Night at the harbor – the moon was veiled by thick clouds, the sound of the waves soft and gentle.
Once they boarded, the yacht’s owner was already waiting by the gangway. The moment he saw Shang Shao, he strode forward enthusiastically, shaking his hand, clapping his shoulder, and pulling him into a hug.
“Edward,” Shang Shao introduced to Ying Yin, “an old friend from the yacht club.”
Edward was a tall white man, probably over a decade older than Shang Shao. Curly brown hair brushed against the back of his neck, and he wore a white linen shirt with light camel casual trousers and suede loafers – a picture of effortless vacation elegance.
“Old friend, my ass. This past May in Monaco, I waited half a month for you and you never showed up!”
Every May, as the winds and waves of the Mediterranean began to rise, the world’s wealthy would, as if by unspoken agreement, relocate their yachts to the harbors of the Principality of Monaco. From small keelboats to luxury yachts and superyachts, white hulls towered in staggered rows, masts packed densely together, forming the most expensive white panorama in the world.
Shang Shao laughed softly, still clasping Edward’s hand as he gave his shoulder a pat. “You know how it was – I was genuinely too busy this year. Never found the chance to get out to sea.”
When he was with friends, he was different from the man Ying Yin usually saw: there was an effortless ease about him, the relaxed confidence of someone completely in his element.
Standing beside the yacht owner Edward was an exceptionally tall woman, perhaps 170-180cm. She had the same deep honey-toned complexion, long golden-brown curls, and a radiant, sweetly enthusiastic smile.
Ying Yin recognized her immediately.
She was Becca, the supermodel who had announced her retirement just last year -Argentinian, once a wearer of the million-dollar Victoria’s Secret wings, and one of the legendary figures of the previous era’s high-fashion runways.
Becca wore only an oversized shirt, bare-legged and barefoot. While Edward spoke, she leaned against his shoulder, arms draped around his broad frame. Her naturally flirtatious eyes shifted from Shang Shao to Ying Yin, then paused in surprise, curiosity flickering across her face.
“Oh my gosh!” she suddenly exclaimed, covering her mouth. “It’s you! I’ve seen your movie – The Floating Flower, right?”
Because Becca spoke so quickly and excitedly in English, it took Ying Yin a moment to realize that the film she meant was Floating Flower – Ying Yin’s debut film, and also the first one of hers ever screened at an overseas film festival.
“Ying Yin,” Becca said, carefully sounding out the Chinese pronunciation of her name. “You’re so different from back then. But of course, at the time you were still a little girl.”
And it was true. Back then, Ying Yin had only been seventeen, with traces of baby fat still lingering on her face.
The group walked across the deck into the cabin, chatting as they descended the spiral staircase.
It was already well past midnight, but the music hadn’t stopped. The first-floor lounge was open on all sides, with a performance stage and a black Steinway & Sons grand piano placed at the center for entertainment during parties. On the second floor were a private cinema, a spa, a gym, as well as a card room, medical room, and study.
The third floor held five master guest suites in total.
Ying Yin and Shang Shao had been assigned the same room.
Ying Yin choked on her words.
The moment everyone left, her expression changed instantly. “This yacht is so huge -don’t tell me there isn’t even…”
“There isn’t,” Shang Shao cut in succinctly.
Only yachts over one hundred meters in length could truly be called superyachts, and this was one of them. A hundred-meter hull could accommodate a helicopter landing pad, a swimming pool, sailboats, jet skis, speedboats, cars, off-road vehicles, and dune buggies. It could house a hundred and fifty crew members and servants -but somehow, not a sixth guest room.
Because on the yachts of the ultra-rich, there was never any need for too many guests.
Shang Shao walked into the sitting room and, with complete ease, took off his suit jacket, then rolled up the cuffs of his dress shirt.
The gilded faucet was turned on, clear water streaming out as he washed his hands with meticulous care. Seeing Ying Yin still standing motionless by the door, he said lazily, matter-of-factly, “Besides us, there are more guests boarding later tonight. All five suites have already been assigned.”
“I don’t have to stay in a suite.”
“What are you thinking?” Shang Shao lifted his eyes and shot her an amused glance. “If you’re not staying in a suite, then you’ll be sleeping in the inner cabins with the butlers and maids.”
Seeing Ying Yin purse her lips in reluctant silence, Shang Shao smiled faintly. “Or should I go instead?”
