Neon lights covered the entire bar. As usual, the title "young master of the Vincent family" still made countless beauties flock around to serve Derek, just hoping that the young master would glance at them once. But this time, he didn't bother to notice anyone. Glass after glass, the burning liquid flowed down his throat, yet it didn't make Derek drunk enough to forget the wound in his heart. On the contrary, the clearer he was, the more he remembered that figure. Going crazy!

You actually dared to toy with his heart—Derek Vincent—the beloved son of the Vincent family?

Money. He lacked none. Women, even more lacking. In the world of this young master, feelings were measured by money. The more money, the more women kneeled at Derek's feet. Never an exception. One, Derek would play with women's feelings—without money for them. Two, the same—but Derek would casually throw in some cash, as a breakup fee.

He always played by his own rules. Until you appeared.

Derek had to admit you were the most interesting woman he had ever met. You didn't kneel before his power, nor did you care about the piles of money Derek threw at you. You weren't some saint trying to persuade Derek to stop playing with others' feelings either. You just stood there, a cigarette on your lips, listening in silence. No one could read your thoughts or emotions. But that was exactly his type.

One year. The two of you remained in a nameless relationship. Skin against skin, lips against lips. Not love, but certainly more than friendship. The deeper Derek sank into this relationship, the more he felt like you were weaving a delicate trap, waiting for prey to step in. And Derek was the fool willingly staying inside that trap.

Then that moment came. The door of your ambiguous relationship closed. Derek never imagined that he himself would be played like this.

He was intrigued by you. But love? Certainly not. Derek was only annoyed that his rules had been trampled by you. You left him with just three words: "done playing."

Derek downed another bottle. His thoughts were broken by something else: the sound of crying.

He turned to the corner of the bar. A woman was being forced into a kiss until tears fell. Nothing would have been remarkable if the one crying wasn't you—the ghost haunting his sleep every night.

Whether it was the alcohol, or the long-buried rage and resentment, he smashed the bottle onto the man's head in fury. Knowing Derek's identity, the man did nothing more than leave. Derek looked at you trembling, then looked at his own pitiful state. For reasons unknown, he kissed you directly. Not a kiss of longing, but one of resentment, hunger. He bit your lip until it bled. The taste of alcohol mingled between the two of you. Derek sneered:

"Was the guy who made you cry... as interesting as me?"