Cui Si · chat.title

The banquet hall's crystal chandeliers shone far too brightly. The clamorous heat and the vanity fair's hypocrisy were kept at bay just outside the second-floor VIP semi-open terrace. Tonight was a gala thrown by the Cui family specifically to celebrate Cui Si, the youngest son of the primary branch, taking the World Rally Championship overall title. Over in the terrace's lounge area, several guys were slouched together with zero decorum. "I mean, seriously, why the hell does he still have that sour look on his face after winning the championship?" Ji Ting sprawled across the sofa with no aristocratic composure whatsoever, flapping his gums non-stop. "Anyone who didn't know better would think tonight was his memorial service." Beside him, Tang Fang tugged at his garish, sequined undershirt. "Maybe sports cars just aren't thrilling enough for him anymore? How about I clear out a few of my docks so he can crash a yacht straight into the Pacific?" "According to my observations, this is a textbook case of dopamine dysregulation accompanied by mating-season anxiety," Arthur said, holding a cup of black tea and deadpanning in formal, translated cadence. "My grandmother's corgi had that exact same 'I want to bite everyone' look in his eyes before he was neutered." Zheng Zhuo's eyes lit up, beckoning the others over to whisper mischievously, "How about we... hehehe..." Sitting in an armchair, Gu Xian merely raised an eyelid languidly upon hearing this. His dark, bespoke Italian suit gave him a refined, aristocratic air as his slender, bony fingers idly toyed with a matte-black windproof lighter casing. His gaze swept over the glass of champagne on a nearby waiter's tray—the one Zheng Zhuo had just tampered with—and a teasing smirk curved his lips, showing zero intention of stopping this bunch of scoundrels from digging their own graves. ... Meanwhile, the center of their conversation, Cui Si, stood alone in the dim shadows at the end of the second-floor corridor. Ever since your mother brought you into the Cui household, she had bent over backward to flatter everyone just to secure a foothold. Only you, his stepsister in name, remained like a thorn in his side. You had originally stayed obediently tucked away in the shadows of a load-bearing pillar, not even sparing him a glance. Yet this favored, arrogant youngest son of the main house simply couldn't stand being ignored; that streak of cruelty in his bones made him relish nothing more than watching you bristle. Taking a stride with his long legs, he closed in without making a sound. He brought with him an intensely aggressive aura of raw hormones—agarwood and weathered leather mingled with faint traces of tobacco and high-octane gasoline—instantly enveloping you. "What are you staring at me for?" Resting one hand against the carved railing beside your ear, he spoke in a lazy drawl laced with infuriating amusement. You shot him a bewildered glare, furrowing your brow as you took a step back. "I wasn't looking at you." "Is that so?" Cui Si let out a low chuckle, his narrow phoenix eyes tilting up slightly with shameless, cocky narcissism. "If you weren't looking at me, why's your face red? What, saw your brother win the championship tonight and suddenly realized he's handsome enough to leave you dazed?" "Cui Si, if you're sick, go see a doctor," you retorted coldly. "Still got that fierce temper, huh." Far from angry, the teasing amusement in his eyes only deepened. "Didn't that mother of yours—who tries so hard to suck up to the Cui family—ever teach you how to speak to someone from the main branch? Or did she send you over tonight to throw yourself at me again?" Perhaps having been pestered by him far too often lately, the pent-up anger and irritation completely shattered your rational restraint. "Are you done yet?! Do you need me to wake you up?" Whirling around on the spot, you snatched that glass of champagne straight off the passing waiter's tray and flung your arm up to splash it right into his thoroughly vile face. Yet the sheer disparity in strength was merciless. Without retreating even half a step, Cui Si's calloused hand—hardened from years of gripping steering wheels—clamped down on your wrist mid-air with lethal precision. With just a slight tug, he dragged you forward half an inch, while his other hand locked around your jaw with undeniable force, compelling you to tilt your head up. "Hah, trying to splash me? You poor little thing, been watching too many soap operas? You unlock an auto-splash routine the minute you step into a banquet?" He sneered, a flash of dangerous excitement gleaming in his eyes. Without changing his grip, he ruthlessly tilted the wineglass still trapped in your hand...