Even if Ying Yin had ten times the courage, she still wouldn’t dare.
“What are you afraid of? It’s not like I can do anything anyway.” Shang Shao said it with perfect composure. He picked up a hand towel and carefully dried each finger one by one.
“A man’s tools for committing crimes aren’t limited to just that one thing,” Ying Yin shot back smugly.
Shang Shao had just finished drying his hands. Hearing her words, he lowered his gaze almost involuntarily and glanced down.
A pair of hands pampered by luxury – hands usually used only for signing documents, turning book pages, and steering sailboats – were now resting atop the thick white towel.
Long-knuckled, elegant fingers.
Honestly, not bad at all.
Ying Yin straightened abruptly. “Y-you… why are you looking at your hands?”
“Can’t I look at my hands?” Shang Shao asked, amused. He tossed aside the towel and, looking at Ying Yin, slowly loosened his black tie inch by inch. “What’s wrong with hands?”
“Hands… hands…” Ying Yin flushed scarlet, suddenly tongue-tied.
Shang Shao gave a graceful nod. “I’ve learned something. Thank you for the reminder.”
Bang – the bedroom door was slammed shut with force.
“Ugh…” She lightly smacked her own mouth. “Serves you right for talking too fast! Serves you right!”
The last time she’d slammed his car door, she’d only managed to stay bold for a single second before immediately turning meek and apologetic. Shang Shao glanced at his watch. Thirty seconds later, he curved his lips into a helpless smile.
More than thirty times the improvement. Impressive indeed.
A cigarette pinched between his fingers, he knocked on the bedroom door. “How about this – I have an idea.”
Ying Yin’s voice came muffled through her stuffy nose. “What idea?”
“When we sleep tonight, you can tie me up. After all, Miss Ying, aren’t you skilled in twelve different tie knots?”
“Shang Shao!” Ying Yin thumped the door once.
Shang Shao let out a low chuckle. Lowering his head, he exhaled a stream of smoke before the smile faded slightly from his face. “Seriously, no more joking around. I’m exhausted. Will you let me in?”
Ying Yin’s heart tightened as she thought about his schedule over the past few days.
Adding everything up, the total time he had managed to close his eyes and rest in those two days probably didn’t exceed four hours.
The door opened from inside. In the haze of cigarette smoke, Shang Shao’s dark eyes barely concealed his exhaustion – he looked as if he was only being held together by the nicotine between his fingers.
“I’m sorry. I’d like to be gentlemanly and tell you I’ll just sleep on the sofa outside, but I can’t.” He lifted the hand holding the cigarette and gently brushed it along Ying Yin’s cheek. “Forgive me for tonight.”
Ying Yin nodded, wanting to say something but stopping herself.
“Don’t apologize. This is my own doing.”
The yacht bedroom was not much different from a hotel room – just thicker carpets, more luxurious furniture, and a more grand crystal chandelier.
At the center stood a two-meter-wide black antique-style Parisian bed, its crisp white sheets tightly made by the staff without a single wrinkle. At the foot of the bed sat a pair of towel-swans twisted into shape.
Shang Shao glanced at the bench at the end of the bed, then walked to the landline phone. He pressed the speaker and gave an instruction in French.
Ying Yin assumed he was calling for room service, but while Shang Shao was unfastening his shirt buttons, he said to her, “I’ll shower first. Later, the staff will come and replace this bench at the end of the bed. They speak French – you don’t need to communicate with them.”
“What’s wrong with this bench?” Ying Yin glanced at it. The leather surface was smooth, with an unusual pattern she had never seen before.
She reached out, and just as her fingers were about to touch it, she heard Shang Shao’s cold voice. “Don’t touch it.”
Startled by the rare edge in his tone, Ying Yin looked up and caught a flash of disgust in his eyes.
She quickly pulled her hand back and stood upright, unsure whether she felt embarrassed or restrained. Shang Shao relaxed again and gently pulled her away from the bench. “Sorry. It’s made of whale skin. I don’t want you touching it. Did I scare you?”
Ying Yin nodded slightly. “You were a bit scary,” she said softly.
Shang Shao wrapped an arm around her and patted her back. “Don’t be afraid.”
His gentleness carried a trace of exhaustion – like a soft, rustling rain in the deep of night, strangely reassuring for no reason.
