The chandelier at the birthday banquet glimmered blindingly.
When Stella Miller stepped into the hall on ten-centimeter heels, the room fell silent for a heartbeat. Her champagne-colored gown shimmered like flowing light, pearls in her hair forming a galaxy. She smiled gracefully—like every fairytale bride who had finally married into wealth and power.
Until Isabella approached with a wine glass in hand.
“That dress,” she said lightly, her fingers brushing over Stella’s handbag, “wasn’t this the one you bought on discount before the wedding? Even your purse doesn’t suit our family—those pearls are five-yuan fakes from the market.”
Laughter erupted. Guests raised their phones, filming the spectacle.
Stella tightened her grip on the chain of her bag—the first gift he’d ever given her. *“Pearls are gentle,”* he’d said, *“just like you.”* Now it was a punchline.
“If you cherish it so much,” Isabella sneered, suddenly snatching the bag, “then crawl and fetch it back.”
With that, a sharp crash rang out—she hurled the purse into the fountain, now littered with shattered glass.
The room held its breath.
Stella slipped off her high heels. Barefoot, she stepped onto the shards. Blood welled from her feet, trailing down her ankles, dripping onto her white dress like blooming red plum blossoms.
One step at a time, she walked toward the fountain. She bent down, reached in, and pulled out the bag. Her trembling hands tore open the inner lining—it was empty.
“Looking for this?” Isabella lifted the lion pendant around her neck, the gold chain swinging under the lights. “Family heirlooms belong only to those of true nobility.”
Stella looked up, voice soft: “That belonged to my mother.”
“And what of it? A dancer who died in a slum—what bloodline could she possibly claim?”
The air froze.
Then—gunfire.
Not a real bullet, but the metallic clang of metal striking the ceiling.
Everyone screamed, turning—
He stood on the second-floor balcony, black suit immaculate, holding an old-fashioned revolver.
“Mother,” Lu Shen Zhou spoke slowly, his voice colder than ice, “you forgot—this gun, and how to aim it, were lessons you taught me when I was ten.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Isabella paled. “Y-You… how could you—”
“What don’t I know?” He descended the stairs, gaze locking onto Stella’s bleeding feet, storm raging beneath his calm. “Did you think I didn’t know the ‘charity gala’ funds have been funneled into your private accounts every year?”
“Did you think I never investigated how Mother’s death tied to the runaway truck you hired?”
“And today—” He stopped before Stella, shrugging off his coat to wrap around her shaking shoulders. “Did you really believe making her walk on glass was humiliating *her*?”
He smiled—a smile colder than tears.
“You were helping me confirm who truly belongs by my side.”
He reached into his jacket, drawing out an identical lion pendant, and gently fastened it around Stella’s neck.
“This one,” he said, “never left me.”
Isabella staggered back, her shriek tearing through the night.
Stella looked up at him, blood-streaked face breaking into a smile.
So this humiliation—had been his plan all along.
Just waiting for her to return, drenched in blood, under the eyes of the world.
A tale of豪门 rivalry?
No. This was only the beginning.
