I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, guilt creeping in as rainwater pooled around my ankles and soaked into the plush leather interior.
"These seats look stupid expensive," I muttered under my breath.
Zichen didn't even glance over. "They are."
I winced. "Sorry—"
"But I don't care," he interrupted, voice calm and smooth. "The car needed a bit of chaos anyway."
I raised an eyebrow, watching as he reached into a side cabinet—yes, his car had a cabinet—and pulled out a deep crimson bottle with gold lettering etched into the glass.
"Where are we even going?" I asked, already wondering if it was too late to jump out at the next red light.
"You'll see," he said with a lazy smirk that curled at the edges like mischief incarnate.
We were only a few minutes into the ride, and already this felt… surreal. This was the closest we'd ever been—physically, emotionally. At most, we had exchanged polite bows at charity galas or shared dry glances from across a dinner table as our families smiled through gritted teeth for photographs.
But this? This was unprecedented.
A soft mechanical hum broke the silence as the sunroof above us began to slide open. The scent of rain rushed in with the cool night breeze, wrapping around us like silk.
Zichen held out the bottle. "Want some Este Le Morte 980? It's older than both of us. Aged in French oak, worth more than me."
"I don't drink," I said, scrunching my nose and pushing it away lightly with a finger.
Zichen gave me a long look. Not judgmental. Just… studying.
"Lily," he said softly, with an unusual seriousness, "when was the last time you did something just for you?"
I hesitated.
"I mean it," he continued, unscrewing the bottle with a quiet pop. "Not for your father. Not to look perfect. Not to keep the Liang family name spotless. Just—something that made you feel alive."
I didn't answer.
He poured two glasses anyway, handed me one. I didn't want to take it—but I also didn't want to pull back anymore.
"To mistakes," Zichen said, lifting his glass. "And to not being perfect tonight."
I stared at him. Then slowly clinked my glass against his.
"To being a mess," I whispered.
We both drank—hesitantly at first. Then again.
The warmth spread quickly. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of it all. But soon, we were both laughing too hard at nothing in particular, breathless and leaning into the night.
A song came on through the speakers—something upbeat and nostalgic. Without a word, Zichen stood and stuck his head out the sunroof, his laughter echoing against the glassy skyscrapers.
"Oh god," I said, covering my face.
"Get up here, Liang Princess!" he shouted through the rain, extending his hand toward me.
"I'm not climbing out of a moving car!"
"You're already drunk," he teased, grinning. "What's a little wind?"
I groaned, but eventually took his hand.
The rain hit my face like freedom.
We stood there—half-out of the car like two rich runaways, hair plastered to our skin, singing along to some old pop song as the city blurred past us in streaks of neon and glass.
We sang. We screamed. We laughed like kids who didn't belong to empires. Never in a million years had I expected to be doing this with Zichen of all people.
When the car finally pulled into a private drive lined with glowing lanterns and trimmed hedges, I blinked through the rain, sobering slightly.
"Where are we?" I asked.
Zichen jumped down first, smoothing back his soaked hair. "My family's villa. My friends are here—just a few childhood ones I actually like. No press. No masks."
He held the door open for me.
I stepped out of the car and was immediately wrapped in the scent of damp earth, wet pine, and faint lavender—something old money used to smell effortless. Zichen's villa stood ahead, perched elegantly on a small hill, its stone façade glowing under the soft golden lights strung across the driveway. Ivy curled up its pillars like nature's embroidery, and the faint sound of jazz trickled from within, blending with the soft patter of rain.
Everything about this place whispered sanctuary—far from the chaos of our legacies and the pressure of our surnames.
I tried to walk, but the moment my foot hit the gravel, my legs wobbled beneath me like I was stepping on clouds.
Zichen's voice drifted from beside me, amused and low. "Can you walk, or should I call an ambulance?"
"I left my heels," I mumbled, blinking blearily down at my bare feet. "At the hotel. Somewhere near the lobby piano, I think."
"Oh, perfect," he said dryly, stepping around me. "Este Le Morte 980 claims another victim."
I started giggling uncontrollably, not just at his words but at the sheer absurdity of everything—my soaked gown, my bare feet, the fact that I was at my rival's villa party like we were friends.
"Here," Zichen said suddenly, stepping closer. "Do you mind?"
He extended a hand—steady, long-fingered, and warm. Very warm.
I took it without hesitation.
The moment our fingers intertwined, a little spark shot up my arm, and before I could register it, I leaned forward—head tilted, cheek brushing against his shoulder. His hand tightened around mine instinctively, and he didn't pull away.
In fact… he slowed his steps.
Together, we started up the stone path toward the entrance of the villa, flanked by flowering bushes and little golden lanterns flickering in the misty air.
"You're warm," I mumbled into the fabric of his damp jacket. "Like… unfairly warm."
Zichen laughed softly, but it cracked halfway. I glanced up.
His ears were unmistakably red. Crimson, even. But his face—oh, he was trying to stay neutral, jaw clenched slightly, gaze fixed ahead like this meant nothing.
"Are you blushing?" I teased.
"No."
"You are."
"Shut up," he muttered, but his lips were twitching like he couldn't hold back the smile.
I leaned closer just to mess with him, barely brushing against his neck. "Zichen," I whispered dramatically, "am I your scandal now?"
He stopped in his tracks.
Turned his head slightly.
Our faces were inches apart.
"Would it be so bad?" he asked softly, eyes gleaming with something I couldn't quite place—challenge, maybe. Curiosity. Or something far more dangerous.
I swallowed, the laughter still stuck in my throat. The rain, the wine, the warmth of his hand—it was all blurring together.
Just then, the villa doors opened, and a burst of warmth and laughter spilled out. A girl called his name. The spell broke.
Zichen cleared his throat again, releasing my hand just a little too fast. "Come on. I've got dry slippers. You're going to ruin my floors."
"Sir, yes sir," I slurred with a sloppy salute, grinning.
But as I stepped inside, toes sinking into plush Persian carpets and lights glittering above me like a dream, I couldn't help but glance back at him.
And there he was—watching me, jaw tight, hands in his pockets, ears still flushed red.
Maybe this night was going to be more than a reckless escape.
Maybe it was the beginning of something neither of us were ready for.