The Ruby Five operate behind tall vermilion walls and silent corridors, their power centered in the Summer Palace—where emperors once ruled in the haze of warm seasons. But they prefer not to receive someone like me in such halls of sanctity. Too many eyes. Too much security.

  Instead, we meet Keyang Li at the mansion he received as a department minister. It's tucked within the Western Hills, surrounded by the homes of other senior officials—Xialai Bo’s estate sits just down the slope.

  Keyang greets me as he always does, with his camera-ready charm. “Lyra, how do you manage to look younger every time we meet?”

  Always courteous. Always scholarly. Tall, dark, and polished like onyx. Among the Ruby Five, he’s the one who knows how to smile for both the press and the shadows.

  "Oh, dear Prime Minister. You look younger by the day as well," I offer him my most practiced warmth. "The nation is fortunate to have you in such excellent health."

  He beams at the phrase—excellent health. By 2017, he’ll be just 69. If his pulse stays strong and his rivals stay quiet, he’ll be the Party’s top contender for General Secretary.

  His gaze drifts to Evangeline. “This must be Ms. Hightower. How are you finding our Republic so far?”

  I guide Eva forward with a hand at the small of her back—a silent cue. She knows what role she’s playing.

  "Prime Minister, it's an honor to meet you.” Her words are perfect. “This great nation is rich in opportunity and clearly thrives under your leadership." She approaches Keyang with a graceful bow, extending both hands toward the prime minister.

  Smart girl. Well-trained in proper Red Party etiquette.

  Keyang takes her hands, his eyes scanning her face, then trailing—deliberately—downward. His stare settles, possessive and clinical, on the swell of her chest.

  I watch her hold the moment. Unfazed. Her smile doesn’t flicker. A lesser girl would have flustered or bristled. But Eva holds the pose until he lets go, then lowers herself beside him with practiced grace.

  Tea arrives, served by nurses whose beauty is as curated as the porcelain cups they carry.

  "I understand you're an expert in blockchain. Could you explain how this technology might benefit my country?" Keyang says, and slides his hand to her thigh. It disappears beneath her dress. He must have found bare skin where silk should have been. I removed her underwear before she stepped out of the car.

  She blushes—naturally. But her tone doesn’t waver. Impressive for a girl who has never slept with men.

  “Bitcoin has crossed three hundred dollars,” she begins. “Early adopters in America have made fortunes. More importantly, it’s become a vehicle for protecting wealth—outside any government’s reach.”

  Keyang's eyes narrow—just a fraction. Most wouldn’t catch the shift. But I have heightened senses and I’ve made an art of decoding men like him. That micro-expression? Hunger. Calculation.

  Men of the Red Party live in perpetual fear. Their fortunes are built on whispered deals, on signed favors and unrecorded transactions. And every one of them wants escape—safety beyond the reach of both Beijing and Washington.

  “Furthermore,” Eva continues, voice calm and intelligent. “On our way here Lyra gave me an inspiration. A coin with stable value and strong backing could become very useful in international trade, an alternative to SWIFT, and would work even under the strongest economic sanctions.”

  For example, Iranian oil.

  "Such a coin—let's call it a stablecoin—if pegged to RMB, could expand our currency's global influence, while maintaining strong internal control."

  /*In this fictional setting, RMB refers to Red Minted Bullion—not to be mistaken for the currency of any real-world nation.*/

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  Keyang’s entire posture shifts—revealing not just interest, but something approaching admiration. Genuine. Rare.

  “Ms. Hightower,” he says, “I heard a presentation from a world-leading blockchain expert last week. What you’ve told me in a minute is worth ten times more than that entire talk.”

  He means it.

  And for the second time, I see it: Eva isn’t just useful. She’s dangerous in the best possible way.

  A guard steps in, murmurs into Keyang’s ear. He nods, then turns to Evangeline with that polished smile politicians wear when they’re about to get everything they want.

  “Let’s move somewhere less formal,” he says. “I’m quite interested in getting to know you better.”

  Eva stiffens—just a flicker—but it’s enough. She recalibrates quickly.

