Chapter 1: The Late-Night Food Delivery Girl
New York's winter night, the biting wind sliced through the streets like a knife.
Lin Youran parked her electric bike beneath a luxurious apartment building on Manhattan's Upper East Side. Looking up at the cold, gleaming glass-curtain wall, she exhaled a puff of white mist into the air. She wore a washed-out black down jacket and a pair of faded jeans, worn thin at the knees. Yet, despite all this, it couldn't hide her strikingly beautiful face.
"Order 108." She glanced at the delivery order on her phone, picked up her insulated food box, and walked into the building.
The receptionist, a meticulously made-up white girl, glanced at her and asked nasally, "Delivery?"
"Yes, 32B." Lin Youran's voice was very soft, carrying the gentle lilt unique to Eastern women.
"You need a keycard for the elevator. I'll take you up." The receptionist reluctantly stood up.
Lin Youran followed behind her, her gaze sweeping over the artworks in the lobby that she'd only ever seen in magazines—a genuine Andy Warhol hung on the wall, its price tag bearing a number that could cover her rent in Brooklyn for ten years.
The door to 32B was slightly ajar, and the chaotic sound of music and laughter spilled out from inside.
"Thanks, I can go in myself." Lin Youran took the keycard and pushed open the door.
The next second, a warm body suddenly collided with her.
"Sorry—"
Lin Youran instinctively reached out to steady the person, looking up to meet a pair of deep blue eyes.
It was a man, wearing an impeccably tailored dark gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing a section of muscle with smooth, fluid lines. His features were like a Renaissance sculpture—a high-bridged nose, a sharply defined jaw, and those blue eyes that seemed capable of sucking a person in.
At that moment, those eyes held a hint of intoxication, yet they were still piercingly sharp.
"You..." He looked down at her, seemingly stunned for a second.
Only then did Lin Youran realize how intimate their position was—with one hand supporting her food box and the other pressed against his chest, she could clearly feel the firm muscles beneath his shirt and his burning body temperature.
She quickly stepped back, lowering her eyes. "Your meal, Mr. Alexander Ross."
The man didn't respond, instead staring at her face for a few seconds before suddenly smiling. "You're Chinese?"
"Yes. That'll be 87 dollars total, but it's already been paid online." Lin Youran spoke matter-of-factly, handing over the food container.
Ross took the container, his fingertips inadvertently brushing against the back of her hand. Both of them paused for a moment.
"Wait." Seeing her turn to leave, he suddenly spoke. "What's your name?"
Lin Youran's footsteps faltered slightly. She turned back to look at him—this man, who radiated an aura of money and power, was now leaning against the doorframe, looking at her with drunken, stubborn eyes.
"Delivery people don't have names, sir," she said softly, stepping into the elevator.
As the doors closed, she heard him let out a low chuckle.
