Nyx allowed a slow, knowing smile to spread across her lips.
"Zhang Linghe. The 'Golden Son' of the mainland. I thought the face looked familiar, though usually, it's plastered on a fifty-foot billboard in Shanghai or weeping beautifully in a period drama."
Linghe didn't flinch at the mention of his fame. If anything, his posture relaxed into a practiced, nonchalant elegance. "And here I thought I'd finally found someone who didn't recognize the product."
"I don't recognize the product," Nyx corrected coldly, stepping closer until the heat from his chest radiated against her silk sleeves. "I recognize the asset. You spend your life being told where to stand and what emotion to mimic. This vacation isn't just for rest, is it? It's a desperate attempt to see if there's a soul left under the makeup."
Linghe's eyes darkened. The playful mask of the actor slipped, revealing a sharp, possessive edge. He reached out, his fingers finally making contact as he tucked a stray strand of her dark hair behind her ear. His touch was lingering—obsessive.
"You analyze people like they're cells under a lens, Nyx," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. "But you're forgetting one thing. Actors are experts at redirection. You think you're the one observing me? I've been studying your pulse in your neck since you walked in. It's faster than it should be for a woman who claims to be bored."