The Engagement Party

I had been dumped.

Not quietly.

Not kindly.

Two months before today, my boyfriend of three years broke up with me on the eve of our engagement because he found a richer branch to climb.

Tonight was his engagement party.

To someone else.

And I, Claire Fang, product manager at the country’s largest women’s intimacy wellness brand, had the honor of attending.

For work.

Of course.

My boss Quinn Qin dragged me here because our company had been trying to open a store in DW Mall for months.

Rejected.

Again and again.

Parents’ associations protested us.

Said our adult wellness products would “mislead teenagers.”

Funny.

Teenagers can walk past lingerie shops, cosmetic surgery ads, and violent video games without society collapsing.

But a store designed around women’s pleasure and health?

Scandal.

So here we were at the engagement party of the mall owner’s daughter, hoping to negotiate.

The welcome photo at the hotel entrance showed Ethan Pei and Celine Zhang.

Handsome man.

Pretty woman.

Expensive flowers.

Perfect lighting.

Quinn sighed.

“Beautiful couple. So happy.”

Beautiful, I could accept.

Happy?

Not necessarily.

Ethan was handsome.

That was how I fell for him.

Who knew that a man with such a good face could be so disappointing in private?

For humanitarian reasons and three years of relationship history, I had developed excellent bedroom acting skills.

“Claire?”

Ethan’s voice pulled me back.

He looked shocked to see me.

“Mr. Pei, you know Claire?” Quinn’s eyes lit up.

“This is my—” I began.

“Former colleague,” Ethan cut in quickly.

I smiled professionally.

“Congratulations, Mr. Pei. Please take care of us in the future.”

Celine stood beside him, young and sweet.

I handed her the gift bag I had prepared.

Our company’s newest product collection.

“Happy engagement,” I said. “I hope you’ll be happy.”

Ethan glanced at the bag and his face changed.

He pulled me aside.

“What are you doing? Why give her that?”

Good heavens.

I had done nothing.

“Ethan,” I lowered my voice, “if you have a medical issue, you should see a doctor. Relying on pills isn’t good for your body. Also, it’s easy to expose.”

His face flushed with humiliation.

He could not refute a word.

“Our mall contract still needs your signature,” I added, patting his arm. “I’m good at acting, and I’m good at keeping secrets.”

Then I walked away in ten-centimeter heels to find Quinn.

Quinn was already drinking with several men over business.

I stepped in and helped block a few rounds.

Soon, alcohol burned through me.

My head spun.

The hall blurred.

Right before I could embarrass myself completely at my ex’s engagement party, a pair of hands caught me.

“Ms. Qin,” a young male voice said, “sorry I’m late.”

The voice was clean.

Boyish.

Beautiful.

I sobered halfway immediately.

God had not abandoned me.

He took away one ex-boyfriend and sent me a college-aged beauty.

Fair trade.

“Not late,” I said quickly. “Not late at all.”

Then I looked up properly.

Noah Song.

My body froze.

Four years ago, before Noah went abroad for university, he confessed to me.

I rejected him with one sentence:

“Little kid, you don’t understand love.”

He was so angry he did not reply to my messages for four years.

Now he had returned.

And he was no longer little.

Sharp jawline.

Straight nose.

Tall frame.

Clean scent.

The faint smell of the cologne I had given him when he graduated high school.

Back then, I gave him a bottle and said,

“You’re an adult now. Use this. Girls will like it.”

He had asked,

“Do you like it?”

I patted his head.

“I like it. That’s why I gave it to you.”

Now, sitting in his car later that night, I felt that same scent wrap around me.

The heater must have been too high.

I was burning.

I glanced at him.

He noticed.

His Adam’s apple moved.

The sight made me hotter.

Sinful.

This was the boy I had watched grow up.

No.

Not boy.

Man.

Still sinful.

I opened the window.

Cold winter air rushed in.

Noah closed it.

“You’ll catch a cold.”

I looked at him.

“Little kid, don’t manage me.”

“Don’t call me that.”

His tone was sharp.

Then he pulled my slipping coat back onto my shoulder.

“Fine,” I muttered. “Grown up.”