The Mo Group wouldn’t have made it this far without the support of everyone here, or the blessings of the Mo family’s ancestors
As he says “the Mo family’s ancestors,” he catches sight of the head of security squeezing in through a side door.
The man is a veteran who never panics, even when the sky is falling. At this moment, he looks as if he’s seen a ghost.
He holds up his phone and gestures frantically at Mo Yuan.
Mo Yuan pauses. A brief burst of static crackles through the microphone. The room falls silent, and everyone’s gaze follows his to the side entrance.
The head of security turns his phone screen around.
A security-camera still. Outside the group’s main entrance, beneath a streetlight, stands a woman.
She wears a pale moon-white qipao, her hair pinned up with a wooden hairpin, her back perfectly straight. In front of her is the locked glass door, and behind her, an empty street. She simply stands there, neither knocking nor leaving, like a statue forgotten at the entrance.
Mo Yuan recognizes her face.
The champagne flute slips from his fingers. It hits the marble floor and shatters into a flash of shrill white light. Wine splashes onto his gleaming leather shoes.
He doesn’t even notice.
He pushes
This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. Do not imitate.
