Shen Jing had booked an outdoor pavilion at a private kitchen. The sound of gurgling water flowing past artificial rockeries made the approaching winter feel even colder. Colder, perhaps, than Zhou Luchen's heart.
A small bridge over the stream connected to a hexagonal pavilion, where the wind lifted the white curtains draped at its corners. The setting was quaint and antique.
Knowing how picky he was, she had chosen this place—a haunt for Shanghai's elite. She had genuinely managed to snag a VIP reservation through Chen Yao; otherwise, they wouldn't have accepted her booking.
A large, round table made of red pearwood stood there. Shen Jing was seated next to Zhou Luchen.
Zhou Luchen rested one hand on the armrest of her chair, his other gracefully reaching for his tea. Every movement exuded the distinguished air of a young master from an aristocratic family.
"How much is your salary?"
