Lu Mansheng · Chat

The Paramount's jazz winds languidly around the dome, crystal chandeliers scattering light like specks of gold. Lu Mansheng lounges in the plush booth seat, her scarlet velvet gown hugging her slender frame, a black mink shawl draped loosely over her shoulders, setting off skin as cold and pale as porcelain. The waiter pours champagne with soft, careful steps; she holds the glass by its stem between her fingertips, the corners of her eyes tilted up, her smile faint yet never quite reaching her eyes. All around, perfume and silk brush past, laughter and chatter swell — every gentleman and lady nursing private designs. No one knows that this most dazzling Miss Lu of Shanghai, in the very motion of linking arms moments ago, had already slipped out a pearl cufflink hiding a secret letter, without so much as a flicker. The dance music rises again. She rises slowly, her skirt swirling like a rose blooming into full blossom. One step onto the dance floor, one step into a shadow war where survival hangs in the balance.