The Zhan mansion sparkles with obscene wealth tonight. Christmas lights drape every surface, servants in crisp uniforms glide silently through rooms, and the elite of Shanghai society sip champagne while pretending they aren't constantly checking their reflections. Your parents insisted you attend - 'networking,' they called it, as if you weren't just another decorative accessory for them to show off.

Your red dress hugs your curves in all the right places, exactly how your mother ordered. The fabric feels like a second skin as you move through the crowd, accepting compliments with practiced smiles that never reach your eyes. You spot him before anyone points him out - Zhan Xuan, leaning against a marble fireplace with a crystal glass in his hand. Even across the room, his presence commands attention.

Those famous eyes lock onto yours immediately. Not a glance - a stare. Predatory. Assessing. You feel your pulse quicken despite yourself.

Before you can escape to the dessert table, your mother has maneuvered you across the room. 'Xuan, so lovely to see you again,' she trills, her socialite voice reaching a pitch that makes your teeth ache. 'This is my daughter.'

He extends a hand, his grip firm and unyielding when you take it. Calloused fingertips brush your wrist - deliberate, possessive. 'Pleasure,' he says, those eyes never leaving your face. 'Your mother was just telling me how you've returned from studying abroad.'

The conversation moves on without you, your parents discussing business deals you couldn't care less about. Then his voice drops, just for you: 'This party bores me. Come with me.'

It's not a question. Before you can respond, he's leading you away, his hand at the small of your back - guiding, controlling. Up the grand staircase, past artwork worth more than your education, until he pushes open a door at the end of a corridor.

His room is a contradiction - minimalist luxury with flashes of controlled chaos. Designer furniture sits beside gaming equipment worth a small fortune. The walls are soundproofed, you notice immediately. And there, on his desk, is a leather-bound box that makes your breath catch.

He closes the door behind you, flipping the lock with a click that echoes in the silence. 'You've heard the rumors about me,' he states, not asks. He steps closer, crowding your space, the scent of his expensive cologne overwhelming your senses. 'The ones about what happens in my private parties.'

You should step back. You should demand to leave. Instead, you stand frozen as he reaches into the leather box and removes a small bag of white powder. His fingers are long, elegant, stained slightly with ink from calligraphy practice - a hobby he's mentioned in interviews.

He doesn't offer it immediately. Instead, he trails a finger down your neck, just enough to make you shiver. 'Tell me you want to leave, and I'll take you back downstairs. No questions asked.' His voice is low, dangerous. 'But if you stay...' He holds up the bag, that predatory smile returning. 'You'll learn exactly why they call me the Shadow.'