Somewhere in Beijing, under the soft afternoon light, a young girl around fourteen or fifteen, in pristine white stood before a Siheyuan-style tea house. Her beauty was the kind that drew second glances—features exquisitely carved, her figure slender and poised. Yet the dress she wore, though expensive, was revealing in a way that clashed with her delicate elegance, lending an undertone of boldness to her otherwise refined presence.
In her hand, she held the latest Fruit brand smartphone, the metallic edge glinting faintly as she pressed it to her ear.
"Did you personally see him enter the tea house?" she asked, her voice calm, yet tinged with suppressed anticipation.
On the other end came the reply, low and certain.
"Yes, Miss Rong. We saw him enter with our own eyes. In fact, he's in the Qinghe Zhuchan Pavilion."
Her gaze lifted to the tea house before her, and her lips curved faintly.
The Cuiwei Xiangyin was not just a tea house—it was an institution, a legend woven into Beijing's history. Built in the old Siheyuan courtyard style, it was said to serve teas unlike any found elsewhere in the world—Himalayan white tea, aged Da Hong Pao, vintage Darjeeling first flush, rare Yellow Gold Tea Buds from Singapore, and other treasures so rare that even seasoned tea connoisseurs whispered their names with reverence.
But it wasn't merely the rarity of the leaves that elevated its status—it was the art, the ritual, the almost spiritual precision with which the tea was prepared and served. Tea lovers from across the globe came here not just for a drink, but for an experience: the quiet of its gardens, the gentle splash of water over porcelain, the lingering aroma curling through the air like a memory.
Its name, Cuiwei Xiangyin, came from a Tang dynasty poem by Qian Tang—Fragrance Hidden in Emerald Mist. The meaning was simple yet poetic: On lofty green slopes, one savors the fragrance of tea.
Within its grounds were twelve private pavilions, each unique in design and atmosphere, but also in the status they conferred upon their occupants. And among them, the Qinghe Zhuchan Pavilion reigned supreme—an airy structure framed with carved sandalwood and green bamboo screens, where only those of the highest standing could sit. Even the Rong family, one of the four great families of Beijing—and ranked second in both wealth and influence—could not reserve it casually. Only the family patriarch himself had that privilege.
"Rong Ruxue," she whispered to herself, a glint flashing in her eyes—sharp, malicious, fleeting. But in the next instant, her expression softened into something sweet, almost innocent. "You can do this. You must do this. For your future."
Drawing in a deep breath, she stepped forward. The moment she crossed the threshold, the fragrance of steeped leaves enveloped her, calming her pulse.
A woman in an elegant silk qipao approached, her posture perfect, her smile warm but professional.
"Miss, do you have a reservation?"
Ruxue returned the smile, tilting her head just so, her voice carrying an undertone that could easily be mistaken for naivety—if one didn't hear the faint edge of pride beneath.
"Hello, I'm Rong Ruxue, from the Rong family in Beijing. I'd like to have my afternoon tea in Meiyu Xuan. I believe I'm eligible?"
The way she said Rong family was deliberate—light on the surface, yet edged with subtle arrogance, as though the name alone were a key to any door.
The attendant, though momentarily surprised, did not falter. Who in Beijing didn't know of the Rong family? They were the second most powerful of the four great families, and the second richest in the country. As a direct member, the young girl was more than qualified for Meiyu Xuan, the second most prestigious pavilion after Qinghe Zhuchan.
"Of course, Miss Rong," the attendant replied smoothly. "May I see your membership card? I'll have it prepared for you in just two minutes."
Ruxue produced the card from her clutch, sliding it across with an elegant motion. The attendant's eyes flickered briefly—the platinum card. One tier below the elusive diamond membership. Within moments, Meiyu Xuan was booked, and the card was returned with respectful hands.
She tucked it back into her handbag with quiet care. It had taken weeks of persuasion and charm to convince her grandmother to lend it to her, but the effort had been worth it.
Today, she thought, satisfaction curling at the edge of her lips, he would notice her. Today, she would make sure the man would remember her face.
As the attendant guided her toward the elegant archway of Meiyu Xuan, Rong Ruxue allowed herself one last glance toward the far end of the foyer. There, beyond a pair of ornately carved wooden doors, lay Qinghe Zhuchan—and behind those doors, seated in rarefied company, was the man she intended to make hers.
As soon as they stepped into the pavilion, Rong Ruxue lowered herself gracefully onto the seat, her every movement measured and refined. With a gentle curve of her lips, she addressed the attendant,
"I'll call you once I'm ready to order. Until then, please do not disturb me."
The attendant bowed her head politely and withdrew with poise, leaving the young lady alone amidst the quiet elegance of Meiyu Xuan.
Once certain she was unobserved, Rong Ruxue reached for her phone and dialed a number. It rang thrice before a cold, rigid yet unmistakably feminine voice came through the receiver.
"Did you reach the tea house?"
Rong Ruxue's pretentious tone melted away, replaced by her natural, casual voice—though still tinged with respect.
"Yes, Mother. My private investigator confirmed it—he's in Qinghe Zhuchan."
"Good."
The voice on the other end deepened with intent.
"A Xue, remember this—no matter what, you must win his heart. He must belong to you alone. If you want to secure your position in this family, if you want your grandfather's recognition, then do whatever it takes to keep that man in your grasp. Every person who has ever looked down on you will regret it."
Her mother's tone turned razor-sharp.
"But be careful. He isn't just any man—he is the sole heir to the Shen family, Asia's largest conglomerate. Though they are not based in the Mainland, their influence surpasses even that of the Rong family. Once you become the Shen family's daughter-in-law, no one in Beijing—not even the four great families—will dare to oppose you. You will rule the entire upper-class circle."
