Chapter 7: The First Meeting

"A kiss? And here I thought you had grander ambitions... That first time we met, you were threatening all sorts of..."

"I said a kiss, so a kiss. Nothing more." Gong Si said it word by word, watching him.

Gong Zheng's gaze dropped, pinning Gong Si. Silence filled the car. Then, after a long moment, he reached out, closed his hand in the boy's soft hair, and pulled him in with a force that brooked no refusal—only to land, feather-light, at the corner of his mouth.

Just a kiss. It meant nothing. Anyone sitting here today would have gotten the same. It was nothing special—of course... as far as he was concerned.

If something a person begged this hard for could be given away at no cost, why not bank a little virtue for the afterlife? He'd need it, once the eighteenth level of hell came collecting for all the dirty work he'd done for Gong Shiwen.

Two sets of lips touching—why not?

Gong Si's pupils trembled. His lashes fluttered.

For a moment he simply sat there frozen, no idea what to do with himself. Silly kid, Gong Zheng cursed fondly to himself, and stole one last smooth of the boy's fine, soft hair—then, in the gap of Gong Si's daze, pushed the door open and got out.

Leaving a green, untouched little virgin behind the wheel to detonate in shame on the spot.

Having teased the kid, Gong Zheng's mood had improved. He went back to his room and cleaned himself up, thorough inside and out, changed into fresh clothes, dried his hair, and checked his phone: two hours until the appointed time. He flopped onto the bed and scrolled.

Maybe it was all the rest he hadn't gotten locked in Zhao Zhouming's basement, but sinking into the warm, soft bedding felt like a century rolling off him. Gong Zheng savored this rare stretch of quiet, his eyelids began to fall, and somewhere between one blink and the next, his hand went slack and he was asleep.

An urgent ringtone woke him.

Gong Zheng pried his eyes open, groggy—and the sky was already dark. He shot up in bed, swore under his breath, and squinted at his phone. He was a full two hours past the appointed time!

Half out of his skin, he yanked open the wardrobe—no time for careful grooming now, pulling a shirt over his head even as he kicked into slippers and slid open the jewelry cabinet.

According to the profile his assistant Chen Zegang had compiled on the Southeast Asian partner, the man favored the sultry, alluring type. Of course, the financier's information security was so tight that this was all Chen Zegang could dig up. For Gong Zheng's purposes, though... it was enough.

One hand zipped his fly while the other fished a single stud earring from the cabinet and snapped it onto his lobe; then he grabbed a few pieces of flamboyant jewelry—necklace, watch, rings—checked the mirror on his way out, raked down the unruly mess of his hair, snatched the car keys, and bolted.

Gong Zheng floored it, folding a forty-minute drive into twenty, and pushed through the doors of the club precisely on time.

The private room's door swung open, and Gong Zheng paused. Nothing like the drunken chaos and smoke haze he'd pictured: the room was strikingly quiet, and at first glance only one man sat on the sofa, a glass in hand, taking an unhurried sip.

The hush inside stood in stark contrast to the noise outside—one door apart, two different worlds. Gong Zheng shut it behind him, sealing out the din.

He didn't rush over and fawn. He kept his distance and sat down across from the man, facing him over a glass coffee table.

Looking properly now—earlier the lighting had been dim, and staring openly at a stranger would have been rude—Gong Zheng finally got a clear read of the man's face.

Which made it all the more strange: the man wore a half-face mask. In this day and age, wearing a mask read, to Gong Zheng, as pure posturing—yet he could detect not a trace of arrogance in the man. If anything—unless he was imagining it—there was something... indescribably gentle about him.

Perhaps the heavens kept their own ledger of fairness: they had given this man a face that could stop traffic, then marked it with scars that could not be shown. Even by the room's dim light, from the half that remained uncovered, Gong Zheng could tell his features were exceptionally fine—and no mask could hide the rarefied air that radiated from within.

"My name is Gong Zheng. Xiao Zheng is fine. May I ask... how should I address you?" Politeness won out; Gong Zheng broke the silence first.

"Yao Zhaocheng."

Fate, maybe. At the sound of the name, something like goodwill rose unbidden in Gong Zheng's chest—ridiculous, given the man had answered with nothing more than his name. It didn't stop the feeling.

And how did things unfold after that?

Years later, looking back, Gong Zheng would find the memory delicious. Gong Shiwen wanted the Southeast Asian cross-border e-commerce partnership badly. In their line of work, what they lacked most was a clean channel across borders. A bait that delicious, a meal already at the lips—how could they refuse?

Of course, no one reaches Gong Shiwen's position by luck. His caution ran deep; nothing he did leaked. He dispatched a small army to investigate the Southeast Asian cross-border merchant, and a month later the findings were enough to establish trust.

He feared a con—something for nothing—or worse, a trap set by the cops. He combed every import-export company and overseas warehouse under Yao Zhaocheng's name, traced his customs filings, tax rebates, and shipping routes. The verdict: Yao Zhaocheng operated hard, moved wild, ran enormous volume. Solid overseas channels, capital flowing freely, and—critically—clean.

The bait was too rich; it made everyone's mouth water, Gong Shiwen's included. He needed the partnership. He needed a channel to launder clean across borders.

So the order he gave Gong Zheng was, in short: land Yao Zhaocheng, whatever it takes.

It sounded harrowing, a one-way march. But when the moment came—when Gong Zheng stood before Yao Zhaocheng and made his offer, hands moving to undress—the man simply stepped forward and zipped Gong Zheng's clothes back up, wrapped him decent from throat to toe.

It threw Gong Zheng completely. In all his years, this was the first client who'd left him fully clothed rather than stripped bare. He held it in, then couldn't, and the laugh escaped.

The man only lifted his eyes, gave him one look, and stayed silent. Gong Zheng found it interesting, and asked, half-teasing: Don't like the filth? Or is it the altered freak you can't stand? I can find you a clean Omega instead.

At that, the man went still. Deep-set eyes found Gong Zheng through the mask with unerring precision, held him a long moment, and then, slowly: You're an Alpha.

It sounded like a question. From his mouth, it came out as fact.

Gong Zheng answered: I'm an Omega now.

What came back was silence. The man stepped back a pace, opening a safe distance between them. Then Yao Zhaocheng turned, picked up the documents on the coffee table, flipped two pages, and on the final page signed his name in elegant, delicate strokes.

He said: You don't have to do this. I would have signed anyway.