When Ye Shengsheng returned to the hotel, it was already past 10 PM.
The elevator was brightly lit, and the polished mirrors clearly reflected her current state—her delicate eye makeup smudged, her bun askew, and her clothes crumpled.
She had never looked this disheveled in her life.
After enduring an inexplicably slow-motion car accident and recounting the few interactions she’d had with Bian Che, Ye Shengsheng became even more convinced: the two of them were simply incompatible by fate.
Fuming, she stormed back into her room. Outside, the dazzling Victoria Harbour was lit up with fireworks, clusters bursting in the sky like a grand, mocking spectacle.
Suddenly overwhelmed, she screamed at the window.
The sound pierced through the suite, sharp and jarring in the silent night.
A moment later, the room phone rang. The front desk attendant cautiously inquired, "Ma’am, a neighboring guest has complained about unusual noises from your room. Is there anything you need assistance with?"
Ye Shengsheng wound the phone cord around her finger, her voice flat and unreadable. "I should be the one filing a complaint. Your hotel’s soundproofing is terrible, and the guest next door eavesdropping on me is a violation of my privacy. Expect a lawyer’s letter."
With that, she coldly hung up.
After downing an entire bottle of ice water in one go, she flung her door open with a dramatic flourish and pounded on the neighboring room’s door with enough force to shake the walls.
There was a doorbell, but she deliberately ignored it—proof of just how furious she was.
The door opened to reveal Bian Che.
Following the earlier accident, his Koenigsegg had been towed, leaving the two of them stranded in the middle of the road until Ye Shengsheng’s driver picked them up. Perhaps because her expression had been particularly stormy, the driver hadn’t dared to breathe too loudly, silently dropping them both off at the Four Seasons Hotel. Bian Che had naturally checked in—right next to her.
He stood there in a hotel bathrobe, the belt loosely tied, his damp hair dripping water down his neck and into the collar of his navy-blue silk robe, leaving a large wet patch.
The picture of casual freshness, a stark contrast to the disheveled, defeated peacock before him.
With just one glance, Ye Shengsheng’s disdain was palpable. She frowned and scolded, "From kindergarten onward, you’ve loved tattling. Still haven’t outgrown that nasty habit?"
She hurled a pair of earplugs at him before crossing her arms and lifting her chin defiantly. "Too noisy to sleep, so you complained about me? Sounds like a guilty conscience to me!"
Bian Che rubbed his temples, baffled by yet another baseless accusation. "I was just showering. I have no idea what you’re talking about..."
Ye Shengsheng met his gaze coldly, refusing to believe a word.
Leaning against the doorframe, Bian Che peeked into the hallway and pointed out, "Your suite is in the middle, with neighbors on both sides. Why assume it was me?"
She scoffed, utterly convinced. "Call it intuition. You’re the least classy person in this entire hotel. Why would I suspect anyone else?"
Bian Che countered illogically, "Since when did you become a fortune-teller?"
As he ran a hand through his wet hair, droplets accidentally splashed onto her. She recoiled in disgust. "Just deal with the paparazzi tonight. I refuse to share a tabloid headline with you."
The Bian family had a private office in Hong Kong; handling local media was child’s play for him.
Still standing there, his hair now even messier—giving him an unintentionally wild edge—he asked, "Who’s paying for the media takedown?"
Ye Shengsheng gaped. "Is the Bian family bankrupt? You’re seriously extorting me over pocket change?"
Bian Che feigned realization. "Ah, right. I forgot—your family’s busy canceling an engagement. Must be tight on funds."
The man was as venomous as ever.
If looks could kill, he’d already be riddled with holes.
Ye Shengsheng couldn’t stand the sight of him. "Meeting you was the worst luck of my life."
The tension in the empty hallway was electric.
Then, a soft ding echoed from the elevators. Bian Che smirked, studying her. "What do you think people would assume if they saw us together like this?"
A sharp click followed—Ye Shengsheng had slammed her door shut, fleeing faster than a startled rabbit.
...
The relentless Hong Kong heat offered no respite even at night. Back in her room, Ye Shengsheng turned the air conditioning down another two degrees.
A doorbell chime announced the arrival of the hotel’s suite attendant, bearing freshly brewed coffee and pastries—either a service upgrade or a peace offering for her earlier outburst.
Ruan Qinglan’s video call came just as Ye Shengsheng stepped out of the shower, hair still damp.
Glancing at the clock—right after the latest episodes of her Korean drama—she listlessly answered. "Mom."
After some shaky camerawork, the screen revealed a radiant, impeccably groomed socialite. Ruan Qinglan’s voice was uncharacteristically urgent. "Shengsheng, you were in a car accident in Hong Kong? How bad was it? Should your father and I fly over tonight?"
Ye Shengsheng towel-dried her hair carelessly. "A 20-mph fender bender. Nothing serious."
Just humiliating.
Tossing the towel aside, she frowned. "How did you even know?"
Ruan Qinglan was thousands of miles away, and she hadn’t told a soul. Had Hong Kong media broken the story already?
She reached for her iPad, about to search, when Ruan Qinglan’s gentle voice continued, "Bian Che told your father. They’re on the phone right now."
Her soul nearly left her body.
Heart pounding, she forced her voice steady. "Why would Bian Che call Dad?"
Outwardly calm, inwardly, she was cursing him to the depths of hell.