  I know exactly where we are headed. Keyang has one of the most intimidating playrooms. A large round bed sits in the center, surrounded by iron cages, restraint benches, polished steel frames, and a swing suspended like accusation. A rusting shelf displays his arsenal: dildos, vibrators, ropes, tapes, cuffs, collars, gags, blindfolds, whips, ticklers, anal plugs, and hoses. The tools of control. And performance.

  Even I get goosebumps every time I enter this room. Eva must feel those chills now—tight along her spine—despite the thorough briefing I gave her en route.

  The room isn’t empty. Two soldiers, fully armed, flank the space with rifles across their chests. They won't interfere—unless you fail to cooperate.

  Two nurses meet us at the door. Their scrubs are microscopic, barely covering their buttocks. They guide us wordlessly to the bed. One begins undressing Keyang with practiced hands, the other reaches for Eva’s zipper.

  I shed my dress on my own—fluid, deliberate.

  In the dark corner, strapped to a wooden frame, is a petite woman kneeling. Her arms are spread wide, gagged, a heavy collar hanging from a steel chain. I recognize her easily. Diva Dong. Hostess of the Spring Festival Gala. Her elegant and ethereal image beams into hundreds of millions of homes every year.

  Eva holds her breath as the nurse strips her bare. Then, with clinical softness, the nurse asks, “What’s your safe word?”

  “Revolution,” she replies. Her voice barely trembles.

  I suggested this word because it's the one thing guaranteed to make Keyang pause. He can be polished when he wants to be, but when he gets carried away, you need something powerful to stop him cold.

  The nurse turns to me. “And yours?”

  I smile. “Kejun, dear, you know I don’t need one.”

  She chuckles politely. "I know, just had to ask.”

  She leads Eva by the hand, guiding her to sit beside the now-naked Prime Minister. Then she nestles against his shoulder and purrs into his ear.

  After that, she kneels down, joining her colleague in providing their boss with oral pleasure.

  I sit next to Eva, take her hand, and squeeze gently. She leans back against my bosom, trembling. I feel it through her spine.

  “Breathe, darling.” I whisper, lips grazing her ear. “You’re doing beautifully.”

  She closes her eyes, steeling herself for what's to come.

  And it comes swiftly.

  Kejun taps Eva's knee, gesturing for her to join them in sucking her boss’s dick.

  Eva hesitates momentarily. Without time to react, Keyang reaches out, grabs her hair with his large hand, and yanks her head impatiently toward his lap.

  Humiliation, breaking her in, that's part of the plan. Humbling the trillionaire's heir isn't just a thrill—it's a fundamental element in a long-term business relationship.

  Red Party leaders have long learned not to trust anyone. They prefer obedience, drilling this expectation into everyone they depend on.

  Eva shudders, tears welling in her eyes, but quickly composes herself, performing what's required with the determined focus of a diligent student completing a difficult assignment.

  I find myself growing fond of her, fast. Who wouldn't be? Smart, gentle, and quietly fearless. The situation must be bearing down on her like wet concrete. But even when she falters, she never folds.

  It's unfamiliar territory for her. But none of it is rocket science. She alternates with the nurses, observing them carefully. Within a couple of minutes, her tongue twirls and her mouth works like a professional's.

  I rise and ease her legs onto the bed, positioning her with quiet care. A fierce instinct to shield her surges through me. If I'm going to take control, I need to do what I’ve always done, give Keyang the thing he wants most—his deepest desire, the one he hasn't yet named.

  The two nurses get up to prepare an obedience chair. I step in, taking over from them—I won't leave Eva to face Keyang alone.

  One issue I have with male anatomy in the Red Party is the prevalence of foreskin problems. Do you know the most common medical concern noted in health examination reports of high-ranking officials? Excessively long foreskins.

  Otherwise, Keyang's penis is ideally sized for instruction—just long enough to reach the back of the throat.

  I guided her on proper breathing techniques, showed her how to navigate her tongue inside the foreskin, helped her establish a smoother rhythm without jarring movements, and taught her how to adjust her oral posture for deeper accommodation.

  Keyang observes our instructional exchange with evident pleasure. This taboo topic clearly heightens his arousal.

  The nurses return and stand waiting. The preparation is complete—a wide white silk handkerchief taped to the bench. Keyang rises with impatience. He's ready to claim Eva's virginity.

  This novel is the prequel to Hunt In Reverse, which you can find here: