Five days later.

Song Xingran had fully recovered. That night’s brown sugar ginger tea really did seem to work wonders. Coupled with Shen Mucheng’s “remote surveillance” over the past few days—forcing her to drink warm water, ordering her to go to bed early, and even arranging her takeout meals for her—this menstrual cycle passed unusually smoothly.

Shen Mucheng, however, was in increasingly poor shape.

Over the past five days, they had maintained their routine of daily phone calls. But Song Xingran could clearly sense that the pressure on the other end of the line was dropping lower with each passing day.

Seven days of a business trip in Berlin, plus these five days of “menstrual confinement,” meant that he had gone a full twelve days without touching her—aside from that brief but reckless spark in the car and at the entryway that night.

That kind of torment—being able to see but not touch—was slowly devouring his patience.

Sometimes, during their late-night calls, she could hear the frequent click of his lighter igniting. Other times, he would stop mid-sentence and let out a heavy, ambiguous sigh. Once, she even heard him curse softly in German before hanging up abruptly to take a cold shower.

He was like a beast trapped in a cage, starving, pacing restlessly back and forth, green light flickering in his eyes—ready to pounce at any moment.

Friday evening, 7 p.m.

Star Weekly’s annual media appreciation banquet was held in the grand ballroom of the W Hotel, the most luxurious venue in North City.

It was a feast of decadence and excess.

Crystal chandeliers poured down dazzling light, champagne towers reflected opulent gold, and the air was saturated with expensive perfume and the hollow laughter unique to social gatherings.

Following behind Chen Ruolan, Song Xingran felt like a rabbit that had wandered into a pack of wolves.

Chen Ruolan had personally overseen her makeup tonight, insisting on a full face. She wore a champagne-colored cocktail dress, backless in design, with two delicate straps resting on her rounded shoulders, exposing a broad stretch of smooth, fair skin.

“Head up. Chest out,” Chen Ruolan instructed quietly, holding a glass of red wine. “Shen Mucheng will be here tonight. This is your first public appearance since landing that exclusive interview—don’t embarrass me.”

At the mention of Shen Mucheng, Song Xingran’s heart skipped a beat. Instinctively, she wanted to retreat to some hidden corner.

Just then, a stir rippled through the entrance of the ballroom.

The previously noisy chatter seemed to be dialed down all at once as every gaze converged in the same direction.

Shen Mucheng had arrived.

He wore an impeccably tailored black three-piece suit, his tie perfectly knotted, cufflinks gleaming coldly under the lights. The familiar gold-rimmed glasses framed a demeanor that was refined, elegant, and intensely restrained.

But Song Xingran sensed immediately that something was wrong.

The pressure around him was too heavy—lower than it had ever been.

Even from halfway across the ballroom, she could feel the violent, keep-your-distance aura radiating from him. His brows were relaxed, yet his lips were pressed into a thin line. Behind the lenses, his eyes were cold—like he was looking at a room full of lifeless objects.

Twelve days of abstinence had begun to crack his polished façade.

The moment he entered, several investors and media executives surrounded him. He nodded politely, raised his glass, and smiled—every movement flawless, as though programmed like an AI.

But he never took a sip.

His gaze cut through layers of people like a precision-guided missile, locking instantly onto Song Xingran.

More accurately, onto the expanse of bare, snow-white skin exposed by her back.

In that instant, Song Xingran felt as if her spine had been set ablaze.

His gaze was tangible—laden with twelve days of accumulated hunger and possessiveness—sliding slowly along the line of her spine, lingering briefly at the deep curves of her lower back.

It didn’t look like he was admiring the dress.

It looked like he was calculating how to tear it apart.

She shuddered, hastily turning around and trying to shield herself with her champagne glass.

“Xiao Song!”

A bright, energetic voice rang out beside her.

She turned and met a beaming smile.

Gu Xingzhou.

If Shen Mucheng was an iceberg in the deep sea, then Gu Xingzhou was the midday sun.

Dressed in a cream-colored casual suit with no tie, his collar loosened to reveal a clean collarbone, his hair slightly tousled, he exuded an effortless youthfulness. When he smiled, a pair of tiger teeth appeared, making him seem vibrant and utterly non-threatening.

“Gu… Teacher Gu?” Song Xingran said in surprise.

“Just call me Xingzhou.” He winked, leaning in with easy familiarity. “You’re the reporter who’s super sensitive to sound, right? Everyone in the industry’s talking about you.”

He didn’t mention the interview—he went straight for her “sensitivity.”

“I really like your voice,” he said. Though he spoke of her voice, his eyes held undisguised admiration.

“Th-thank you,” she replied, flustered, instinctively avoiding his overly warm gaze.

“It’s stuffy in here—and the air conditioning’s like a morgue,” he said, wrinkling his nose as he picked up a cup of warm honey lemon water from a passing tray.

“Here.” He handed it to her. “I saw you shiver earlier. Girls should drink less cold alcohol—it’s not good for your body.”

She froze.

The warmth seeped through her palm, easing the tension coiled in her nerves.

His smile brightened further. Leaning casually against a marble column, he began chatting easily.

“Working with Senior Shen must be stressful, right?”

Song Xingran nodded guiltily, flashes of being blindfolded, of being told to “breathe quietly,” flickering through her mind. “Yeah… he has very high standards.”

