In my dream, I'm running across the deck of the Elizabeth, my yacht, with wind whipping through my hair. Jianhua chases me, his laughter echoing across the water. We burst into the cabin in a whirlwind of movement, careening through the galley and into the master suite.

  He pushes me onto the plush bed, and I giggle, writhing beneath him. I unbuckle his belt, pull down his pants, and soon we're both completely naked. Just as Jianhua is about to enter me, his eyes widen in horror. He's staring at something over my shoulder.

  I turn my head and see another man standing in the shadows, watching us. He's young, vibrant, and utterly naked, his arousal impossible to ignore. It dwarfs Jianhua’s by at least twice the size.

  Shame, anger, and bafflement flicker across Jianhua's face. I find a perverse pleasure in his humiliation, but the enjoyment is fleeting.

  Suddenly, the room is filled with men. They materialize out of thin air, some young, some old, all staring at us with accusing eyes. Terror grips me, my breath catching in my throat.

  Then, a deafening bang reverberates from below. A monstrous shark is ramming the hull of the yacht, over and over again, threatening to capsize us.

  I wake with a gasp, sweat slicks my skin, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. Just as the echoes of the dream begin to fade, I hear the sharp rapping on the door.

  I look at the window, dawn has just broken. Whoever's pounding on my door at this ungodly hour, I'll make sure they regret it.

  The answer comes quickly. “Open up. It's the police.” A gruff voice bellows from the other side.

  What the fuck? If it's the police, how can they not know who this apartment belongs to?

  My mind races. I suddenly remember I have someone at my disposal. Where's Dapeng? Why isn't he answering the door?

  Then, the headache hits. A throbbing pain lances through my skull. Whiskey and sex were a great combination last night. Now, not so much.

  There’s a long pause. Then—BANG!

  The apartment door explodes open.

  I yank the sheet up, shielding my bare skin as men in uniform flood into the bedroom like a SWAT ad gone wrong.

  “What the hell do you think you're doing?” My voice snaps through the air, fury laced with disbelief. “Get out. Now. Or I’ll call your chief and make sure you suffer the consequences.”

  I rake my memory for his name—short, dull, male—but then she steps forward.

  Silver star, two bars. Sky blue shirt. Not him. Her.

  Tall. Sharp-jawed. Striking. The kind of woman who could land a state-sponsored billboard campaign for the police force without smiling.

  Has the chief changed? Last I checked, he was short and sweating through polyester. Not this glacier in heels.

  “I’m the Head of Homicide, Chaoyang District.”

  She smiles. Not sweetly.

  Homicide?

  The word slaps through my hangover. I blink hard, the room tilting with leftover whiskey fumes. This isn’t a noise complaint.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Get dressed. You’re coming with us.”

  Her voice is steel wrapped in silk—completely unignorable.

  I lurch from the bed, still dizzy, still naked, while half the force rifles through my walk-in closet like they own the place. One of them is fondling my panties like they're evidence.

  I manage a plea. “Could I have a little privacy?”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “No. But don't worry. We’re professionals.”

  … …

  By the time I step out of the building, flanked by uniformed officers, the crowd outside has already swelled—reporters packed shoulder to shoulder, cameras flaring like gunfire.

  Questions fly, indecipherable, chaotic. I can’t hear myself think. I can barely breathe.

  She walks beside me, the homicide chief, basking in the attention. Her polished face framed by my mess—hair in tangles, no makeup, eyes swollen from last night’s indulgence.

  And the cameras? Oh, they love it.

  The pretty cop and the fallen heiress. Perfect headline.

  What makes me recoil is the realization that the police know exactly who I am, and they simply don't care.

  They are even thrilled by the opportunity to treat the tech magnate's daughter like a common criminal.

  They take their time, stop me by the curb.

  I’m turned towards the scene, where the body lies—bloody, broken, and too silent to be anything but final.

  I cringe.

  The head is a bloody pulp. But the clothes?

  It’s him. Dapeng.

  Just hours ago, he was giving me the orgasms of my life. Now his remains are soaking into concrete.

  They let me stare, just long enough to scorch it into memory.

  And then—the shame parade ends.

  I’m shoved into the backseat of a police car, the door slamming like a full stop.

  … …

  They don't take me to the local police station.

  They take me to the district bureau. A place out of my reach.

  I know the chief of the local station. I know his wife's favorite restaurant.

  But here? I frantically search my memory for any name with influence.

  "Is Chief Zhang in today?" I ask as we enter the building.

  The Vice Chief of the District Bureau in charge of Economic Crimes—our GR team’s pet project. Definitely out rank her.

  Pity no one ever bothered making friends in Violent Crimes.

  We need a new government relations director. Urgently.

  She ignores me. Doesn’t even blink.

  The male officer behind me scoffs—“Cut the crap.”

  Then I feel it—his palm slamming between my shoulders, forcing me through the threshold.

  “Can I make a phone call?” I try again. Pleading to her, to anyone.

  She turns, gives me a look—somewhere between pity and mockery.

  “Been watching too many Hollywood dramas, princess? This is the Ruby Republic.”

  Then she shoves me forward, toward a man built like a wrecking ball.

  Silver star. One bar. Shoulders made for intimidation.

  “Fix her up,” she says casually, like I’m a broken lamp.

  “You got it.”

  His eyes trail over me like I’m something he’ll enjoy breaking.

  He drags me into a windowless room—a desk, two chairs, no air.

  A place designed to forget sunlight.

  He doesn’t offer a seat.

  He plants himself on the desk like it’s his throne and starts to retrieve items out of an envelope.

  Pictures. Incriminating ones.

  Pictures of Dapeng and I drinking in Heavenly Earthborn. Pictures of Dapeng and I entering and leaving Vics, holding hands. Pictures of Dapeng pressing me naked against the door. Picture of Dapeng falling down the building right beneath my open window.

  With each new picture, my head sinks lower.

  "He has female hair on him. I bet it contains your DNA. And his DNA is all over your sheet. I'm sure there's quite a bit left in your little pussy." The burly man said with a grin, clearly enjoying this.

  Another officer enters with a clear plastic bag—my phone, iPad, laptop.

  They land on the desk with a thud.

  “Passwords,” the burly man says.

  “Do I have to—” Half way through my sentence I find out the hard way.

  He grabs a thick police conduct manual, pushes it onto my stomach, and drives his right fist like a sledgehammer into it.

  Pain lights up every nerve. I fold. Gasp.

  The room spins and I scream. Loud. Unfiltered.

  “I’ve got time,” he says, calmly pounding fist against the book like a bored chef tenderizing meat.

  The second officer lifts me gently into the chair as I sob uncontrollably.

  He places a pen and paper in front of me like a formal invitation to surrender.

  Now I understand.

  Dad always said—in this country, power beats money. Every time.

  I stare at the pen. All the confidential, yet incriminating information on those devices flashes through my mind.

  Most of them are encrypted. But they'll get in, one way or another.

  If this gets to the FRC (Financial Regulatory Committee)… Antz Financial is finished.

  BANG.

  The desk jumps. My soul jumps.

  I flinch and scribble down the passwords, hand shaking.

  Then I hear his harsh voice above me. "Open your mouth."

  Before I can react, he yanks my head back by my hair and shoves a swab into my mouth to collect my DNA.