is everyone so health-conscious? No, I need to prepare for the future too."
Luna Quinn set down her champagne, raised her hand and called the butler, "Bring me a glass of fruit and vegetable juice as well."
The butler soon brought over freshly pressed juice. Luna tried it, and in her entire life, had never tasted anything so awful—almost spit it out.
Luckily, her debutante composure remained, so she didn't lose her temper.
Adrian dropped a straw into his glass, casually sipping the juice with an attitude both lazy and aristocratic.
Serena caught the scene out of the corner of her eye, looking at her own unimpressive cup in front of her, falling silent for a moment.
A friend she got along well with came over, swirling a wine glass, teasing: "Young Master Shaw, when did you turn vegetarian? That green stuff—anyone would think you're about to become a monk."
The phone on the table lit up, messages popping up one after another. Adrian grabbed his phone, his tone offhand.
"Just switching it up."
"Switching to such a healthy flavor? Isn't this just what bunnies like most?"
Another friend picked up the joke, laughing mischievously: "What do you know? Adrian isn't interested in the wine—he's interested in eating the bunny."
Adrian's laugh was lazy, couldn't be bothered to respond to them.
Gregory Grant smiled gently: "Would anyone else care for a glass? Freshly pressed fruit and vegetable juice is the best tonic for those who stay up late and socialize."
All these sons of aristocratic families were astute enough, knowing who wielded real power. At his words, they waved their hands dismissively.
"We common folk aren't worthy of such precious wellness drinks. Adrian can live to a hundred, as for us—we couldn't handle it!"
The words drew a burst of laughter from the crowd.
Serena took a sip of her juice, her expression untroubled, yet she couldn't help thinking back. One hot summer, she had brought fresh juice in a thermos to school.
Adrian sat beside her, saw her open the thermos, glimpsed the green liquid inside, and asked what it was.
She told him it was fruit and vegetable juice, then, like offering a treasure, handed it to him.
Adrian's nostrils emitted a quiet chuckle, lazily asking, "You think I'd drink something like this?"
His tone wasn't arrogant, nor could it be called mocking—simply unquestioningly and without room for negotiation, he refused her.
And so, after that, she never drank fruit and vegetable juice in front of him again.
At this moment, Serena still remembered how Adrian, catching the scent of the juice, had furrowed his brow as if he were sniffing poison gas.
He never used to drink juice.
She didn't know when Adrian started, but thinking it over, she realized she really didn't know him at all.
He was born with a look of romantic charm, yet showed indifference and cold detachment to everything.
Maybe only in bed was he different.
When they were together, he was rough and possessive, burying himself in her neck, still asking, "Am I deep enough?"
…
At an upper-class gathering, the talk always gravitated to money, power, and interests. With her thin social background, Serena was clearly an outsider.
Out of good manners, they occasionally looked after her, but the truly meaningful conversations never included her.
The man beside her was overwhelmingly present, a cold and dangerous aura, making people anxious even when he said nothing.
To steer clear, Serena mostly turned aside to chat with another debutante—her topics opened easily, avoiding any awkward silences.
Someone joined their small talk midway; out of courtesy, Serena stood up as well.
They chatted and laughed for a while.
Luna Quinn walked over elegantly, smiled with pride and said, "Serena, Gregory told me you graduated from International High as well, same year as me. What a coincidence, how come I never saw you before?"
"I wasn't well-known at school, just an ordinary student—it's not surprising we never met." Serena replied composedly.
"Too humble. Tiana—you know her, right? The acclaimed campus belle at International, crowned for several years straight. Actually, your eyes and hers are a bit alike."
Serena thought, second time.
This was the second time tonight someone said she looked like Tiana Young.
"So, you're so beautiful—how could you be just ordinary?" As if to prove her point, Luna turned toward Adrian, "Adrian, do you remember Serena?"
Adrian tilted his head slightly, scrutinizing Serena's face with an enigmatic look: "Should I remember?"
His words sounded like he had no idea who Serena was, yet as the well-bred scion, graciously gave Serena a way out.
Only Serena knew, his words were nothing more than their literal meaning—simply asking her, should he remember her?
"No." Serena's tone was calm and detached, almost outside it all, "I've never met Mr. Shaw before."
She answered without hesitation.
Adrian's thin lips curled with a faint sneer.
The gentle, warm night breeze brushed by, like a series of soft blades, making his chest tingle.
Gregory Grant pulled a bottle of red wine from the ice bucket, wiped the condensation off with a towel. Seeing this, he said, "Even classmates from the same year don't necessarily know each other. If it's a different year, not remembering isn't surprising."
"True." Luna Quinn nodded in agreement, reached out to Serena. "By the way, I'll officially join Bridgeway next week. Just letting you know in advance—we'll be colleagues."
Serena shook hands with her amicably, her tone smooth and diplomatic: "Welcome to Bridgeway, Miss Quinn."
The birthday celebration and networking ran smoothly. As the night wound down, Serena made her excuse to go to the washroom, preparing to leave.
When she came out, Serena stood at the sink, head down, focusing intently on washing her hands.
She lifted her head unintentionally and was startled to find a man's face suddenly reflected in the spotless mirror.
She strove to appear calm, but her lips paled two shades.
Adrian lounged leisurely against the wall, hands in his trouser pockets, looking down at her from above.
Serena wanted to maintain the polite, distant peace of strangers, not even offering a greeting, staying silent.
The man, however, wasn't planning to let her go. He lifted his eyelids, meeting her gaze in the mirror.
"Is pretending not to know me fun?"