The rain came down in sheets, a relentless curtain of gray that turned Zhonghai City into a watercolor painting left out in a storm.
Jin Hao's sneakers slapped against the slick pavement, each step sending up a spray of water that soaked his jeans clear to the knees. His hoodie clung to his shoulders, heavy and useless, the cotton doing nothing to keep out the chill.
Zhonghai's business district was all around him—glass towers stabbing into the low clouds, their neon signs bleeding red and blue into the wet night.
He didn't belong here. Never had. But tonight, he had a reason to run through this glittering maze of wealth: Lin Qian had called him to La Lumière, the kind of place where a single meal cost more than his monthly rent.
In his left hand, he clutched a velvet ring box, its edges worn from months of nervous handling. The ring inside wasn't much—a thin silver band with a tiny diamond that had taken him two years of scrimping to afford.
But it was enough, he'd told himself. Enough to show her he meant forever. Seven years they'd been together, through her college exams and his endless night shifts at the warehouse, through fights and silences and moments so soft they felt like stolen dreams.
She'd texted him this morning, her message short but urgent: Meet me at La Lumière tonight. 8 PM. Important. His heart had leapt.
Maybe she sensed it was time, too. Maybe she'd seen the way he'd been fidgeting lately, the way his eyes lingered on her a little longer than usual.
He rounded a corner, the restaurant's sign glowing ahead like a beacon: La Lumière, scripted in elegant gold cursive.
The place was a fortress of class—marble steps leading up to double doors framed in polished brass, windows that shimmered with the warm flicker of chandeliers inside.
Jin slowed, catching his breath, water dripping from his bangs into his eyes.
He wiped his face with a sleeve, suddenly aware of how he must look: a drowned rat in a faded hoodie, sneakers squeaking, nothing but a cheap ring and a stubborn heart to his name.
He glanced at the box in his hand, its velvet dark with rain, and swallowed hard. "You got this," he muttered to himself. "She's waiting."
The doorman eyed him like he was a stray dog wandered too far from its alley. "Name?" the man asked, his voice clipped, one gloved hand already half-raised to shoo him away.
"Jin Hao," he said, straightening up, trying to sound like he belonged. "I'm meeting someone. Lin Qian."
The doorman's brow arched, but he checked a tablet glowing under an awning. A pause, then a reluctant nod. "She's inside. Table 12. Don't drip on the floors."
Jin pushed through the doors, the sudden warmth of the restaurant hitting him like a wall.
The air smelled of butter and wine, filled with the murmur of voices and the clink of crystal glasses.
The interior was a fever dream, the kind you saw in all this billionaire interview videos—cream-colored walls draped with silk tapestries, tables draped in linen so white it hurt to look at, waiters gliding like ghosts in tailored vests.
The clientele matched the decor: men in suits that cost more than Jin's entire wardrobe, women in dresses that shimmered like liquid starlight, their laughter were so refined, the kind you'd get if you ate caviar every so often.
He felt their eyes on him as he stood there, water pooling at his feet, his hoodie sagging like a bad joke. A hostess in a black sheath dress approached, her smile tight.
"Sir, may I help you?" she asked, her tone suggesting she'd rather help him find the exit.
"I'm here for Lin Qian," Jin said, gripping the ring box tighter. "Table 12."
Her eyes flicked over him, lingering on the puddle forming beneath his sneakers. "Follow me," she said finally, turning on her heel with a grace that made him feel even clumsier.
He trailed her through the maze of tables, his heart hammering. Every step felt like a trespass, the weight of a hundred stares pressing into his back. But then he saw her—Lin Qian, seated near a window overlooking the rain-slicked street, her dark hair swept into an elegant twist, her silk blouse catching the chandelier light.
She looked like she belonged here, like she'd been born to this world of crystal and velvet. And for a moment, Jin's nerves eased.
This was his Qian, the girl who'd once laughed with him over instant noodles at 3 a.m., who'd cried into his shoulder when her mom got sick.
She'd called him here.
She wanted him here.
Then he saw the man sitting across from her.
Bai Zhenghao lounged in his chair like he owned the place, one arm draped casually over the backrest, his tailored blazer open to reveal a crisp white shirt.
His hair was artfully styled, his watch glinting with the kind of understated wealth that screamed money.
He was holding Lin Qian's hand across the table, his thumb brushing over her knuckles with an intimacy that hit Jin like a fist to the gut. Lin was smiling at him, her eyes soft in a way Jin hadn't seen in months.
He stopped dead, the ring box suddenly heavy as a stone in his hand.
The hostess glanced back, confused, but Jin barely noticed. His eyes were locked on Lin Qian, on the way her fingers curled around Bai's, on the laugh she gave at something he said—a laugh Jin hadn't heard in years.
"Qian?" His voice came out rough, louder than he meant, cutting through the restaurant's hum.
Heads turned. Lin Qian's smile froze, her eyes snapping to him.
For a split second, she looked startled, almost guilty.
Then her expression hardened, and she straightened in her chair, pulling her hand from Bai's with a deliberate slowness.