"You silly girl, keeping something like this from us! Thank goodness Bian Che was there too. He apologized to your father for not taking better care of you and mentioned he’s interested in investing in Ye Corporation’s overseas project. You have no idea how much stress your father’s been under because of it—his hair’s gone gray! That Zhu Xiangnan is utterly shameless. The engagement isn’t even officially called off, yet the moment he heard your father was seeking investors, he sent over four or five termination contracts. The amounts listed? Not a single loss on his part. Never mind the disgusting things his son did."
Ye Shengsheng cut off her mother’s rant with a pout. "Mom, can’t I just not marry into an arranged match?"
Three seconds of silence. Then Ruan Qinglan gently reminded her, "Sweetheart, you were the one who said you didn’t have feelings for anyone and were willing to give Zhu Ze a try. Your father and I never liked him—average looks, mediocre height, terrible genes for future generations."
The unspoken message: they’d always supported her freedom to choose. This mess was entirely of her own making.
Ye Shengsheng choked on her words. She couldn’t admit she’d been an idiot back then—nor would she let them off the hook so easily.
"If you didn't like him, why didn’t you say so earlier? Now you think he’s ugly and short? Being so careless about an arranged marriage partner makes me seriously suspect I was a baby picked out of a trash can."
Ruan Qinglan laughed. "With how much you and Old Ye look alike—like two peas in a pod—even if you were picked from a trash can, it’d only be because he staged the whole thing, throwing you out first just to pick you back up."
"Mom, I’m already this miserable, and you’re still laughing..."
Knowing when to yield was the mark of wisdom, so Ruan Qinglan quickly switched her tone. "This time, it won’t be necessary. If Bian Che invests, you can marry whoever you want. Find yourself a Korean oppa, and Mom will support you."
Ye Shengsheng secretly rolled her eyes, making sure her mother didn’t see.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming call from an unfamiliar local number, cutting off the video chat. After sending a quick message to Ruan Qinglan, she answered directly. "Hello?"
A man’s unfamiliar voice came through. "Miss Ye, we’ve made progress on the matter you asked us to investigate."
...
The chaotic day finally came to an end.
The next morning, when Ye Shengsheng left her hotel room, she deliberately lightened her footsteps, afraid of running into the jinx next door. Without contacting her driver, she hailed a taxi from the hotel and headed straight to a private detective agency in Central.
The cubicles in Hong Kong were notoriously small. After exiting the elevator on the 26th floor and navigating a maze of twists and turns, she finally found the address tucked away in a corner.
A sign read: HARF Detective Agency.
Beneath it, a smaller line declared: Your Trust, Our Commitment.
Ye Shengsheng knocked, and the sound of rolling chair wheels greeted her before a man in a suit came jogging out. He was slightly overweight, with greasy hair and black-framed glasses—nothing like the detective she’d imagined, more resembling a subway creep who’d secretly take photos.
The man extended his hand, flashing a bright smile. "Hello, Miss Ye. I’m Mao Dong, chief detective at HARF Detective Agency."
Ye Shengsheng didn’t shake his hand, her sunglasses still perched on her nose as she gave an indifferent hum.
Unfazed, Mao Dong enthusiastically ushered her inside.
HARF Detective Agency consisted of a single desk. Near the entrance was a two-seater sofa, its leather so worn it was impossible to tell if its original color had been cream or white. Tucked into the building’s corner, the office had poor lighting, and the glass door was plastered with labels: Marital Investigations, Third-Party Investigations, Pre-Marital Checks, Personnel Tracking, Pre-Litigation Inquiries, and Various Evidence Collection.
Ye Shengsheng didn’t want to judge by appearances, but her hopes were already half-dashed.
Her trip to Hong Kong wasn’t solely for that pigeon’s blood ruby—hiring a private detective was the real purpose of this visit.
As if sensing her skepticism, Mao Dong poured tea and got straight to business. "The Luo Ziming you asked us to investigate is indeed abroad right now."
He pulled his chair closer, sitting across from Ye Shengsheng, his expression turning serious. "But here’s the strange part—before leaving the country, he received a transfer of 100,000 yuan. Judging by his recent spending, from the Rhine River to chocolate museums, it looks more like he’s on vacation."
Ye Shengsheng coughed lightly, explaining somewhat awkwardly, "That’s not strange. I was the one who sent him that money."
"No wonder," Mao Dong said, realization dawning. "I checked his domestic bank records—the guy’s always been strapped for cash."
After listening for a while, she suggested, "He’s currently blackmailing—uh, blackmailing a friend of mine for a lot of money. Is there any way to hire detectives abroad to bring him back to China?"
"Miss Ye, you’re quite the loyal friend. But that would be illegal," Mao Dong chuckled. "Chinese police don’t even have jurisdiction in Italy, let alone local private detectives. If your friend is genuinely being threatened, they should report it to the police and coordinate with the Italian embassy for a cross-border arrest to extradite him."
So Bian Che hadn’t lied to her. Ye Shengsheng prepared to leave.
Mao Dong gathered the findings into a folder and handed it to her. "Miss Ye, here’s the compiled report. I’ll destroy the digital copies. Since I didn’t know you were the one who transferred money to Luo Ziming, I also looked into the primary cardholder. Turns out there’s a medical record from Sant’Agostino Private Clinic in Italy, so it’s probably nothing serious."
Ye Shengsheng’s delicate brows furrowed. "What kind of hospital is that?"
"A cancer hospital."
As if drained of strength, her hand suddenly went slack, and the folder hit the floor with a heavy thud.
