Ten years later, in Taipei, there was a charity dinner where celebrities gathered.
Zhao Yan has transformed from the sickly young master of the Zhao family into the sharpest knife in the family's business map. The twenty-six-year-old man wore a black suit and stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of the banquet hall. He held a glass of champagne that he had not drunk much in his hand, like a sword hidden in satin, with a warm sheath and a cold blade.
Someone in the crowd called him. He turned around, chatting with a certain political and business celebrity, and inadvertently glanced at the spiral staircase at the other end of the banquet hall.
A girl is coming down the stairs.
She wore a dark green velvet dress, and her hair was tied loosely behind her head, revealing a slender neck. The way she walks is very nice, unhurried, like a knife being slowly unsheathed - you know it's not for cutting steak, but you can't tell how sharp it is because it hasn't seen blood yet.
Zhao Yan's eyes fell on her right cheekbone.
A small mole.
