The Hong Kong Observatory reported temperatures exceeding 90°F for seven consecutive days—a rare heatwave not seen in years.
By seven in the evening, the light had finally dimmed, leaving only the last streak of tangerine on the horizon.
Ye Shengsheng finished dinner at her hotel and slipped into flats before heading out to shop.
Harbour City wasn’t crowded, but the air conditioning worked overtime, pumping frigid air into every corner of the mall.
The autumn collection from Brand C had just launched in Hong Kong after their grand show, and the sales staff bustled around, catering to the esteemed young lady with meticulous attention.
Ye Shengsheng, however, wasn’t in high spirits. She dialed Fu Zhicheng and launched into a complaint the moment the call connected: "I must’ve forgotten to check the almanac before leaving. Even flying to Hong Kong, I somehow ran into Bian Che."
Her slender finger pointed at a black knitted off-shoulder top, and the sales assistant hurriedly brought it down, hanger and all.
Unlike Ye Shengsheng’s cool composure, Fu Zhicheng was practically melting.
Her trip to Tanzania to see the Big Five wasn’t some leisurely getaway—as a travel influencer with millions of followers, she was currently floating in a hot air balloon, overlooking the vast Serengeti plains.
Her handheld fan had long died, and she fanned herself with her hand, grinning. "If fate’s playing matchmaker, why not just marry him?"
Ye Shengsheng paused mid-step, her tone guarded. "Have you heard something?"
That hesitant note instantly sharpened Fu Zhicheng’s senses, as if she’d caught a whiff of scandal. She signaled her cameraman to pause and adopted a conspiratorial tone.
"What’s going on? Should I have heard something? Last time, I already thought you two were acting weird. Spill it."
Ye Shengsheng regretted tipping her hand.
Her confidence wavered. "Nothing. Just thought you might’ve caught wind of some gossip. Anyway, I’m trying on Brand C’s autumn collection now—bad signal in the fitting room..."
She tugged her Bluetooth earpiece off, about to hang up discreetly, when Fu Zhicheng cut in, indignant: "Ye Shengsheng, I tell you about every pimple on my body. If you’re hiding something, we’re done."
Three solid minutes of threats followed.
Ye Shengsheng decided there was no point being coy. With a nod, she directed the sales staff to fetch two outfits, a hat, and a pair of sandals before shooing them away.
She took a breath, forcing her voice steady. "Fine. That night at [Du], I accidentally slept with Bian Che."
A shriek erupted from the other end. Fu Zhicheng’s reaction was volcanic, a chaotic stream of expletives and exclamations: "OH MY GOD, @#$%@#%$#@, IS THIS SOME CLICHÉ ENEMIES-TO-LOVERS TROPES?!?!?!"
Ye Shengsheng held the phone away, her ears burning. "Should I call you an ambulance?"
Thanks to Fu Zhicheng, that infuriating face now haunted her thoughts.
Fu Zhicheng finally regained her composure, buzzing with gossip. "Well, since you called off the engagement with Zhu Ze, marrying Bian Che isn’t bad. Scratch that—it’s perfect! In terms of status, looks, capability… Zhu Ze isn’t fit to shine his shoes!"
Then, grinning slyly: "So, who’s better in bed?"
Ye Shengsheng flushed with embarrassment, on the verge of snapping, when movement outside the glass caught her eye—a shadowy figure darting out of sight.
She ended the call.
Just then, Brand C’s manager hurried over, tense. "Miss Ye, paparazzi are outside."
……
Her shopping mood thoroughly ruined, she picked three outfits and two pairs of shoes, left her hotel address, and made a swift exit.
But the moment she stepped out, two or three paparazzi swarmed, cameras flashing. One man, his Mandarin clumsy, called out: "Miss Ye, shopping alone in Hong Kong? Where’s Young Master Zhu?"
Ignoring them, she dialed her driver, instructing him to meet her inside.
She visited Hong Kong multiple times a year for shopping sprees, yet paparazzi had never tailed her before—this had to be Zhu Ze and Gao Xueying’s doing.
The reporters persisted.
"Care to comment? Still marrying that loser? Here to shop or nurse a broken heart?"
"It’s scorching out here—just say a few words, and we’ll leave."
Ye Shengsheng tucked her hair behind her ear, pretending to check her phone to avoid full-face shots.
One paparazzo grew impatient, jogging ahead to block her path, his lens nearly hitting her face as he skidded to a stop.
Cornered, she stood frozen, anger simmering beneath her calm.
Hong Kong’s paparazzi had no scruples—anything said would be twisted into sensational headlines. Silence was the only defense.
But escape wasn’t an option.
"Move."
A low, languid voice cut through the noise as Harbour City’s automatic doors slid open.
