Yesterday, 01:34 AM
Zixin Kao was intrigued by Cyrena Marveet. The last name alone had sparked his curiosity, but the blood connection made everything click. Jaxen, his old friend, was her brother—that much he deduced quickly. As the speech carried on, Zixin used the moment to send Jaxen a quick message.
Watching your daddy’s inauguration.
The reply was instant.
Poor you. I assume my shithead siblings are there.
Met your hot sister. What’s her deal?
Cyrena is scary as hell. I wouldn’t mess with her.
Zixin chuckled softly, tucking his sleek Wallet back into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket. The smirk lingered, but his thoughts soon drifted away from Cyrena and landed squarely on Jessika. It wasn’t much of a surprise to the leader of the Singaporean Syndicate that she was here. Jessika’s involvement in what was undoubtedly an international conspiracy undoubtedly led to her current position.
As the applause died down, Zixin made his move. Sliding through the clusters of Vasilevs and politicians like smoke, he slipped into Jessika’s orbit with ease, his white tuxedo cutting a sharp figure against the ballroom.
“Jessika, Jessika,” he said, his tone both warm and deliberate. He took her hand, lifting it to brush his lips against her knuckles. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Zixin Kao, although I trust my reputation precedes me.”
Jessika’s response was immediate, her energy bright and almost overwhelming. Her smile lit up her entire face, her gestures sweeping as though she’d rehearsed this moment. Yet her accent—an easy, southern lilt—caught Zixin off guard. Fascinating, he mused. His own English was polished, neutral to the point of artifice, but hers carried a distinct, disarming charm.
“Mister Kao, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope you’re having a lovely night,” she said warmly.
His eyes flickered with amusement. “Now that you are here, we have some business to discuss, I believe.”
Her brows shot up, the surprise obvious—but not entirely genuine. She was toying with him, he realized. “Business?” she echoed, tone tight. “I don’t reckon we have any business. But I do reckon you could take me on a date.”
For a moment, Zixin’s expression froze, his thoughts skittering between admiration and calculation. Bold, he thought. This one plays the game well. He recovered quickly, letting a lazy smile spread across his face. “That, I can do. Dance?” He extended a hand, his confidence steady, his gaze fixed on hers.
Jessika tilted her head, smiling sweetly—but there was steel behind her eyes. “Oh, darlin’, I can’t let one man monopolize me all night.” Her fingers brushed against his lapel, lingering just long enough to send a message before she turned away. “As much as I might want him to.” Then, with a wink, she left him standing there, turning her attention to another guest clamoring for her time.
Zixin’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A flash of anger coiled in his chest—sharp and unwelcome. But years of playing the game had taught him how to mask such slips. He adjusted his tie and turned smoothly, the cool smirk returning as though it had never left.
Passing by Adrian, Zixin caught the other man’s knowing glance. Adrian raised his glass in mock toast. “Subtle,” he murmured.
Watching your daddy’s inauguration.
The reply was instant.
Poor you. I assume my shithead siblings are there.
Met your hot sister. What’s her deal?
Cyrena is scary as hell. I wouldn’t mess with her.
Zixin chuckled softly, tucking his sleek Wallet back into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket. The smirk lingered, but his thoughts soon drifted away from Cyrena and landed squarely on Jessika. It wasn’t much of a surprise to the leader of the Singaporean Syndicate that she was here. Jessika’s involvement in what was undoubtedly an international conspiracy undoubtedly led to her current position.
As the applause died down, Zixin made his move. Sliding through the clusters of Vasilevs and politicians like smoke, he slipped into Jessika’s orbit with ease, his white tuxedo cutting a sharp figure against the ballroom.
“Jessika, Jessika,” he said, his tone both warm and deliberate. He took her hand, lifting it to brush his lips against her knuckles. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Zixin Kao, although I trust my reputation precedes me.”
Jessika’s response was immediate, her energy bright and almost overwhelming. Her smile lit up her entire face, her gestures sweeping as though she’d rehearsed this moment. Yet her accent—an easy, southern lilt—caught Zixin off guard. Fascinating, he mused. His own English was polished, neutral to the point of artifice, but hers carried a distinct, disarming charm.
“Mister Kao, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope you’re having a lovely night,” she said warmly.
His eyes flickered with amusement. “Now that you are here, we have some business to discuss, I believe.”
Her brows shot up, the surprise obvious—but not entirely genuine. She was toying with him, he realized. “Business?” she echoed, tone tight. “I don’t reckon we have any business. But I do reckon you could take me on a date.”
For a moment, Zixin’s expression froze, his thoughts skittering between admiration and calculation. Bold, he thought. This one plays the game well. He recovered quickly, letting a lazy smile spread across his face. “That, I can do. Dance?” He extended a hand, his confidence steady, his gaze fixed on hers.
Jessika tilted her head, smiling sweetly—but there was steel behind her eyes. “Oh, darlin’, I can’t let one man monopolize me all night.” Her fingers brushed against his lapel, lingering just long enough to send a message before she turned away. “As much as I might want him to.” Then, with a wink, she left him standing there, turning her attention to another guest clamoring for her time.
Zixin’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A flash of anger coiled in his chest—sharp and unwelcome. But years of playing the game had taught him how to mask such slips. He adjusted his tie and turned smoothly, the cool smirk returning as though it had never left.
Passing by Adrian, Zixin caught the other man’s knowing glance. Adrian raised his glass in mock toast. “Subtle,” he murmured.