“He’s famously strict. Or rather… obsessed with sound.” Gu Xingzhou shrugged lightly. “In his world, only a 60 BPM heartbeat qualifies. That low-frequency pressure? Even I can’t stand it.”

Lowering his head, he looked into her eyes, his voice as warm as sunlight.

“Relaxing a little isn’t a bad thing, right? Life needs a bit of 90 BPM now and then.”

Ninety beats per minute.

A normal heart rate. Running under the sun. Easy laughter.

Standing beside him, Song Xingran felt something she hadn’t experienced in a long time—normalcy.

She didn’t have to worry about breathing too loudly. Didn’t have to fear her heart racing. Didn’t need to stay constantly alert against invasive low-frequency pressure. Talking with Gu Xingzhou felt like basking in sunlight—warm, effortless, safe.

The tightness at the corners of her mouth softened, and a genuine, faint smile appeared.

What she didn’t know was—

At the other end of the ballroom, Shen Mucheng stood in the shadows, a slender champagne glass clenched in his hand.

His gaze pierced the crowd like a poisoned dagger, pinned unflinchingly on the two figures chatting happily.

He saw Gu Xingzhou offer her a warm drink.

He saw her fingers brush Gu Xingzhou’s hand as she accepted it.

He saw her smile.

That unguarded, relaxed, sweet smile.

With him, she was always tense—trembling, crying, ashamed. But with that man, she looked genuinely happy.

Crack.

A faint, brittle sound.

A fracture spread along the stem of the crystal champagne glass in his hand.

The accumulated restlessness of twelve days, combined with the jealousy surging up in that moment, snapped the last thread of his legendary self-control. The refined, gentlemanly, restrained Shen Mucheng was torn apart—by his own hand.

He placed the cracked glass onto a passing server’s tray with a sharp clink, ignoring the startled looks around him, and strode toward the corner.

His pace was swift, cutting through the room like an icy wind, as though hunting down prey.

His hand had already begun to lift, ready to seize Song Xingran’s wrist and drag her out of that damned 90 BPM—

“Teacher Shen!”

A loud, greasy, overly enthusiastic voice cut in abruptly.

Shen Mucheng was forced to stop.

A pot-bellied middle-aged man blocked his path—it was Mr. Wang, the event’s largest sponsor. Holding a brimming glass of red wine, smiling broadly, with several industry climbers in tow, he formed a wall of flesh between Shen Mucheng and Song Xingran.

“Ah, Teacher Shen! Finally found you! I thought they were joking when they said you’d arrived. Come, come—I must toast you. That narration you did for our last project was phenomenal…”

Mr. Wang thrust the wine toward him, the stench of alcohol hitting Shen Mucheng’s icy face.

The corner of Shen Mucheng’s eye twitched.

He didn’t take the glass.

Tilting his head slightly, his gaze pierced past Mr. Wang’s rounded shoulder, locking onto Song Xingran in the distance.

She had noticed the commotion too and turned back.

She saw Shen Mucheng surrounded by people—and the terrifying, barely restrained darkness in his expression. Behind the lenses, his eyes burned with two dim, dangerous flames.

Their gazes met.

Across the noise and lights, his stare was icy yet scorching.

A warning.

Come here, his eyes said.

She shrank instinctively, her body reacting with conditioned obedience, taking a half-step forward.

“Xiao Song?”

Beside her, Gu Xingzhou seemed oblivious—or perhaps deliberately so. He shifted slightly, blocking Shen Mucheng’s invasive line of sight.

“What were we talking about just now? Oh right—you said you liked that piano piece. Want to come by my studio sometime and hear it live?”

His voice was bright and cheerful, like a warm shield holding back Shen Mucheng’s crushing low-frequency pressure.

Song Xingran stood frozen, torn between two worlds—Shen Mucheng, the eye of the storm, and Gu Xingzhou, a safe harbor.

Nearby, Mr. Wang continued babbling. “Teacher Shen? Teacher Shen? You really must honor me with this drink…”

Shen Mucheng took a deep breath.

He withdrew his gaze and accepted the glass.

“You’re too kind, Mr. Wang.”

His voice returned to its usual elegance and detachment, a flawless smile curving his lips—utterly devoid of warmth. Only those closest to him could feel how the temperature around him dropped to freezing.

He tipped his head back and drained the wine in one go.

The motion was brutal—like drinking blood. The red liquid slid past his Adam’s apple, carrying an unmistakable wildness.

He set the empty glass down heavily, the clink of glass ringing sharply.

“Excuse me.”

Without another glance at Song Xingran, he turned and walked toward the opposite side of the ballroom—the terrace leading to the smoking area.

But the final look he cast before turning away was unmistakably directed at her:

You’re not getting away with this.

A chill ran down Song Xingran’s spine, and the honey lemon water nearly spilled from her hand.

“Are you cold?” Gu Xingzhou asked with concern, leaning slightly to block the draft from the ballroom entrance.

“N-no… I’m fine…”

She watched Shen Mucheng’s disappearing figure through the terrace doors, her heart pounding. She knew it—he was a volcano on the verge of eruption.

And standing where she was now, she felt like someone testing the edge of a crater.

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