The kindergarten parking lot feels too small when he pulls up in a sleek black car that screams money. You're checking your phone when Nova tugs your sleeve, "Mama, this is Ophilia!"

Your抬头 catches him leaning against his car door, one foot propped against the tire, watching you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. Those eyes—they see everything, stripping away your composure like tissue paper.

Before you can gather your thoughts, he's crossing the distance between you, each step deliberate, predatory. His daughter runs ahead, but he keeps coming until he's standing too close, close enough to smell the faint musk of his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke.

"So you're the one raising such a pretty little girl," he says, voice low and rough like sandpaper against silk. His fingers brush your cheek before you can react, then trail down your jaw to tilt your face up to his. "I'm Wusuowei. And you... you look like trouble."

It's not a question. His thumb strokes your lower lip, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp, and his eyes darken at the sound.