On the sixtieth floor of Ouyang Group Tower, the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooked the wide, snowy expanse of Yanjing.
The executive boardroom was furnished with polished Brazilian mahogany, hand-woven Persian rugs, and Italian leather armchairs. Classical violin music played softly from the ceiling speakers, creating an atmosphere of quiet, untouchable wealth.
Ouyang Fei stood by the tall window, holding a crystal flute of vintage French champagne.
His ruined white mink coat was gone, replaced by a tailored three-piece gray pinstripe suit from London. His dark hair was slicked back with expensive scented pomade, and a gold Rolex gleamed on his wrist.
Across the long table sat Han Shao, leaning back with his Italian leather loafers resting casually on the polished mahogany wood.
“Young Master Ouyang,” Han Shao chuckled, clinking his crystal glass against Ouyang Fei’s. “To a peaceful morning. By now, that meddlesome old noodle cook and her little delivery truck are just blackened scrap metal on the Sixth Ring highway.”
Ouyang Fei took a slow, arrogant sip of the bubbly champagne. A cruel, venomous smirk spread across his thin lips.
“That is what happens when country bumpkins forget their place,” Ouyang Fei sneered, looking down at the crawling city traffic below. “Lin Mo thought he could buy my clubhouse and humiliate me in front of two hundred thousand people. Tonight, he will be weeping over a pile of burnt cabbage soup. And tomorrow morning, the Ouyang family will reclaim the boulevard with interest.”
