The man at table seventeen wouldn't stop staring.
Wen Yinlin felt it before she even turned. The weight of his gaze—steady, unreadable—pressed against her like a memory she couldn't quite reach. She set down the wine list with practiced grace, her fingers trembling only slightly.
"Your best bottle," he said, voice low and velvety. Not loud, but loud enough to make the others at nearby tables glance over. The way people did when someone important entered the room.
He had a commanding presence. Broad shoulders in a tailored suit, cufflinks that caught the light, black slicked hair, and a face that might've graced magazine covers if not for the cold calculation in his eyes.
Yinlin offered a small, trained smile. "Of course, sir." Said her as she put the menu away.
A moment later, she returned with the best and most expensive wine the establishment offered.
As she poured the wine, she felt his gaze on her—not just watching, but memorizing. Like he was trying to pin her down in his mind. Her hands moved instinctively, but inside, her nerves thrummed.
"This is our best wine, it's a..." She couldn't even speak the name of the wine. It was in French.
He swirled the glass lightly, a practiced grace, as he observed the color. He smelled it before taking the first sip.
Yinlin stood with anticipation.
It was the first time she had ever served a guest of such stature. In her three years at the hotel restaurant, she'd learned to tell genuine wealth from the kind that only looked expensive. This man stood apart from the other VVIPs she had met — his wealth wasn't shown through loud fashion, but through his poised posture and the smooth, deliberate way he spoke.
"Exquisite," he murmured afterward, his lips brushing the glass like a lover's whisper. "This is an excellent choice."
"I'm glad it suits your taste." She dipped her head politely "I hope you have a pleasant dinner, and do not hesitate to call me if you need anything else." She then turned, eager to walk away—but something about him made her glance back.
He was still watching.
An hour later, a manager whispered in her ear. "Table seventeen requested you again. Personally."
She returned to find him lounging like he owned the room.
"You've made my evening," he said, smiling like he meant it. "I find myself... wanting more of your attention."
Then he slid something across the table—a black keycard.
Her breath caught.
His eyes didn't blink. "Care to continue your service in a more private setting?"
Yinlin stared at the keycard. A flicker of disbelief crossed her face. Was he serious?
She looked up, lips parting. "Sir... I'm not that kind of waitress."
His expression didn't change. "Aren't you?" He sounded genuinely amused, his sharp eyes sizing her up.
Yinlin's voice faltered, polite but cold. "I am here to work, not to be insulted."
He gave a low laugh—slow, deliberate. The kind of laugh rich people made. "I see. So you are playing hard to get."
Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
That's when his voice shifted. A little quieter. Sharper.
"Wen Yinlin."
She stiffened. Her name hit her like a brick through glass.
"At first, I wondered if it was really you," he said. "But I'd never forget that face. The face with a softness that could kill a man."
There was silence between them. She blinked, stunned.
"I'm sorry," she said slowly, carefully. "Have we met before?"
The smile fell from his face.
"You don't remember me." Not a question—an accusation. He leaned back, regarding her with disbelief, his voice suddenly colder. "It's me—Xu Tao from Shang High. We have history."
Yinlin stared at him, blank. Xu Tao..? Shang High?
"I don't... I'm sorry, I don't recall—"
"You're lying." The mask slipped. His voice was ice. "You have to remember me."
Yinlin took a step back, her instincts screaming. Her voice barely came out. "I think you've mistaken me for someone else."
His hand shot out—firm fingers wrapping around her wrist before she could move.
"Do not lie to me. I never forget," he said, eyes burning. "And I certainly don't forgive."