Linjun comes back from FRC at 6:00, tension radiates from every line of his body. His jaw is set, his brow furrows deep.

  "The chairman told us to investigate Zexi Investment," he says, voice low and tight. "That's the Prime Minister's white glove operator."

  "They're not on the list." I frown, scrolling through the names of firms who bought shorting directives. My finger pauses mid-scroll.

  "I know." His jaw clenches so hard I could see the muscle jump. "He said they might be waiting for the Antz IPO—to borrow money against Antz shares."

  "That's next week," I say.

  "No. It's cancelled." The words drops between us like stones.

  I blink, then inhaled sharply. "That's dramatic. Then what do they do?"

  "They need money." He leans back, arms crossed tight across his chest. "The old fuck told me to trap him."

  "How?" I ask, though something in my gut already know what he is going to say.

  "That's your job." Linjun's eyes fixes on me, something dark and calculating flickering behind them. "He said he'd love to teach you—if you go consult him by yourself."

  His gaze drags slowly from my face down to my chest. Lingering. Hungry.

  He's looked at me with hunger before—always quick, furtive, hidden behind professional courtesy. But this time, he lets the mask drop. His stare crawls over me, deliberate and full of implication.

  I feel my skin prickle. My throat tighten, but I keep my face neutral.

  And that's how our conversation ends.

  … …

  Wednesday afternoon, 4:50 PM. I stand at the gates of the FRC building, badge in hand.

  The guard examines my police ID with skeptical eyes. No one visits the FRC chairman right before closing hour. He opens his mouth—probably to curse me out—then sees my face. His expression shifts. Pretty women are treated differently everywhere.

  "Wait here," he mutters, waving me through.

  I stand by the entrance, hands clasped in front of me. He turns back to his computer screen, stealing glances when he thinks I'm not looking.

  Waves of people leaving work stream out through the gates, one after another. By 5:10 PM, the crowd has thinned to a trickle. My pulse begins to quicken.

  5:15 PM. A black sedan glides to the gate. The rear window lowers, revealing an old man's face.

  I know it's him. He looks just like the official picture on the FRC website—gentle and kind, with a bright smile making him look much younger than sixty-three.

  "Ruolin?" His voice is warm, almost fatherly.

  "Yes, Chairman Bo." My voice is steady.

  "Hop in." He gestures with one hand.

  I walk to the other side of the car and slide into the back seat. The leather is cool against the fabric of my trousers.

  "You're the Superintendent who arrested Snow Ma?" he asks, still smiling. His eyes sweep over me with casual appraisal.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Promoted three levels in a few weeks. You must be really good." There's something in his tone—amusement, curiosity, something else.

  "I do my best, sir."

  "What's the purpose of your visit?"

  "Zexi Investment." I meet his eyes directly.

  "I told Director Sun, it's police work." His gaze locks on mine, unblinking.

  "I need your help." I don't flinch.

  "Why would I help you?" His eyes trace slowly down, then back up.

  "Everything you want, sir." The words leave my mouth before I can second-guess them.

  He nods, as if he expected this answer all along. "What do you need me to do?"

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Introduce me to Xian Xu. As a rich investor."

  "You need to look the part." He studies my uniform with a critical eye.

  "Try me."

  He considers for a moment, then leans forward. "Go to Lane Crawford."

  The driver nods and pulls into traffic.

  … …

  I've been to Lane Crawford before, but only for browsing. My salary can't afford most of the items in this store.

  The store both excites and intimidates me. I walk past glass cases displaying gold-threaded clutches and silk scarves folded like origami secrets. My boots echo against polished marble, each step a small declaration.

  A sales associate offers us a smile—polite, practiced—but I catch the flicker of curiosity in her eyes. A police woman walking beside an older man in ordinary clothes. Everything we're wearing is worth less than the least expensive scarf in the store.

  I stop at the Celine section. I've always admired its cool, minimalist, rock-and-roll aesthetic. Dreamed of owning one piece.

  I pick a yellow dress that's tailored to perfection—sharp at the shoulders, cinched at the waist, with a hemline that falls just above the knee. The fabric is lightweight wool, structured but not stiff. It whispers wealth without shouting it.

  I'm hesitating on the size when Xialai walks closer. He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "You're an eight, but you'd look fantastic in a six."

  I smile, heat flooding my cheeks. It sounds familiar—copied from a movie dialogue—but it works.

  I select a couple more dresses, a pair of high heels, and a black leather bag. "Where's the fitting room?" I ask the sales assistant.

  She sizes me up, judging whether I can afford them. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth before pointing. "To the right."

  My police uniform is intimidating. Otherwise, she might have said something to discourage me.

  Xialai follows me. He settles onto a velvet couch facing the fitting rooms, crossing his legs with easy confidence.

  Inside, I remove my uniform quickly, then take my time with the yellow dress. The color is designed for fair skin—it fits me perfectly. I look at myself in the mirror. The woman looking back is breathtaking.

  I let my hair down, watching it fall in dark waves around my shoulders. After a few seconds of hesitation, I reach back and loosen the zipper. I slip off my bra, pulling it out through the arm slit.

  The dress hugs every curve, the fabric smooth and cool against my bare skin. Without the bra, I feel exposed but powerful—the neckline sits perfectly, revealing just enough to be dangerous.

  I slip on the high heels. Then I open the door just a crack and extend one leg, seductively.

  I hear a sharp inhale.

  Peeking out, I see Xialai on the phone. But his eyes are locked on me—wide, burning with intensity.

  I step fully into view. He immediately puts the phone away, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

  "Can I pull it off?" I ask, turning slowly.

  "Splendidly." His voice is rough with admiration.

  I glance around. No one in sight. I walk back toward the fitting room, and just before I enter, I curl one finger behind my back, beckoning him. I turn my head, giving him a slow, seductive smile, then disappear inside.

  He follows.

  The fitting room is small. The air thickens with tension, electric and dangerous.

  I reach one hand behind my back to unzip. Before I can, his hands are there, warm and steady on the zipper.

  He takes his time, the zipper sliding down slowly—all the way below my waist.

  I let the dress fall, fully expecting him to reach for me, to cup my breasts. He doesn't. Instead, he sits back on the small stool, watching me in the mirror with something like reverence.

  That touches something in me. I've been with many Party men. Never seen anyone with such restraint.

  I turn around, letting him see everything. As I reach for another dress hanging on the wall, my breasts are inches from his face.

  He doesn't move. Just lifts his gaze to meet mine, looking at me as if I'm a sculpture—adoringly, quietly.

  I change in front of him, one dress after another. At one point, I pretend to lose my balance—one leg in the dress, one leg out—and tumble into his lap, topless.

  My body can clearly feel his hardness beneath me, hot and insistent. Yet his hands go to my arms, steadying me, helping me up. He whispers, breath hot against my ear, "Not here. Home."

  Heat floods my face. My heart hammers.

  I quickly try on the last piece. As I take it off and reach for my police uniform, he stops me with a gentle hand. He offers me the yellow dress instead.

  I hesitate, biting my lip. "I can't afford it."

  "You don't have to. I called someone to pick up the tab."

  He walks out. I stare at myself in the mirror—this woman in yellow who looks nothing like a police officer. He returns moments later with a Celine shopping bag.

  He carefully folds my police uniform and places it in the bag, then accompanies me to the counter, holding the stack of dresses.

  Xialai hands all the dresses to the sales assistant, who observes us with intense curiosity. "Will you be taking all of these?"

  Xialai nods. "And what she's wearing."

  As he says it, he tears the tag from my dress and hands it to her with a casual flick of his wrist.

  The girl silently scans each item. "Seventy-eight thousand fifty." She announces the total, eyes flicking to Xialai, waiting.

  "Just a moment." His voice is calm, unbothered.

  A few feet away, a big man with a protruding belly watches us with undisguised fascination. The girl beside him is heavily made-up and gaudily dressed.

  When he hears Xialai say "just a moment," he laughs—a wet, mocking sound.

  "If you can't afford it, don't put on a show here," he sneers.

  Xialai doesn't even glance at him. As if he doesn't exist.

  The man can't stand being ignored. He moves closer to me, his eyes crawling over my body, drool practically at the corner of his mouth. "How about I pay for you, sweetheart? All you have to do is come with me to the karaoke bar next door and sing a few songs."

  "Go away." Xialai's voice is cold as winter steel.

  "Who the hell are you to talk to me like that?" The man stretches out an arm to shove him.

  Before he can touch Xialai, I drive my knee straight into his crotch. He doubles over, a strangled scream tearing from his throat.

  When he straightens, his face is twisted with rage. "Bitch, I was being nice to you!" He raises his right arm to slap me.

  My police drills are automatic, lightning-fast. Before he registers what's happening, his arm is bent behind his back, his face pressed hard against the counter, legs kicked apart. He squeals like a stuck pig.

  "You dare hit me? In broad daylight, you dare hit me?" His voice cracks, almost sobbing.

  I look at Xialai.

  His eyes are different now. I've seen that look before—that raw, uncontrollable hunger. Usually when I undress. Never when I display violence.

  Something clicks into place. A cold realization settles in my stomach.

  I know, in that moment, exactly what awaits me tonight.

  And the truth is—I don't know if I'm walking into this trap, or if I'm the one setting it.