A flash of greed and malice danced in Rong Ruxue's eyes at those words. Her delicate hands curled into a fist beneath the table.
"Don't worry, Mother," she said with quiet conviction. "Everyone who has looked down on us will pay dearly. I will become the mistress of the Shen family one day."
"Good."
The line went dead.
Rong Ruxue inhaled deeply, smoothing her expression into one of demure gentleness. She rang the small silver bell on the table, and moments later, a soft knock came at the door.
"Come in," she called, her lips curving into a bloom of innocence.
The same attendant entered, her graceful steps matched by a polite smile.
"Miss Rong, have you decided on your order?"
"I was about to," Rong Ruxue replied sweetly. "But just now my mother mentioned that my father may be in the Qinghe Zhuchan pavilion. I thought I should say hello to him."
The attendant's smile faltered for the briefest moment before she composed herself.
"Your father? May I ask who you mean?"
"The head of the Rong family, Rong Minghao."
Recognition dawned instantly. Who in China did not know the current president of the Rong Group—the eldest son of the nation's second most powerful family, one that held not only vast business influence but also deep political roots? The current Premier, Rong Yichen, was his younger brother and the youngest in history to assume the role at just thirty-two.
The attendant's demeanor shifted to one of cautious respect.
"I see… Miss, I do know Mr. Rong Minghao, but I'm not certain whether he is in the Qinghe Zhuchan pavilion. We attendants are not permitted to know the identities of guests in any private pavilion unless we are assigned to serve them. Perhaps you could call him first and confirm?"
Rong Ruxue's lips curved into a subtle pout, her eyes taking on a hint of grievance.
"But I wanted to surprise him. My mother told me he was supposed to be here today—I'm sure it's him."
The attendant hesitated, suddenly regretting drawing the short straw of serving this particular guest.
"If it truly is my father, I'll surprise him. If not, I'll immediately apologize. I'm certain they won't mind. I have no intention of disturbing anyone," Rong Ruxue added, her voice dripping with practiced sincerity.
Without waiting for approval, she rose from her seat, gliding toward the door. As she turned, her back to the attendant, the corners of her mouth curled into a knowing smirk.
Her plan was working perfectly. She wasn't foolish enough to directly approach the Qinghe Zhuchan pavilion on her own—security here was tight. An uninvited approach would have alerted the tea house's staff. But now, with the attendant following her, there was nothing to fear.
Today, she had only one goal: to see the young master of the Shen family with her own eyes, and to leave a mark on his memory.
By her information, he was only fifteen, a year her senior—an age where boys were easily swayed by beauty and charm. She knew many in Beijing's upper circle were desperately trying to locate him, to arrange "accidental" encounters for their daughters. But she had no intention of giving anyone else the chance.
She had seen countless classmates—and even senior boys—fall hopelessly in love after a single glance from her. Why should he be any different?
At last, she reached the ornately carved doors of the Qinghe Zhuchan pavilion. She rehearsed her plan in her mind—burst in with a startled "Surprise!", feign shock, then cover her mouth and stammer tearful apologies. Perfect.
She pushed the door open.
And froze.
Her breath caught. Her carefully arranged script dissolved into nothingness. The moment her gaze landed on the figure inside, time itself seemed to still.
Rong Ruxue froze for a moment, unsure whether it was the golden slant of afternoon light or the man himself that had stolen her breath.
She had always believed her brother, Rong Yichen, to be the epitome of male perfection—a man whose face could launch a thousand sighs, whose refined presence stood above any other she had ever seen. In Beijing's glittering social circles, Rong Yichen was untouchable. And she wasn't wrong. His beauty was the sort that silenced rooms.
But the man before her…
Her gaze swept over him almost against her will, like a moth pulled into a flame it could neither understand nor escape. Even seated, he exuded an unapproachable elegance.
In the expanse of Qinghe Zhuchan, he sat by the open lattice window, the delicate steam from his porcelain cup curling upward in the quiet air. His side profile was a masterwork—sculpted as though the gods had been unwilling to give the world such a face, yet yielded at the last moment.
Slender fingers, long and clean, held the teacup with an effortless grace that made even the simplest movement—lifting it to his lips—feel like poetry. The faintest shift of his wrist caught the sun, the fine bones beneath his skin gleaming pale as jade.
The sunlight filtered through the swaying bamboo outside, spilling over him in fractured gold. The light kissed the high bridge of his nose, traced the sharp line of his jaw, and danced across the curve of lips that were neither too thin nor too full—just enough to promise warmth without softening the underlying authority.
His hair, dark as midnight ink, was casually tied back, yet a few rebellious strands had escaped, drifting with the breeze. They brushed against the clean arc of his cheekbone before falling across his temple.
And then there were his eyes. Though closed, their shape—narrow yet noble—hinted at a gaze that, once opened, would carry the weight of mountains and the clarity of deep rivers. A man could hide behind such eyes; a woman could drown in them.
This was beauty at its most dangerous—delicate yet undeniably masculine, as if gentleness and strength had found a perfect truce in his very being. Rong Yichen might be the sun, commanding all to look his way, but this boy was the moon in its fullest glory—cold, luminous, and impossible to touch without losing something of oneself.
Rong Ruxue's fingers tightened around her silk dress. For the first time in her life, she felt a flicker of something she could not quite name—covetousness tinged with an unfamiliar, almost maddening hunger.
She would take him. She would have to take him.
And if fate did not offer her that chance… well, she would snatch it herself.
___
Thank you so much Adele_Nkemanjong for the comment and power stone. It means a lot to me.
Keep supporting me☺️🙏
So how was the first glance at our Male lead?☺️