Cheng Anya froze.
Yang Zekun stood there in a formal suit, tall and striking. His elegant features, already refined like jade, took on an even more translucent glow under the colorful bar lights.
So clean, so pure—it felt like a sin to even look too long.
Most of the people who came here to unwind were high-pressure elites. By night, they shed their polished daytime masks and indulged in the release of all that built-up tension.
"Senior, I'm just here to keep someone company. What about you?" Cheng Anya silently prayed that Yang Zekun wouldn't run into Ye Chen.
She suddenly realized why her senior had once asked if she knew Ye Chen. He must've sensed something.
"There are a few deals I'm working on." As he spoke, a drunk man stumbled across the floor, nearly crashing into Cheng Anya. Quick as lightning, Yang Zekun wrapped an arm around her slender waist and spun her gently out of the way.
"Careful."
Their bodies collided, pressed close. Softness met strength, forming a moment of beauty like a painting come to life. Cheng Anya's heart still raced from the scare, and a faint scent of cologne drifted past her nose—elegant and clean, cutting through the heavy smell of alcohol in the air.
That was his scent—one she would never mistake.
This scene landed squarely in Ye Chen's line of sight. To him, it was intimate. Passionate. His head tilted back, and he downed a glass of Rémy Martin Louis XIII in one fierce gulp.
His cold eyes flashed with a dangerous glint, and a fire sparked in his chest—wild, consuming, spreading like a prairie blaze. Even he was startled by the intensity.
Damn that Cheng Anya!
If he had known this would happen, he never would've asked her out tonight.
Truthfully, Ye Chen had invited Cheng Anya for drinks on nothing but a whim.
"Young Master Yang. What a pleasure," came Ye Chen's voice—icy and sharp—cutting cleanly between the two.
Cheng Anya jerked as if electrocuted. She instantly pulled herself away from Yang Zekun, heart pounding wildly.
Damn it. Of course fate had to mess with her.
"Third Young Master Ye, I've heard much about you." Yang Zekun extended his hand. A fleeting, unreadable glimmer passed through his gentle eyes, too fast to catch—but he masked it flawlessly, greeting Ye Chen with graceful poise.
Two hands—both powerful, both used to commanding storms—clasped tightly.
One warm. One cold. Both wearing perfect, faultless smiles.
Cheng Anya suddenly felt a chill race down her spine.
Their gazes clashed in a silent duel. The bar noise faded to a distant hum. The very air between them crackled with the fiery tension unique to a showdown between men.
Razor sharp.
This was the wild instinct of alpha males—the raw, primal competition that needed no words.