Hansen arrives unannounced at 8:30 p.m., arms full—flowers in one hand, chocolate in the other. His face blooms with a boyish eagerness, the kind that hopes to charm and dares to be forgiven. There’s excitement in his eyes, but also something more fragile—an unspoken plea for welcome.

  My stomach tightens. Something about his performance feels off—I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  With a theatrical flourish, he snaps open his briefcase and produces a stack of glossy printouts. "Look," he whispers, spreading them before me like playing cards. Houses in Hawaii. Ocean views with waves crashing against volcanic rock. Mountain vistas blanketed in mist. Exclusive neighborhoods with "access to good school districts." Prices: two and a half to four million dollars.

  "I will also have enough money to apply for EB5 for both of us." His eyes lock onto mine with intensity, his warm hands enveloping mine. His thumb traces small circles on my skin—the same gesture from our first date after my dance performance. A calculated move to trigger my memory.

  He might actually be feeling genuine love. The mirage of our wonderful life together shimmers before us like heat on pavement. But I feel nothing. I study his face—the face I once kissed with passion—and see only a stranger wearing a familiar mask.

  A week ago, I would have melted. I would have thrown myself into his embrace, made desperate love to him, maybe even danced for him with tears of gratitude. But now, I sit still as stone, waiting patiently for the trap to spring.

  And inevitably, it does.

  "You bought the tickets to Hawaii, right?" His eyes search mine, hungry for confirmation. I nod slowly, my chin barely moving.

  "Great!" The word bursts from him with unnatural brightness. "I'll have enough money for us to live comfortably in Hawaii for the rest of our lives. With kids." His voice softens, but his eyes harden. "If we do this right tonight."

  My throat constricts. "Do what right?" The question comes out hoarse, dread spreading through my chest like ink in water.

  "Please." A muscle in his jaw twitches. "This is the last time I ask you to do anything." His voice breaks artfully. "Before the wonderful life that you dreamed of."

  "Do what?" I repeat, each word deliberately cold.

  He swallows hard. "Dress up," he says finally, his gaze dropping momentarily. "And go to Oriental Scala with me."

  My heart plummets, a boulder falling into an endless abyss. The air leaves my lungs in a silent rush.

  Oriental Scala—an exclusive KTV known for its opulent rooms and hostess bar. Women in skin-tight qipaos or revealing cocktail dresses perch on customers' laps, whispering suggestive jokes, pouring drinks, offering "companionship."

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  And he wants me to be one of them. For free.

  "Is Yao's son there?" The question escapes through numb lips.

  "Yes," Hansen says, his voice laced with hesitation, each word measured to avoid stirring discomfort. "He thinks the world of you. Still regrets last time the party was broken up by some cops who don't know their place." His lips curl into a smirk.

  Blood drains from my face. "No." The word isn't an answer—it's a primal scream trapped behind clenched teeth.

  "Shishi," he leans forward, desperation seeping into his voice. His cologne—once intoxicating—now chokes me. "Just one night for the comfort of the rest of our lives. Don't be stubborn." His fingers twitch toward my arm.

  I stare at him, my eyes burning with contempt I no longer try to hide.

  He registers my expression and transforms before me. His eyes turn glacial, his features sharpening into something feral. Gone is the charming lover.

  "We don't have a choice." His fingers capture my wrist, squeezing until I feel bones grinding together. "You'll lose everything if you don't go."

  I notice the shift in his language. "You" now, not "we." The mask has slipped entirely.

  His gaze bores into me—possessive, threatening. I can almost feel phantom fingers tangled in my hair, dragging me across town to Oriental Scala.

  Terror pulses through me. Outside, night presses against the windows like a physical presence. But beneath my fear, something crystallizes. Resolve.

  "Go take a shower and get changed yourself first," I say, my voice unnervingly steady. "Give me a few minutes, let me think." I massage my wrist where his grip has left red marks.

  He watches me like a predator assessing wounded prey, desperate yet calculating. Finally, he releases my hand and retreats to the ensuite. The door closes with a soft click that sounds like a reprieve.

  I slip out of the bedroom on silent feet and move to the opposite side of the house, heart hammering. My fingers tremble as they dial Superintendent Xu's number.

  She answers on the second ring.

  "Superintendent Xu." My voice barely above a whisper.

  "Call me Ruolin," she responds, her warm tone wrapping around me like a protective embrace.

  "What's up?" Restaurant noise swirls in the background—normal life continuing somewhere outside my nightmare.

  I explain Hansen's demands in urgent, hushed tones, constantly glancing toward the master bedroom door.

  She pauses—just long enough for my heart to skip—then speaks with unwavering authority. "Go with him. Turn your phone on recording." Her voice drops lower, fierce with promise. "Don't worry, I will go there as well, with my team. Nobody can hurt you."

  My mind races with horrible possibilities. The thought of being in the same room with Yao's son makes bile rise in my throat. But somehow, I trust her.

  "Okay," I whisper, the answer emerging before my conscious decision. I nod as if she can see me, then end the call.

  Back in the bedroom, I open the closet and remove the qipao I showed Ruolin last time. The silk slides against my skin as I dress, armor for the battle ahead. As I apply makeup with mechanical precision, her face fills my mind—the way her eyes widened when she saw me walking down the stairs, pupils dilating with something more than professional interest.

  Hansen emerges from the shower, hair still damp, putting on an expensive suit that now seems like a costume. He looks at me in the qipao and something flickers across his face—triumph mixed with hunger.

  "Beautiful," he breathes, reaching for my hand.

  I let him take it, my fingers limp in his grasp. Inside my clutch, my phone is already recording, a digital witness to whatever comes next.

  As we walk toward the door, I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror. The woman staring back wears a scarlet qipao and crimson lips, but her eyes hold something Hansen hasn't noticed—not submission, not fear.

  Defiance.

  He opens the door, gestures me through with exaggerated chivalry. I step into summer night, the cool air sharp against my skin.

  Somewhere across the city, Ruolin is gathering her team. Somewhere beyond this moment, freedom waits.

  I just have to survive long enough to reach it.