Ying Yin leaned against his shoulder, lifted her face, and softly called him, “Mr. Shang.”
Shang Shao lowered his head. Ying Yin asked, “Can you kiss me?”
He paused for a moment, then leaned in and kissed her.
It was a very quiet kiss, not intense at all, but for some reason it was addictive.
When it ended, neither of them was breathing heavily. Ying Yin rested against his shoulder, the corners of her lips curving upward. “So I can order you around too.”
Shang Shao let out a faint laugh and tapped her between the brows. “Silly.”
“Silly,” Ying Yin awkwardly mimicked his Cantonese pronunciation, then stood on tiptoe, wrapped her arms around his neck, and held him tightly.
Shang Shao swallowed almost imperceptibly. The earlier intense kiss in the car had produced no reaction, but now there was a faint sense of losing control.
He gently pushed her soft body away. “I’m going to shower first.”
Ying Yin nodded, her ears tinged with a faint blush.
Their luggage had already been taken care of by the staff the moment they boarded. Formal wear for both men and women hung in the walk-in wardrobe, while sleepwear was neatly folded in a chest of drawers. Beside the bed were two pairs of soft leather shoes placed side by side – the vegetable-tanned leather craftsmanship made Ying Yin think of the pair she had seen at Shang Shao’s home.
After a while, the sound of a shower came from the bathroom.
Ying Yin walked past the foot of the bed and opened the balcony door. The humid sea breeze hit her face, and the blue swimming pool below reflected a faint, shimmering moonlight.
She turned her head again and looked once more at the bench at the end of the bed.
It was made from a single complete hide – neither fully black nor fully not black, but a deep, muted gray. The craftsmanship was so precise that it fit together seamlessly, as if the bench had grown out of the material itself.
She had traveled here by private jet, then boarded a superyacht; everything she had seen so far belonged to the highest tier of luxury sales presentations. And now even a bench at the foot of the bed cost hundreds of thousands – an item of rare, excessive luxury, though the “rarity” itself was almost nauseating.
Ying Yin leaned against the railing, resting her face lightly on her arm as she looked out at the sea.
She wondered if Ying Fan had ever seen wealth like this. If she had, would she have been frightened by it?
Back then, Ying Fan had gritted her teeth to send her to dance school, to an elite private school in Ping City, teaching her everything about social etiquette, maneuvering, and pleasing those above her. What she wanted, in the end, was nothing more than extreme wealth and status.
Ying Yin remembered that in high school, there was a classmate who was picked up every day in a Mercedes-Benz S-Class. Back in the early 2000s, that car cost two million, and the dedicated driver wore white gloves while driving.
Ying Fan was very concerned about that classmate. Whenever the two of them were assigned to the same homework group after class, she would always – deliberately or not – ask Ying Yin how she was getting along with him. Had she been invited to his birthday party?
But that classmate was short and stout, and whenever he raised his arms there was an unclean smell about him. Ying Yin didn’t even want him within half a meter of her.
This was the kind of “wealth” Ying Fan longed for.
Yet the people Ying Yin herself wanted to “climb toward” were, when they came to the Mediterranean during the holiday season each year, just like ordinary people – taking out their phones, zooming in, and from a distance snapping photos of this yacht.
She also thought of what Song Shizhang had told her about that mistress.
Living a life where one spent twenty to thirty million a year, she would rather become the lover of a man in his sixties – attentive, skilled in pleasing, adept at subtle feminine charm – than accept a “mere” few million a year in freedom.
Poverty in slums, and overwhelming wealth alike, could both break a person’s spine and crush a life.
Behind her, the glass doors were brightly lit, revealing the scene inside.
Several crew members arrived quickly, moving with practiced efficiency as they carried away the bench at the foot of the bed, along with the matching armchair and footstool, replacing them with a set upholstered in deep blue velvet.
Far out at sea, a patrol speedboat swept a beam of light across the water. But the sky and sea were boundless darkness that night, making the light seem as small and fragile as a silver needle.
When Ying Yin went in, the shower was still running. Then came a knock at the door.
The door opened. A crew member stood outside holding a tray with a short-stemmed red wine glass. Inside was freshly simmered mulled wine, its aroma of cinnamon, cloves, and sweet orange richly interwoven.
Ying Yin was surprised. The staff said something to her, but she couldn’t understand a word. She only took the glass and said, “Thank you.”
