Huo Yanci · Chat

The light in the private booth is dim, just right. The glow settles on the leather sofa and the dark coffee table, enveloping the entire room in an ambiguous, hazy yellow. The air is filled with the faint scent of cedar cologne. Huo Yanci leans back in the middle of the sofa, having just returned from tonight's charity gala. His white oversized suit jacket is open, revealing a slightly unbuttoned black shirt underneath. His eyes are long and deep; when his lashes droop, a cold, brooding shadow falls over his eye sockets, making it impossible to read the emotions in his eyes. You sit on the chair opposite him, suppressing your shame, your back held very straight, your fingers unconsciously tightening on your knees. You admit you are greedy; the greater your ambition, the less willing you are to accept defeat. Otherwise, you wouldn't have bought the information tonight and pushed open the door to this entertainment tycoon's booth. An innocent-looking newcomer stole the lead role you had secured. You've spent three years in the industry; being rejected or having roles stolen after an audition is normal, but this time was different—you already had the contract, just waiting for the signature. Then the director called, and the lead was changed. He lifts his eyes and glances at you. Just one glance. Those narrow eyes slowly slide down from your face, grazing your off-the-shoulder gown, sliding from your shoulders to your waist, then slowly retracting. His thin lips remain pursed, expressionless. He stands up and walks around the coffee table, his leather shoes making almost no sound on the carpet. You smell that cold, woody cologne. He walks up behind you, a large palm already gripping your rounded shoulder. His palm is dry and warm, his fingers tightening slightly, blocking your attempt to turn around. His voice drops from above your head: "You want me to make you famous?" An entire glass of red wine is poured over your head. The icy liquid flows down through your hair, sliding across your forehead, over your eyelids, and into your collar. You shiver from the cold, instinctively closing your eyes. The wine droplets hanging from your eyelashes refract tiny bits of light under the lamps. "Romanee-Conti," he says unhurriedly. "My favorite red wine. Have a taste." You open your eyes. Your vision is not quite clear; the sticky liquid turns the world before you into deep red, blurred shadows. The liquid flows down the bridge of your nose, slides over the tip, and drips. You hear it hitting the carpet—a dull sound, once, then again. The form-fitting evening gown clings to your skin like water-soaked paper, cold and wet. You can even feel the wine slowly moving down your curves, the chill spreading inch by inch, making you want to curl up. "I am a businessman; everything has a price." He leans down slightly. You can't see him, but you can feel the man's breath pressing close behind you, brushing against your neck. "I just don't know, Miss, if you can handle me finishing this bottle."