The beach club was nearly empty when she arrived, save for a man sitting at the edge of the infinity pool. He was strikingly handsome, with the sharp, refined bone structure characteristic of a certain echelon of Chinese nobility.
This was Zhang Linghe.
Nyx didn't believe in coincidences; she believed in variables. She watched him for exactly three minutes before approaching. He was nursing a glass of Maotai, looking out at the Sulu Sea with an air of boredom that rivaled her own.
However, as she drew closer, his eyes traveled from her face down to her feet, then back up. A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at his lips.
"The dress is McQueen, Spring collection," Linghe said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone. "The shoes are bespoke Italian leather. The watch is a Patek Philippe Perpetual Calendar."
Nyx paused, her eyes narrowing. "Your point, Mr. Zhang?"
"My point," he said, standing up to his full, imposing height, "is that you look like you're dressed for a hostile takeover, yet you're wearing a freshwater pearl anklet from a local souvenir stall. The shimmer of the nacre clashes with the matte finish of the silk. It's an aesthetic discord. It's... chaotic."
Nyx looked down at the anklet—a cheap trinket she'd picked up purely to see if she could feel "normal." To anyone else, it was a cute accessory. To him, it was a flaw in her armor