Chapter 7: “Scarlet Games and Shattered Glass”

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🔥 Chapter 7: “Scarlet Games and Shattered Glass”

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The charity gala was held at Celestia Grand Hotel, where the rich paraded like royalty and the lies wore silk.

A valet opened the car door for me.

“Name?” he asked.

“Shen Zhi.”

He blinked. “You’re... Miss Shen?”

I smiled. “I get that a lot.”

And stepped out.

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My dress was fire-engine red.

Satin. Sleeveless. Slit high enough to offend fake aunties but classy enough to make every camera turn.

Hair swept up.

Eyes sharp.

Neck bare—except for a thin, silver chain that once belonged to my mother.

Tonight wasn’t about fashion.

It was about power.

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I walked in. Every head turned.

That was the goal.

Let them all remember:

I wasn’t the same Shen Zhi they thought they could silence.

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At the far end of the ballroom, I saw them.

My father. My stepmother.

Still perfect. Still pretending. Still poison in perfume.

He wore his usual polished fake smile.

She held a champagne flute like it was a weapon.

She was the one who told people I needed therapy. That I had anger issues. That I was unstable.

Too bad for her—I was finally stable enough to ruin her.

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“Zhi,” she cooed, slithering closer. “You look... different.”

“Red suits me,” I said, sipping my drink. “Like truth does.”

Father cleared his throat awkwardly. “Let’s not create a scene.”

“Oh no, of course not,” I said sweetly. “Let’s save that for the press conference, right? Or maybe the charity auction?”

Her hand tensed around her glass.

I leaned in. “I hope you didn’t donate under someone else’s name again this year. That last fraud case almost got interesting.”

Her fake smile cracked.

Step 1: Shake their mask.

Step 2: Break it.

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Before she could recover, a new voice cut in.

Low. Smooth. Slightly amused.

“You always stir storms in silk, don’t you?”

I turned—and froze for half a second.

Li Zeyan.

Black tux. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of ice water.

He looked like sin and secrets.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” I said, cool but curious.

“I’m a patron,” he said. “My mother runs the art fund.”

Ah. The elusive backstory begins.

He looked at my dress, then met my gaze again.

“Red suits you,” he said, voice even. “You look like revenge.”

I smirked. “Maybe I am.”

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We stood like that. Surrounded by crystal chandeliers, champagne bubbles, fake compliments.

Then he did the unthinkable.

He offered his hand. “One dance?”

“You don’t dance,” I replied.

“Maybe I changed,” he said. “Maybe I’m not the only one.”

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We moved to the dance floor.

It wasn’t crowded—just a swirl of elites pretending to enjoy the music.

His hand on my waist wasn’t too firm, but not hesitant either.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“So,” I said softly. “Why the sudden attention?”

“You’re different.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“But I mean it,” he murmured, eyes never leaving mine. “You were glass before. Pretty. Breakable.”

“And now?”

“Now?” He smirked. “You’re a mirror. Anyone who attacks sees their own ugly reflection.”

I blinked.

For a second, the music drowned out.

Was this... admiration?

Or was I letting my guard down?

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He pulled me in just slightly closer.

“You’ve got a secret,” he whispered. “Something big. Dangerous. I can see it in your eyes.”

I didn’t flinch. “So do you.”

“Touché.”

---

A scream shattered the moment.

Heads turned.

My stepmother stood near the donation table, red wine spilled across her white gown, a phone clutched in her hand.

“What the hell is this?!” she shouted.

On the big screen behind the stage, someone had hacked the slideshow.

Instead of donor names...

It displayed emails.

Her emails.

Fake donation receipts. Blacklisted offshore accounts.

Whispers. Then gasps. Then the quiet click of phone cameras.

My father looked like he’d swallowed a brick.

I stood still. Calm.

Hands folded.

Watching her unravel in real-time.

She spun toward me. “YOU—YOU DID THIS!”

“No,” I said calmly. “But I wish I had.”

Security moved in. The board members whispered.

The press—previously bored—rushed forward.

And I?

I simply turned away.

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Later, as I waited by the hotel garden fountain, Li Zeyan joined me again.

“You’re not shaken,” he said.

“She deserved worse.”

“I’m not judging. I’m just... watching.”

“You always watch.”

He looked at me then. Really looked.

“What happens next?” he asked.

I looked at the city skyline, heart steady.

“I find out who’s sending me the notes. Who hacked that screen. Who wants me to win... and why.”

“And if they want something in return?”

I smiled coldly.

“Then I hope they’re prepared to bleed.”

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That night, I got another message.

Not from the watcher.

From a new number.

A video clip.

Of my father.

On a call.

> “Keep her under control. If she speaks, we’re both finished. Use the old photos if you have to. She’s weak inside. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

No caption. No threat.

Just the video.

And for the first time since this all began...

I felt my hands tremble.

Not from fear.

From fury.

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