The doors swing open, and I walk in.
Red everywhere. Drapes on the pillars, silk running down the balconies, carpets laid out like it's a throne room. Zhao has taste—loud, rich, and impossible to ignore.
The kind of place that makes men feel small the second they step in.
The air is thick—wine, smoke, perfume. Music plays low in the background, traditional strings, soft enough to calm but steady enough to remind you where you are. It's not for entertainment. It's control.
Men in masks sit around the tables, laughing too loud, their hands all over women in hanfu who know exactly what they're doing.
Every smile, every brush of a hand is calculated. Seduction here is business, not pleasure.
The place is built to impress. High ceilings, carved beams painted in red and gold, dragons coiled into the wood like they're watching every move.
The floor is dark polished wood, shining under the lanterns. You can see your reflection in it.
The hall stretches wide, but it doesn't feel empty. Every corner is designed to pull your eye somewhere—silk curtains falling from the ceiling, alcoves hidden in shadow for private deals, staircases draped in red leading up to the second floor.
The balconies wrap around the hall, carved railings of black wood, phoenix and lotus patterns cut so precisely you know they were done by hand. From there, Zhao's men stand guard, half-seen, always watching.
Lanterns hang low, red glass with golden trim, throwing soft light that makes the whole place glow like fire. Not bright enough to expose everything, but just enough to show you what Zhao wants you to see.
The stage sits at the center, raised, framed with silk and gold. It's the heart of the room. Every performance pulls eyes forward, while the real business happens in the shadows around it. Classic Zhao—showmanship hiding control.
It's not just a brothel or a club. It's built like a fortress disguised as a pleasure house. Every inch of it says money, power, and danger.
Chì Lóu, or The Red Pavilion—it's something like a brainchild of Li Zhao.
Being the youngest son of the Li family, which runs some of the largest businesses in Asia, including shipping companies, tech firms, entertainment agencies, and real estate, Li Zhao had the privilege of exposure to power from a very young age.
Unlike the Laurent family, where hierarchy exists for show because the one with more power, regardless of age, has the upper hand, the Li family's structure is simple.
The Patriarch has ultimate power (the only similarity with the Laurents). After that, the elders handle businesses and ventures, and each year they sit with the younger ones to share ideas and collect data on the investments and ventures the younger ones are running.
After the Patriarch, the eldest child—used to be the eldest son—but Zhao's grandfather thought that outdated idea was holding the Li family back.
His eldest daughter, the first child, happened to be extremely talented, more than his eldest son, the second child. Eldest child becomes the heir.
Any betrayal from another family member, even attempting to eye the patriarch position, is destroyed.
Honestly, you shouldn't mess with Asians when it comes to respect, especially toward elders.
As such, Li Zhao's mother became the Patriarch, and currently Zhao's elder sister is the heir.
Li Zhao's entire family dotes on him. Growing up in an environment where women were followed and worshiped, he developed a strange love for women—not in a perverted way.
There are two kinds of men who love women.
Type one: those sitting on the first floor, wooing beautiful women for nights of pleasure. It's sexual, filthy, nasty—something that destroys men.
Then there is Li Zhao, who simply just loves women.
In his words:
"Listen, till a woman is over twenty, mentally and physically stable, and has her consent, I really don't give a fuck about anything else.
Tall or short, chubby or slender, Asian or Western, blonde or black hair, pale or dark, bush or no bush—woman's body is art.
The curves are like delicate waves, every scar like another stroke of a brush, any spot like another kiss from an artist.
You just need to be grateful that even after years of fucking up, we men are still lucky enough to have women who grace us with their warmth and softness."
He started Red Pavilion when he was twenty, basically fourteen years ago, because he hated typical brothels where women were mistreated and had to serve against their will.
I don't know what logic led him to believe some women like entertaining others.
His duty: provide them with safety, money, and a place. If they want to stay, they stay. If they like a man and want to spend the night, they will.
And somehow, his idea—which I found ridiculous at first—clearly worked.
Within three years of opening, Chì Lóu became the center of the entertainment district.
Even in London, he manages to run this ridiculously large brothel—ah no, he gets mad if I call it a brothel.
It's the abbey of art and pleasure, beauty and sin.
Adapting ancient Chinese architecture, he made this place desirable and extremely high-end.
Women here don't really spend the night with men. They sing, dance, tell stories, listen to the worries of distressed men.
If a man takes their liking, in return for a huge sum of money, the lucky bastard gets to sleep with one of these beautiful women.
Because of how much information is gathered by these girls, I had Li Zhao open a private security firm—Aegis Global Security.
Currently, the two men walking before me are moles set in Li Zhao's red empire.
The wooden floor creaks beneath my feet. Those two shiver, keep looking back.
My expression is calm and cold. My painful bludge, long gone, forgotten.
They gulp and look away.
I can come up with a few names who will try to mess with Li Zhao.
The staircase curves upward, wrapped in red silk, guarded on both sides. I take it slow because no one rushes into Zhao's chamber. The second floor is his stage.
The room opens wide. The air is heavier, thicker with incense and wine than below. Walls paneled in dark red wood, carved with dragons and clouds, lacquer shining under golden lanterns.
Silk curtains drift in the corners, half-hiding alcoves where shadows linger. Every detail screams old dynasties—but polished for modern power.
Zhao sits in the center on a low platform, draped in black and gold, a cup of wine in his hand.
He looks like a king pretending not to be one. Women surround him—dancers with sleeves spinning like ribbons, others leaning close, laughing, voices soft, playful, as if the world outside doesn't exist.
One peels a grape, another refills his glass, another rests her head on his shoulder like she belongs there.
In the corner, two musicians play—pipa and guqin. Notes slow, precise, filling the chamber like smoke.
Not background noise. It sets the rhythm of the room, of Zhao himself.
He's laughing, sharp and careless, tossing a remark at one of the women, flicking her chin. The others laugh with him—not because it's funny, but because it's Zhao.
Guards stand along the walls—silent, expressionless, but I see their eyes move. Always alert. Even here, in this cocoon of silk and wine, Zhao controls everything.
Zhao glances up, his face lighting.
"Hey Ron!"
Monolid black orb eyes, soft eyebrows, slightly tanned skin, strong muscular chest, toned and athletic, silky black hair messy from women running their fingers through it, black trousers slightly unzipped, sharp jawline, flawlessly glowy skin…
Too beautiful to appear threatening, yet voice carrying a certain depth.
"Seems like you have moles in your team," I mutter, kicking the two men who fall to their knees, shaking and sweating, eyes darting everywhere.
While Li Zhao is more beautiful than rough masculine, his guards—five standing silently in corners—are tall, rugged, thugs he picked from fallen gangs. These two kneeling men are too boyish to match Zhao's appeal.
Li Zhao sits up and snaps his fingers. Instantly, the girls stop playing their instruments.
"Oh. Seems like I have a guest," he smiles soft and charming, yet his eyes betray malice.
One of the girls in soft pastel hanfu kisses his cheek and says softly,
"Would you like us to take care of the guests, Zhao?"
Li Zhao looks at her, kisses her knuckle, and smiles charmingly.
"If you feel right, who am I to stop?"
The girl giggles and stands, along with her two companions following him. I sit down on the chair next to Zhao, knowing what's coming next.
That girl touches the jaw of those moles, who are one step away from pissing their pants.
"I am sorry! Please spare me!" they say, voices shaking, faces pale.
"Do you want some wine?" Another girl comes toward me with a silver cup. I nod and take the glass. Nothing can beat Li Zhao's wine collection. Sweet, fruity taste. I nod in approval.
By the time I'm done, the screams of those unfortunate men fill the air, metallic smell of blood and smoke contrasting the previous floral fragrance.
I turn my neck. One man had his tongue cut, chest stabbed nearly ten times, feet sliced. Another had his neck sliced; head rolling in a pool of blood.
Beautiful girls who had looked like dolls and art a while ago now have blood smeared all over their face and hands.
The girl in pastel hanfu turns and smiles beautifully like a goddess of death at Li Zhao, who nods in approval.
"They are sent by the Wang Family."
Wang Family—another powerful conglomerate in China, rival of Li.
Li Zhao smiles proudly.
"My beautiful girls, you have done a wonderful job. Return to your chambers and enjoy a warm bath with the herbs I'll send you."
Those three bow 90 degrees and retreat.
I swear, whenever I enter Chì Lóu, I forget that we're in 21st-century London, not ancient China.
Though the girls have no specific nationality, for business purposes, they are trained like ancient Chinese entertainers.
Guards start cleaning efficiently. Within ten minutes, the room has its color back.
"You really have eyes for betrayers, don't you?" Zhou smirks, eyes glinting with amusement and gratitude.
I shrug and lean back on the soft cushion of the chair, as the girl next to me pours another cup of wine.
"I need you alive, or else your elder sister will stop cooperating with me," I look around the room, which whispers the taste of its owner, "I need Chì Lóu and Aegis working perfectly, and only you can run it."
Li Zhao laughs loud and genuine, shaking his head.
"You really hate to express your worry for me, don't you?"
I roll my eyes. Yeah, I worry, but I'd rather not tell him.
He claps his hands three times.
"I have three girls who've been crushing on you for years now, but you never let them near you," he smirks, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"You asked if there's anyone you can share a bed with, see if they suit your taste. Though I'd say, be gentle to my girls."
The last sentence might sound playful, but even with me, Li Zhao doesn't break his one rule.
Three new girls enter.
One Russian, wearing red hanfu, silky blonde hair pinned with a golden hairpin, delicate waist, teasing glimpses of her full breasts.
Another, a Chinese girl, pale skin, petite, same delicate waist, long silky hair pinned with silver.
Next, honey-tanned skin, soft curves under red hanfu, wavy ash-brown hair pinned with a silver hairpin.
Honestly, if any other man in my position had the opportunity to spend the night with one of these beauties, his blood would have turned hot, and he'd be wondering how many ways he could fuck one of them.
I glance down at my crotch, jaw clenched.
Same usual reaction to women. No desire, no excitement, no hardness, no lust.
Li Zhao follows my gaze curiously.
"What are you looking at? Wondering if they can handle your big cock?" He grins playfully.
"Shut up, Zhao. And—"
He grins playfully.
I take another look at the girls, all of them watching me in anticipation, eyes gleaming with desire, cheeks flushed with arousal.
Why do women get turned on by my cold, distant attitude? While the only woman who manages to turn me on in my thirty-four years of life is just—
"Send them away," I say, chugging another glass of wine.
"Ehhh, but you said you wanted to—"
"Send them away, Zhao," I interrupt, my voice low and threatening. Li Zhao gulps and nods, signaling them to leave.
Soft music plays in the background, the wine chilling in my hand, everything screaming temptation.
Yet… all I can think about is that woman in the red blazer, eating pizza and soda, her sad eyes lighting up with each bite, her tongue sharp enough to break a man's confidence.
"Did something happen?" Li Zhao leans forward, cautious and curious, tilting his head as if his pretty face could save him from my wrath if I got mad.
I inhale sharply, throw my head back, swirling the wine in my hand, staring at the ceiling.
"I am fucked, Zhao."
Yeah.
I didn't need to touch or hold her to know it.
This woman in red blazer with pizza in hand, fire and loneliness in her eyes....
Is going to be death of me.
This lust and interest toward that woman is either going to break me into pieces, in a way that not even my uncle could.
Or…
Let's not think about that possibility.