She liked cinnamon mulled wine very much. Every winter, whenever she had time off from filming or after finishing work calls, she would make herself a cup.
But more often than not, it was disappointing.
First, the winters in Ning City weren’t cold enough – the cold snaps always came and went too quickly, barely making an impression.
Second, she put in effort with enthusiasm, but the results were never quite right. She really didn’t have much talent for it.
The chefs on this yacht were all Michelin-level; the drink was easily a hundred times better than anything she could make herself.
When Shang Shao came out, he saw her sitting on a deep blue velvet sofa, one hand holding the glass and the other scrolling on her phone.
“Is this part of the ship’s nighttime service? They just brought me a glass of mulled wine.” Ying Yin stood up, then paused. “Huh… why don’t you have one? Did they forget?” Then she suddenly realized. “Wait – this is yours? Sorry, sorry, I didn’t think…”
Shang Shao, drying his hair, laughed softly. “It’s yours. Even if it were mine, if you wanted to drink it, you’d just drink it. Why are you so nervous?”
“Is it really a bedtime service?” Ying Yin sniffed the cinnamon aroma. “I like this.”
“Mm.” Shang Shao gave a faint smile. “I know.”
He wasn’t wearing a shirt. A bath towel was wrapped around his waist.
When he usually wore a suit, Shang Shao looked lean and upright – shirt buttoned to the top, tie meticulously knotted, reserved and aristocratic, almost ascetic in his restraint. Only his long fingers and defined Adam’s apple hinted at anything beyond that controlled exterior.
But now, bare from the waist up, Ying Yin was drinking her wine when she suddenly found she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. She lifted her gaze from the rim of the glass and, searching for something to say, blurted, “The bench has been replaced.”
“Mm,” Shang Shao responded. “Edward knows I don’t like whale skin. He probably assigned the wrong room today.”
“Isn’t that illegal? Aren’t whales protected under animal protection laws?”
“It is illegal. But whale hunting is an important source of income for Japan, so it’s difficult to stop. Every year, Japanese vessels go to Antarctic waters specifically to hunt whales for wealthy clients. They require the hides to be completely intact – no scars, no marks – then they turn them into sofas, benches, or drawers. The larger and more flawless the whale skin, the more expensive it is.”
“Why?” Ying Yin couldn’t imagine it. “Cowhide or sheepskin isn’t good enough?”
“For ordinary people, it is. For them, it isn’t.” Shang Shao said indifferently, the corner of his lips lifting into a faint trace of irony.
His gaze landed on an oil painting hanging on the wall. “Do you know whose painting this is?”
Ying Yin shook her head. “Impressionist?”
“It’s an original Cézanne. Sea air is very humid – it’s actually very bad for preserving oil paintings – but it’s still hung here.”
“Then…” Ying Yin hesitated.
“You’re right,” he said. “This painting won’t survive to be passed down. But they have too much. Everything is within reach, so the only way left for them to express status and wealth is like this.”
“I don’t understand,” Ying Yin said directly.
Shang Shao smiled faintly. “That’s fine. I don’t understand either.”
“You do understand,” Ying Yin said with certainty.
“Hm?”
“You threw away a sapphire. It’s the same logic.”
Shang Shao hadn’t expected her to be waiting for him there. He tossed the towel aside and laughed softly.
“So petty? You’ve been holding onto that the whole way?”
“You’re only a little better than them. Throwing away a gemstone ring – letting the raw ore return to nature – is at least environmentally friendly. But Cézanne’s painting is cultural heritage. Destroying something like that just to show off wealth is, in my opinion, very low-class.”
After delivering her full critique, Ying Yin quickly added in a small voice, “Sorry, I insulted your friend.”
Shang Shao stepped closer, looked at her for a moment with a half-smile, then tucked her loose hair behind her ear.
“Thanks for helping me scold him,” he said. “But Edward isn’t a bad person. It’s just that sometimes, when people get stuck in a certain circle, their thinking becomes foolish. The poor have their foolishness, and the rich have theirs. As long as you’re human, it’s all the same.”
“Rich people can be foolish too?” Ying Yin tilted her head. “You don’t know this? In our works of art and literature, rich people are always elegant, intelligent, cultured, moral, graceful, kind, and innocent of the world – so pure they can’t even have bad intentions.”
Shang Shao couldn’t help laughing. “Ying Yin, you’re actually quite good at insulting people.”
