Dinner was served on a private sandbar, the tide receding to leave them isolated under a canopy of stars. It was a setting straight out of one of Linghe's romantic dramas, but the atmosphere was far from scripted.
Nyx watched him across the candlelight. He was watching her back, his gaze heavy and unblinking. It was the look of a man who was used to being the center of attention, now finding himself eclipsed by a woman who treated his fame like a minor footnote in a medical journal.
"You're very quiet," Linghe noted, swirling his wine. "Calculating the caloric intake of the meal, or the most efficient way to ruin me?"
"Both," Nyx replied simply. "But mostly, I'm wondering why a man who has a billion people screaming his name is so desperate to be seen by someone who doesn't care about it."
Linghe set his glass down with a soft clink. The air between them thickened. The obsession was no longer just a spark—it was a tangible weight. He didn't want her admiration; he wanted her submission. And Nyx? She wanted to see the famous Zhang Linghe unravel until there was nothing left but the raw, unedited truth.
"I don't want you to care about my name," Linghe said, his voice low and predatory. "I want you to realize that in this 36-hour vacuum, I am the only variable you can't control."
Nyx leaned back, a small, dark smirk playing on her lips. "Challenge accepted."