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Revenge Looks Good On Her

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Chapter 2 – Velvet and Venom

Revenge Looks Good On Her – Chapter 2: Velvet and Venom

POV: Wáng Shuǒrán → Lín Yàonán

**Setting:**Jiucheng skyline gala (Jiǎn Zhìhéng’s tower)

**Tone:**Seduction, manipulation, obsession blooming like poison

The elevator opened with a soft chime.

And Jiucheng’s richest sins turned to look.

Wáng Shuǒrán stepped into the ballroom like she belonged to someone powerful—when in fact, she belonged to no one. Her gown clung to her like molten wine, red satin sculpted to every curve, slipping low down a back too perfect to forget. Each step she took across marble was deliberate—heels clicking like a countdown.

Control the room. Don't let it control you.

Eyes snapped to her.

Whispers followed.

The orchestra didn’t miss a note, but it might as well have stopped playing.

Miss Red.

A name whispered through cigar smoke and backroom deals. An urban legend draped in silk and secrets. No one knew where she came from. Only that when she appeared, someone powerful always fell.

She didn’t smile. Not yet.

The room hadn’t earned it.

As champagne flowed and laughter echoed off glass walls, she moved like a storm wrapped in elegance, gaze scanning the crowd. Beneath the perfume and polished ambition, the air smelled of sweat and desire masked in designer notes. And then she saw her.

The woman with her face.

From across the ballroom, Lán Xīngyǎ stood at Jiǎn Zhìhéng’s side, laughing too loudly, clinging too closely. She wore Shuǒrán’s old smile—sweet, naive, eager to please. Her gown was pale and expensive, her eyes flicking to Jian’s like a tether.

Shuǒrán didn’t flinch. But inside, something recoiled. Not because Jian had replaced her. But because he’d chosen that as her substitute.

He couldn’t bury me. So he sculpted a ghost.

“Miss Red,” someone greeted, kissing the back of her hand with trembling lips.

She barely acknowledged him. His palm was clammy. His cologne cheap.

Jiǎn Zhìhéng was watching her now.

Still as a statue, wine untouched, eyes narrowed. The surrounding noise blurred into nothing. His stare dug into her like a scalpel—sharp, analytical, laced with disbelief.

She turned her head just enough. Let him drink her in. Let the confusion sink its claws deeper.

Not Shuǒrán. Not quite. But close enough to haunt him.

She took a glass from a passing tray and lifted it slowly to her lips. Cool crystal kissed her skin. The champagne tasted like ambition and aftertaste of metal.

Let him choke on what he lost.

She tasted like vengeance and high-stakes perfume. And when she finally smiled—just barely—he flinched.

Behind him, Lán Xīngyǎ noticed.

Her fingers clutched his arm tighter.

But Jian didn’t move.

And somewhere in the shadows, another man had noticed her too.

Yàonán noticed her the moment the elevator opened.

He wasn’t looking for her. But when every head turned, and every pulse shifted—he looked. And what he saw made his grip on the glass tighten.

Red.

Not the color. The presence. Like danger had slipped into silk and smiled.

She moved like a memory he wasn’t sure he wanted to remember. Or maybe a warning wrapped in perfume.

Miss Red.

He’d heard the name before. Whispers in case files, rumors in earpieces. A woman who appeared beside powerful men and left them in shambles. No confirmed identity. No digital footprint. Nor alliances. Just aftermath.

He watched her without moving. His drink untouched, his posture loose. But his mind raced like a loaded chamber.

Is she here for Jian? Or something else?

Her eyes swept the room like a predator cataloging prey. But when they landed on him, she paused. Just slightly.

And that pause burned.

It wasn’t flirtation. Not exactly. It was assessment. Like she already knew who he was. Like she’d planned for him.

So why do I want to walk into the fire?

Yàonán pushed off the bar. Each step calculated. She didn’t look away. Her expression said, come closer.

His, on the other hand, said, show me what you’re hiding.

Yàonán moved toward her like he would toward a suspect. Slow. Open-handed. Careful not to spook whatever truth she carried under that skin. Her perfume reached him first—jasmine, spice, something darker beneath it.

The man beside her spoke, eager, pathetic. She barely turned.

She saved the full voltage of her presence for him.

“Careful,” she said, voice low and wicked. “You might burn your wings.”

Up close, her beauty was sharper. Not soft. Engineered.

“I don’t mind fire,” he answered. “But you look more like poison.”

Her laugh curled around him like smoke.

She could smell the faint scent of leather and bergamot as he neared—and something else underneath. Gunmetal. Control.

She’s here for something. Someone. Maybe even me.

He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he clinked his glass to hers.

The sound was soft. But the impact? Immediate.

You’re in now, Shuǒrán thought, watching the flicker in his eyes. Let’s see how deep you go.