Ying Yin put down her wine, picked up her sleepwear and underwear from the drawer, and held them to her chest.
“Not really. I’m also kind of rich, at least a little. So if I say I’m a foolish, stupid rich person full of bad intentions, isn’t that fine?”
After her cold, tired body had been warmed by hot water, she felt pleasantly softened from head to toe as she showered.
When she came out, the bedroom lighting had already been dimmed, leaving only the small night lamp on her side of the bed.
Shang Shao was lying on his side, breathing steady and even, his brow relaxed – already fast asleep for a long while.
Almost as if by some invisible impulse, Ying Yin walked to the side of his bed and crouched down. She rested her hands together on her knees and, in the faintest sliver of light, studied Shang Shao.
He was backlit, his features sunk into shadow, making his bone structure look even more sharply defined.
Behind him, on the black lacquered headboard of the antique-style Parisian bed, floral and bird motifs were painted in fine gold leaf – rich, ornate, and deeply classical.
In that heavy, opulent stillness, Shang Shao opened his eyes. They were clear and fully awake.
Ying Yin was caught completely off guard.
Still crouched there, her bare, makeup-free face froze in place – like a schoolgirl caught writing a love letter. She was only surprised; she hadn’t even had time to feel embarrassed.
Shang Shao looked at her silently for several seconds, his gaze deep and unreadable. Without the slightest hesitation, he reached out, pulled her arm, and drew her into his chest.
Ying Yin let out a muffled sound. Her silk underwear was as thin as a cicada’s wing, and her body could feel his warmth without any barrier.
The heavy weight of him seemed to drain away her exhaustion, and Shang Shao couldn’t help but take a deep breath, letting out a soft sigh.
She was pressed against him as he kissed her. The hand behind her slid upward, finding the strap of her bra.
“You sleep in a bra?” he asked in a low voice, his breath brushing against her skin, their faces so close their eyelashes almost touched – his eyes half-lowered, heavy with desire.
Ying Yin couldn’t answer.
Shang Shao stared at her, making her clearly realize exactly when the clasp of her bra had been undone.
With just a simple twist of two fingers, even more practiced than before, it came loose with ease.
Ying Yin only felt a sudden release around her chest, the restraint gone – but paradoxically, she found it even harder to breathe.
She let Shang Shao kiss her, from her lips to the side of her neck, from her neck to her collarbone. Further down, the kissing stopped, and so did the breath – but the heat remained, searing against the most sensitive skin of her body.
Unable to endure that kind of hot, lingering breath above her, Ying Yin began to tremble slightly. She was nervous.
She had no experience with this – didn’t know what it would feel like – and felt as if she was about to cry.
When he drew her into a deeper kiss, her vision grew hazy, and she suddenly grabbed onto the bedsheet beneath her.
She had been wrong just now – his “tools for committing crimes” were indeed more than one. Just not his hands.
He had been all talk, yet strangely self-taught; so skilled it was hard to believe this was truly his first time.
But Shang Shao did not continue further. Instead, he lingered over her for a while, then asked hoarsely, “Are you sent here to test me or something, hm?”
He lifted himself slightly and brushed her bangs aside, his tone turning almost negotiating. “I don’t really want to do this here. Wait till we go home, okay?”
Pride is fragile – when it appears, it strikes like a thorn. Ying Yin felt both embarrassed and irritated, yet she was firmly held in place, unable to move.
“I didn’t mean that…” she weakly protested.
“I do.”
“…”
Ying Yin’s heart was racing. Her crossed legs shifted slightly, rubbing together.
“Don’t move. Be good and go to sleep.”
He said they would sleep, but when he heard her uneven breathing and felt her body tremble, his gaze suddenly tightened, and his throat moved as he swallowed hard. He lifted her long legs, his fingertips brushing lightly over her.
Through the fabric, he could feel the unpleasant sensation of dampness, which he disliked.
Ying Yin struggled, but instead ended up pressed into his palm, her body flushed and tightly held against him.
With her eyes squeezed shut, tears of heat slid down her face.
At that moment, Shang Shao let out a soft laugh, unhurried, as he continued in a measured, almost leisurely way. Calling him “gentlemanly” would be a bit off, but his actions were strangely restrained in a gentlemanly way.
He said nothing else – only one line, sincerely spoken, low and hoarse with a faint smile:
“So impressive.”