"Jin," she said, her voice cool, like she was greeting a coworker she barely liked.
"You're here."
Bai leaned back, smirking, his gaze sliding over Jin like he was sizing up a stray cat. "This the guy?" he asked Lin, his tone dripping with amusement. "Looks like he swam here."
Jin ignored him, stepping closer to the table, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.
"What's going on, Qian? You called me. You said it was important." His eyes flicked to Bai, then back to her. "Who's this?"
Lin sighed, a sound so weary it cut deeper than any words could. She folded her hands in her lap, her posture perfect, like she was posing for a portrait. "Sit down, Jin. You're making a scene."
"I'm not sitting," he said, his voice shaking now, the ring box felt like it was burning a hole in his palm. "Not until you tell me what's happening. Why's he holding your hand? Why are you here with him?"
Bai chuckled, a low, lazy sound. "Oh, buddy, you're slow on the uptake, aren't you? She's here with me because she wants to be. Isn't that right, Qian?"
"Shut up," Jin snapped, his eyes never leaving Lin. "Qian, talk to me. Please."
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and the coldness in her eyes made his stomach twist.
"Fine," she said, her voice flat.
She stood, her chair screeching back, and met his gaze with eyes so cold they could've frozen the rain outside. "You want it raw?" she hissed. "I've been seeing Zhenghao for a year and a half. Living a whole other life while you were out there playing the loyal little dog, panting for scraps. You were my safety net, Jin—my emotional crutch when I needed to feel grounded. But now? You're nothing. A broke, delusional nobody who thought love could pay the bills. I'm done slumming it with you. Done pretending you're enough."
The words slammed into him, a barrage of shrapnel ripping through his chest.
"A year and a half?" he choked, his voice splintering, tears stinging behind his eyes.
"You've been screwing him that long? And me—what, I was just your fucking therapy while you spread your legs for this prick?"
"Don't you dare," she spat, stepping closer, her face inches from his, her voice dropping to a lethal growl. "Don't you dare stand there like some wounded saint. You let us rot, Jin. Seven years of your empty promises, your shitty job, your 'one day we'll make it' bullshit. I starved for something real while you fed me dreams that never came true. Zhenghao didn't just promise—he delivered. Cars, diamonds, a life where I don't have to count coins for rice. You're a ghost of a man, and I'm done haunting your graveyard."
Bai stood too, circling the table, his grin widening.
"You hearing this, pal? She's done wiping your tears. Look at you—sopping wet, clutching that pathetic box like it's a lifeline. What's in there, huh? Your last paycheck? I could buy her a ring that'd blind you, and still have cash left to burn your whole sad life down. Get lost, kid. She's mine now."
Jin's world shattered, rage and grief erupting in a scream he couldn't hold back. "Seven years!" he yelled, causing everyone present to look in the direction of their table.
Security guards, noticing the commotion immediately began to rush over.
"I gave you everything—every goddamn piece of me! I worked myself to death for you, held you when you were falling apart, loved you when you didn't even love yourself! And you—you butcher it all for this smug, soulless bastard? You rip my fucking soul out and tell me I'm the one who failed?"
Lin laughed—a sharp, cruel sound that cut deeper than anything yet. "Oh, Jin, you're so dramatic. Love? That's your excuse? Love doesn't buy me a future. It doesn't get me out of that roach-infested hole you call home. Zhenghao's a man who takes what he wants, who builds business empires. You're a boy who can't even build a life. Take your stupid ring and your whining and crawl back to your gutter. I'm not your Qian anymore—I never really was."
The restaurant felt strangely colder now, as Jin stared at her, at the woman he'd worshipped, and saw a monster—a cold, heartless stranger who'd toyed with his heart and laughed while doing it.
Just then, Two security guards popped up behind him.
One grabbed Jin's arm, his grip iron-tight.
"Sir, you're disturbing the other patrons," he said calmly. "You need to leave. Now."
The second guard flanked him, seizing his other arm, pulling him back. "Let's go, buddy. Out."
Jin thrashed against them, his voice a wild snarl. "Get off me! I'm not done—Qian, you can't do this!"
Lin laughed, "Take your stupid ring and your whining and crawl back to your gutter. I'm not your Qian anymore—I never really was."
His fist tightened around the ring box.
The guards yanked him harder, dragging him toward the doors as he fought, his sneakers skidding on the floor.
"You're a liar!" he roared, twisting in their grip.
"A fucking traitor! I hope that bastard uses you up and throws you out like the trash you are!"
"Keep dreaming, Jin. This is good bye, forever."
The guards hauled him through the brass doors and hurled him out into the storm, his body crashing onto the rain-slicked marble steps.
The ring box slipped from his hand, tumbling down with him, hitting the ground with a soft thud.
It burst open, the tiny silver ring rolling free, glinting faintly in the neon glow before settling in a puddle.
Jin stared at it, his breath ragged, the rain pounding his back.
Then he screamed—"Damn it!"—and drove his fist into the asphalt, the pain exploding up his arm as blood mixed with the water pooling beneath him.
His sobs were lost to the storm, with the ring being the only silent witness to the wreckage of his heart.