The night Lu Beichen, the heir to Beijing’s elite circles, publicly humiliated Shen Qingyao by calling her a “simp,” she let the alcohol embolden her and did something even more daring.
She barged into the private domain of a man even Lu Beichen feared.
“Mr. Lu,” she said, the corners of her eyes flushed red, her beauty heartbreakingly delicate, her voice soft and enticing. “Your son says I’m not even worthy of putting on his shoes.”
Lu Yanshen sat in the dim light, rolling a strand of prayer beads between his fingers, his bearing as cold as a mountaintop in winter. He lifted his eyes and looked at her in silence, his expression unreadable.
The next second, Shen Qingyao stumbled forward and pressed her soft lips straight against his cool, thin ones.
The prayer beads stopped.
Their lips parted almost immediately. She gave a breathless laugh, like a temptress who’d gotten her way. “Be his simp? I’d rather have you, Mr. Lu, kneel down and call me stepmother from now on.”
Everyone said Lu Yannan, the Buddhist lord of Beijing’s elite circles, was pure as snow in the clouds, untouched by the dust of the world.
But in that moment, Shen Qingyao clearly saw the dark storm in his eyes, enough to burn her to ashes. His strong, defined hand gripped the back of her neck and pressed her down onto the sofa again. His hot breath scalded her ear as he murmured a shameless praise for her good behavior.
Later, Lu Beichen stood outside her home, red-eyed, begging to get back together. “Qingqing, I know I was wrong. Give me another chance...”
Inside, Lu Yanshen pinned Shen Qingyao against the door, his fingertips brushing the suggestive red marks on her neck. His voice was low and seductive:
“Be good. Say it so that unfilial son can hear.”
