6:55 PM. Zoe stood before an old building in Montmartre. No sign hung on the door— only a discreet camera next to the doorbell. Following Lysander's text instructions, she pressed the bell three times, paused, then twice more.
The door opened, and a white-haired waiter in a tuxedo bowed slightly. "Madame, please follow me."
They walked down a dim corridor, the thrum of a bass guitar growing louder. The waiter stopped at a door covered in red velvet and pushed it open.
Heat, perfume, alcohol, and leather hit Zoe's senses. The club was far larger than she'd imagined— a dance floor in the center, surrounded by booths and semi-private boxes. Deep crimson lighting cast everything in an ambiguous glow. Zoe noticed that in some booths, people were playing… special games. Handcuffs, silk ribbons, and elegant whips lay on marble tabletops like decorations.
"This is a business social event?" she muttered.
"In Paris," Lysander's voice came from behind, "the most secretive deals happen in the least formal settings."
He wore an all-black suit tonight, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. For the first time, Zoe saw a faint scar below his collarbone— like an old knife wound.
"Catherine is in the third box on the second floor," he handed her a glass of champagne. "I'll go greet her in ten minutes. Your job is to memorize everyone in the box— especially the man sitting to Catherine's left."
"Who is he?"
"Jean-Pierre Renault, Deputy Minister of Labor. Catherine is lobbying him to veto our layoff plan," Lysander's lips brushed her ear. "But Renault has a secret— he never brings his wife here. Only a 'male assistant.' I need proof."
Zoe took a sip of champagne, the bubbles stinging her tongue. Suddenly, she understood the scarf's purpose— to hide her face.
She made her way to the second floor, the silk scarf partially covering her cheeks. As she passed the second box, she heard muffled gasps. Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she saw a woman tied to a chair with silk ribbons, while a man holding a whip stood with his back to the door.
The third box on the floor was relatively quiet. Catherine Ji was a French woman in her early sixties, her silver hair styled in a neat chignon, wearing a pearl necklace and Dior suit— the epitome of aristocratic elegance. If Zoe hadn't known better, she'd never have linked this woman to 400 million euros in stolen assets.
Renault was there, as promised, sitting next to a blonde man in his twenties. The distance between them was far beyond acceptable social bounds.
Pretending to look for the restroom, Zoe walked slowly past the box. She memorized every face: besides Catherine and Renault, there were two other men— one appeared to be a lawyer (the emblem on his briefcase gave him away), and the other…
"Madame, may I help you?" the man suddenly stood up and approached her.
Zoe's heart raced. She lowered her voice and spoke in French: "I'm looking for my friend Ava— she said she's DJing tonight."
"The DJ booth is over there," the man pointed toward the back of the dance floor, but his eyes held suspicion. "Are you sure you're not a journalist? Journalists aren't welcome here."
"I'm Monsieur Lysander Ji's assistant," she said flatly, 亮出 her identity.
The man's expression shifted instantly. "Ah, my apologies. Monsieur Ji needs you downstairs— please follow me."
Zoe followed him, a sense of dread settling in. This was clearly Catherine's man. Sure enough, instead of leading her to Lysander, he walked toward a darker corridor at the club's rear.
"Where are we—"
"Monsieur Ji is waiting for you in the private room," the man pushed open a leather-paneled door. "Please enter."
The room was empty except for a long sofa and walls lined with restraint tools. Zoe turned to leave, but the door locked behind her.
She pulled out her phone— no signal. As she searched for a way out, a door on the other side of the room opened— it had been disguised as a bookshelf. Lysander stepped out.
"Lesson one," he locked the door behind him. "On enemy territory, never follow a stranger."
"You set this up?" Zoe felt anger rising.
"Catherine did," Lysander walked to the wall and 取下 a silver collar. "But she doesn't know— I rent this room long-term. Now, we need to put on a show."
"A show?"
"That man will be listening outside," Lysander stepped closer. "Catherine wants to know— are you my pawn, or do I truly have an interest in you?"
Zoe stepped back, her waist hitting the arm of the sofa. Lysander was too close— she could see tiny gold flecks in his slate-blue eyes.
"So what? We're going to kiss?" she sneered.
Lysander laughed. It was the first genuine smile she'd seen from him— cold, but captivating.
"Catherine won't believe a kiss," he said. "She needs to see something more… conclusive."
The silver collar in his hand glinted coldly in the dim light. Engraved on its inner surface was elegant French script. Zoe made out part of it: "Pour mon…" (For my…)
"What is this?" she asked.
"A keepsake from my mother," Lysander's voice was soft. "She said it was for 'disobedient children.'"
He raised his hand, the collar hovering inches from her neck. Zoe should have pushed him away, should have said no— but 900,000 euros flashed in her mind, along with her mother's nursing home bills, and…
"Cooperate," Lysander whispered. "I'll double your fee."
Zoe closed her eyes. The metal touched her skin, cold and smooth. The click of the clasp echoed in the silence.
Lysander's fingers adjusted the collar at the back of her neck, his thumb brushing her skin accidentally— warm, calloused. He stepped back, speaking in perfect Mandarin:
"Now, you belong to me."
Zoe's eyes flew open. His Mandarin was flawless, no trace of an accent.
Footsteps approached outside, then faded away. Lysander listened at the door for a moment, then pulled out a key and unlocked the collar.
"He's gone," he placed the collar back on the wall. "The performance was a success."
Zoe touched her neck, the cold metal's ghost still lingering on her skin.
"You speak Mandarin perfectly," she said.
"My mother was Chinese," Lysander turned his back to her. "The first Mandarin sentence she taught me was that— 'Now, you belong to me.' I was five. She'd just gotten her French passport, ready to marry into the Ji family."
His voice was calm, but Zoe heard the crack beneath the surface.
"What happened to her?"
"She died," Lysander turned around, his cold mask back in place. "Car accident. On my tenth birthday. The police called it an accident, but I know it wasn't. Because the day before, she told me she wanted to take me away from France."
Silence fell. From downstairs, the club's music drifted up— an electronic remix of La Vie en Rose, distorted and sorrowful.
"We should go," Lysander said. "8 AM tomorrow, my office. I need you to compile Renault's file."
"Monsieur Ji," Zoe called out as he reached the door.
He turned.
"What was your mother's name?" she asked.
His slate-blue eyes bored into hers, as if trying to see into her soul.
"Shen Qinglan," he said. "The same as your mother. What a coincidence, isn't it?"
He disappeared down the corridor. Zoe leaned against the doorframe, dizziness washing over her.
Shen Qinglan. The same name.
She thought of the last page of her mother's French diary, written twenty years ago:
"Today, I sent Lanlan to the Ji family. She'll have a better life, a French surname, and she'll forget about me— this useless mother. I left her the necklace, engraved with 'Pour mon trésor.' I'm sorry, my child, but poverty is crueler than abandonment."
The "Lanlan" in the diary had never been Zoe herself.
It was her half-sister— the one she'd never met.