The gala day came in ominous silence, as if the calm before the storm. The house was full of activity. Staff flitted hither and yon, doors shutting and opening, and voices passing orders on. But in my room, there was complete silence until a knock on the door.
"Miss Lihua, the styling team has arrived," Madam Xu yelled.
I took a deep breath and opened the door. Four stylists entered, each pushing sleek silver cases, their expressions already concentrated. Brushes, palettes, and curling irons shone as they unpacked with precision.
"Good morning, Miss," one of them said warmly. "We'll start with your skin prep."
Then came a whirl of hands, brushes, and soothing reassurances. My hair was washed, conditioned, and pulled into soft waves that were pinned back halfway with exquisite crystal combs. My makeup was understated but flawless — flawless skin, champagne glimmer on my eyelids, and a classic red lip that made me look older, aged me, made me harder, almost unattainable.
And then the dress.
The dress was Elie Saab. A stunning creation in ivory silk tulle, with silver embroidery that framed the bodice like vines. Skirt layers spilled down, each one glimmering like star stitching on fabric. When they zipped me into it, I barely recognized myself.
"Exquisite," Madam Xu breathed, readjusting the straps on my shoulders.
A velvet pouch opened to reveal the jewelry: a Cartier diamond choker and earrings, their lightness belied by their dramatic effect. Having them fitted, I looked nearly otherworldly, as if I'd just stepped out of a magazine.
My family was already gathering on the grand staircase by the time I arrived.
My mom, breathtaking in a midnight-blue Zuhair Murad dress, was queen of the night. Her hair was swept up in a sleek bun, and sapphires twinkled at her ears. My father was power incarnate in a tailored Armani tuxedo, his presence as commanding as the chandeliers that hung around us.
Junwei, lanky and substantial, wore a dark charcoal Tom Ford suit, his silver cufflinks glinting as he adjusted his tie. My two younger brothers, Angel and Alvin, were dashing in their streamlined tuxes, wicked grins splitting their stern faces.
"Mei, you look stunning," Angel breathed, his voice a mixture of admiration and big-brother pride.
My father extended his arm with a smile. "Shall we make an entrance?"
The ride to the hotel was short but in silence, with each of us immersed in our own thoughts. Outside the car window, the city beckoned, neon lights flashing like dispersed stars. My heart raced with every passing street.
The hotel, my hotel, was ablaze with activity. The red carpet stretched out like a river of fire, flashes exploding from cameras as guests began to arrive. Valets darted back and forth, security hovered at the ready, and staff huddled in, murmuring into earpieces. Our name floated in the air, a symbol of power.
Drawing in a breath that felt as though it might be my last, I emerged from the car.
The ballroom was stunning: crystal chandeliers lit it up with golden light, enormous flower arrangements decorated every table, and violins played softly while people greeted each other. Waiters glided by, laden with trays of champagne, and the laughter buzzed with expectation.
"Remember the dance," Junwei whispered, holding my hand.
I smiled, my head spinning. I looked every direction and saw heads turn, eyes following us. They whispered behind us like threads of smoke: There she is. The daughter. The heiress.
For a moment, the night went according to plan. Salutes, polite smiles, and a circle of introductions filled the room. Friends were reunited — Yating shining in red Valentino, Jiahao fresh in Dior. We exchanged brief smiles, palms brushing, a reminder that this wasn't entirely up to me.
But as the music changed and the master of ceremonies announced the start of the first dance, my throat tightened. Junwei extended his hand to take mine, and I moved forward, rustling my dress against the shiny floor. The light fell on us, the crowd parted, and the room went silent.
One-two-three, one-two-three. The world reduced to rhythm and breath. I was finding my rhythm, and then I sensed it — a tingling at the back of my neck. Someone was observing me, eyes heavy and calculating, piercing through glitter and glamour.
I raised my eyes, scanning through the sea of faces. There, at the far edge of the ballroom, stood a figure wrapped in shadow, gazing at me with an immobility which made my back tingle.
The music filled the air, but in my head there could be only one question — Who is he, and why has he come?