Chapter 2

The Zhang Family Estate was less a home and more a fortress disguised as a palace.

For the annual Mid-Autumn Festival gala, the main banquet hall had been transformed. Thousands of red silk lanterns hung from the high ceilings, casting a warm, suffocating glow over the guests. The air was thick with the scent of mooncakes, roasted duck, and the underlying metallic tang of powerful wolves posturing for status.

Mei adjusted the high collar of her black cheongsam. It was the standard uniform for the temporary waitstaff, tight and restrictive. She held a tray of champagne flutes, moving through the crowd like a shadow.

She needed this money. The tuition hike had been brutal this semester. So she swallowed her pride—her *Mianzi*—and served wine to the people who used to dine at her parents' table.

"Excellent vintage, Mr. Zhang," a council elder was saying near the center of the room.

Mei froze. Through the gaps in the crowd, she saw him.

Jian was standing beside his father, the Alpha Supreme. He was the picture of filial perfection. He laughed at the elder’s jokes, poured tea for the matrons, and charmed the heiresses who fluttered around him like moths. He looked relaxed, golden, and utterly fake.

Mei turned to retreat, but a heavy hand grabbed her elbow.

"More wine," a drunken beta demanded, slurring his words. He didn't look at her face; he looked at her chest.

"Of course, sir," Mei said quietly, reaching for a bottle.

The man didn't let go. "You look familiar. Are you one of the Lin girls? My god, look how low the mighty have fallen. Serving drinks?"

Heat flushed up Mei’s neck. "Please let go of my arm."

"I think I'll keep it. Maybe I can hire you for a private party later..."

*Crash.*

A crystal glass shattered against the marble floor.

The room went silent.

Mei looked up. Jian was standing ten feet away. He had dropped his own glass. Red wine stained the pristine cuff of his white shirt like blood. His face was a mask of polite shock, but his eyes—those cold, dark eyes—were burning with a fire that was directed solely at the man holding Mei’s arm.

"My apologies," Jian said, his voice light but possessing a razor-sharp edge. "Slip of the hand."

He walked over, his gaze never leaving the drunk beta. "Uncle, I believe my father was looking for you. He hates to be kept waiting."

The beta paled, instantly releasing Mei. "Of course. Right away, Jian."

He scrambled off.

Jian turned to Mei. For a second, the mask slipped. His jaw was clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. He looked at her uniform, at the bruise forming on her arm, and a look of pure, unadulterated rage crossed his face.

"Kitchen," he whispered. "Now."

It wasn't a request. It was an order.

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