So I named three conditions.
- Lyra must be terminated.
- Half of Yuan’s shares in Aladdin must be placed into a trust—the moment Snow is pregnant with my child.
- Snow must conceive. Immediately. With me.
Only when all three are fulfilled will I move. Especially the first. Without Lyra’s death, the rest is noise.
Twenty-five years of political maneuvering taught me one immutable truth: Lyra cannot be crossed.
In the Ruby Republic, those who tried are either buried or rotting in prison. She doesn’t retaliate. She erases.
Yuan Ma smiled, calm and confident. He claimed he’d already secured a Ruby Five’s approval for her elimination. The trap was set. Lyra wouldn’t walk out of it.
“How did you get Qiuhan Wang to agree?” I asked.
He smiled again. Said nothing.
Of course it was Qiuhan. No other Ruby Five would risk losing their offshore portfolios Lyra manages. But Qiuhan has no heir. That makes him lethal. He’s unburdened by legacy, and he wields the Disciplinary Arm of the Party like a scalpel—purging with precision, never remorse.
Plus, Qiuhan is Yuan's guardian in the Ruby Five. Yuan's father, a renowned physician, once cured Qiuhan of a nasty disease.
Someone must’ve whispered that Lyra was a threat to their stock market operation. That would be enough.
I'm not sure how much Yuan Ma knows about that operation. It's on need to know basis, I assume. But it's the only thing that truly matters. The stock market is the battlefield that will determine the 2017 leadership transition.
They won’t have evidence. They won’t need it. In the Red Party, belief is sufficient for conviction.
As for my own interests—without Lyra, I gain more leverage over Evangeline. I have the infrastructure to ride the collapse and profit from the wreckage. But only if she's dead. If she survives, I walk.
Yuan Ma didn’t flinch. We shook hands.
He was so confident in Lyra’s demise, he urged us to begin work on Snow’s pregnancy immediately.
Even a blood test couldn't guarantee she wasn't already pregnant. But there was little to worry about. Turns out, she had always had an IUD.
I brought Snow back to Elysian. Got her doctor to remove her IUD. Ran the blood work anyway.
Her LH levels are through the roof. She's ready to ovulate.
… …
Snow commands the presidential suite of Elysian with effortless authority, carrying herself as though she signed the deed herself. As second-generation wealth, she radiates the unshakable confidence of someone born believing the world exists for her convenience.
Watch how she lounges on my bed—not perched nervously at the edge, but sprawled across it with deliberate ease. Legs crossed, arms stretched behind her, chin tilted upward in quiet defiance. She doesn’t ask for permission to be here. She occupies space like it’s her birthright. Her posture says it all: I belong anywhere I choose to be.
Her scent fills the room—bold, provocative, unapologetic. The short skirt, the sleeveless camisole, the way she lets her hair fall without fuss—it’s all curated, but not for me. She dresses for herself. She performs ownership, not seduction.
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That’s why this will never work. We’re both too good at claiming. Neither of us learned how to give.
“So how do you want to do this?” she asks, pointing to her abdomen. “Getting me pregnant.”
“Never,” I scoff. “Not if you keep up this off-putting mood.”
“You would too,” she snaps, “if your father whored you out to get knocked up.”
I study her. “I thought you had a crush on me.”
“Once.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “Before you set me up for murder.”
I didn’t. Not directly. But I did help Lyra.
“I never understood it,” I say, grinning. “You knew I wasn’t the marrying type.”
“Of course. Me neither. I expect an open marriage.”
“Sure. As long as you only bear my children.” I say, and I hear the possessiveness in my own voice.
She must have heard it too. And somehow that soothes her.
Her eyes soften. A mist settles over them, like she’s remembering something she hasn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.
“I guess I have father issues,” she murmurs. “I like men who know what they want and aren’t afraid to take it. And I had this... false hope about your character.”
I laugh, dry and unkind. “Even I know my character’s beyond repair. Then why do you want this now?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Because I want my son to take over Aladdin. Not my spoiled little brother.”
“Our son.” I correct her. Yet, her voice sharpens when she speaks of inheritance. Of power. That, I understand. That, I respect.
Then she adds, quieter: “You don’t have to worry. I stopped having recreational sex since I walked out of that police station.”
Her gaze drops. The memory clings to her like smoke—unspoken, unresolved. Whatever happened in there, it didn’t just bruise her. It reshaped her.
And suddenly, I feel something unfamiliar. Pity. Not the kind you offer strangers. The kind that unsettles you.
I’ve never felt sorry for anyone. Sympathy is a luxury people in my business can't afford.
But tonight, it lingers. Just long enough to make me wonder what she lost—and what she’s still willing to give.
I don't find her attractive—certainly not physically. She's short, plain despite all her surgeries. But in this moment, I recognize a strength forged through endurance. A kind of strength that survives humiliation and still dares to fight.
She rises from the bed, steps closer, tilts her face toward mine. She’s trying to reach my mouth.
I lower to meet her.
Her lips touch mine, tentative at first. Then her tongue slips past, searching for something—passion, maybe. Connection. I suddenly realize I haven’t kissed anyone in a very long time. Definitely not with someone who wants something more than pleasure.
But I feel nothing. No patience. No mood. No spark.
I stop her.
“This isn’t going to work,” I say. “If we’re going to do this, we might as well enjoy the process.”
I walk out of the room and make the call.
Two minutes later, Shanshan walks in. She knows how to give. To me. To herself. To Snow. To the moment.
Snow watches her enter, and says nothing.
… …
The atmosphere suddenly feels erotic. Shanshan's skirt cascades down her legs like liquid silk, pooling around her stilettos. She steps free with balletic grace, her white blouse barely containing curves that command attention with each subtle sway.
She walks straight up to Snow. The height difference between them creates a beautiful tension as Shanshan lowers herself to the bed's edge. With gentle authority, she guides Snow's hands to her shoulders, drawing her closer until their breath mingles. The first kiss lands soft yet purposeful—an invitation rather than a demand.
The kiss blossoms into a full on make out session. Their lips part, tongues meeting in a dance of curiosity and hunger. As they continue, their hands begin wandering across each other's bodies. Clothing falls away as they eagerly remove the barriers between them. Shanshan breaks from the kiss only to trace her lips down Snow's neck, finding her nipples with reverent attention that elicits a shuddering sigh.
Snow appears to be enjoying herself. I am surprised by how fast she is pushing the envelope. From my view, I witness her hand fondle and pull on Shanshan's nipples, then drop down and, no doubt, play with her vagina. The way Shanshan is moving around and moaning, Snow is doing a good job.
I sit next to Shanshan and teasingly rub Snow's ass, then drop my fingers to her private center. There is no denying her sexual drive. Pussy juice is not just on her folds but has already oozed down one of her thighs. When my fingers enter her, the sound she makes vibrates through the room—part surrender, part challenge. I rub her G-spot, then feel Shanshan's fingers similarly exploring Snow's intimate area, but focusing on her clit, creating a counterpoint rhythm that has Snow trembling between us.
Minutes pass in this suspended reality until I can wait no longer. Rising behind Snow, I free myself and enter her in one fluid motion. The sensation is overwhelming—her body yielding yet somehow defiant. I grip her hips with fingers that will surely leave marks, driving into her with purpose rather than tenderness. This isn't about connection or even pleasure—it's about legacy, power, continuation. Yet as her body tightens around mine, I'm struck by the thought that even in this most mercenary of unions, our bodies have found a brutal harmony that transcends our intentions.