Sweltering air and car horns spilled in, footsteps echoing crisply against the marble.
A man in a white tee and black pants strode forward, his damp hair tousled, the faint scent of mint and cigarettes clinging to him.
Bian Che tilted his head slightly, his gaze icy as it swept over the paparazzi. "Don’t understand Mandarin? I said I don’t want to see you here."
The crowd hesitated, but recognition sparked murmurs. Cameras lifted again, this time with renewed fervor.
A bad feeling prickled Ye Shengsheng’s skin.
Before she could think, she grabbed Bian Che’s wrist, pulling him toward the exit.
He seemed unfazed, his fingers curling around hers, grip firm. "Should I make them apologize?"
"Shut up."
His hold tightened—almost painful—as they quickened their pace, slipping into the car.
Bian Che circled to the driver’s seat, revved the engine, and merged into Hong Kong’s glittering night.
Neon streaked across the windows, painting his sharp jawline and taut forearms in alternating hues. Every movement, every shift of light, exuded a careless elegance.
After a long silence, Ye Shengsheng spoke. "Where are we going?"
Bian Che smirked, hands steady on the wheel. "You dragged me into this car."
The unspoken question: How should he know?
She glared. "Aren’t you worried about those paparazzi twisting this into a scandal?"
Horrific tabloid headlines already flashed in her mind:
#Scorned Heiress Ye Shengsheng Rebounds with New Lover in Hong Kong#
#Another Storm in Beijing’s High Society: Y-Surname Heiress and B-Surname Tycoon Spotted Dating on the Streets#
...
Bian Che pretended not to catch her hint, leisurely raising his tone a notch: "Ye Shengsheng, I just saved you from disaster. Can’t you say something nice for once?"
She choked back a retort, reluctantly pursing her lips and pulling a wet wipe from the compartment to clean her hands.
Her palms were sweaty from his grip.
The car stereo played a Cantonese love song, while the air carried the sweet scent of white peach—fragrance from the hair oil lingering in Ye Shengsheng’s tresses.
Silence stretched between them, the aroma slowly thickening into something more intimate.
Unaccustomed to her quietness, Bian Che broke the stillness. "Why didn’t you bring bodyguards to Hong Kong?"
Ye Shengsheng puffed her cheeks, snapping back, "And you? Where are yours?"
Under the dim glow of streetlights, Bian Che’s gaze lingered on her flushed, irritated face, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. "Why crawl out of your turtle shell and wander into this mess?"
A smirk tugged at his lips. "Oh, right. You were hiding from me."
She shot him a fleeting glance. "Don’t flatter yourself."
That glance, however, revealed something odd.
From Harbour City to Central, traffic was a nightmare before midnight.
Bian Che, still unaccustomed to right-hand drive, lurched forward in stops and starts, nearly missing turns before choosing the most congested route possible.
Yet despite the crawl, two cars flanked the Koenigsegg, matching its speed unnaturally—as if they’d been tailing them for a while.
Most drivers would steer clear of an unfamiliar, outrageously expensive supercar, so...
These two cars defied logic.
Ye Shengsheng slowly rolled down the window. Without the tinted barrier, she instantly spotted the paparazzi who’d just photographed them.
She shut the window, lips curling in exasperation. "They’re following us."
Both Bian Che and Ye Shengsheng had overlooked a critical detail: Hong Kong paparazzi chase cars.
In the sluggish traffic, the two who’d just traded barbs now inched forward like tortoises.
The globally limited-edition Koenigsegg became a punchline—roaring to life with each start, only to stall after a mere dozen meters.
Cameras surrounded them from every angle. Ye Shengsheng had never been this silent, barely daring to breathe.
Because breathing meant she still had to endure this.
Gritting her teeth, she hissed, "Why did you have to drive a sports car?"
Bian Che, equally irritated, flashed a middle finger at their pursuers—only to provoke them further.
The paparazzi lowered their window, thrusting out a phone while shouting questions.
The supercar’s soundproofing drowned out the noise, but Ye Shengsheng read their lips: "Are you two dating?"
She cranked up the stereo volume, snapping at Bian Che, "Lose them already!"
One seething, the other restless.
Then—a deafening crunch.
The Koenigsegg rammed into a roadside barrier, its hood crumpled, faint smoke curling upward.
Ye Shengsheng’s chest burned from the seatbelt’s grip, her soul nearly catapulting out of her body.
A luxury car wreck was spectacle enough. Bystanders stopped to film, and police sirens wailed in the distance.
What began as tabloid fodder had now spiraled into breaking news—likely viral by now.
Slumped in the passenger seat, Ye Shengsheng let out a frosty laugh, scarlet lips twisting in mockery.
"Bian Che, you really saved me, didn’t you?"
