Chapter 12: The Girl Licking Her Fingers

Genting Pavilion.

The raucous birthday party fell silent, the air so still a pin could’ve dropped.

The second-generation crowd gaped, eyes wide, doubting their own sight.

What is she doing?

She’s licking the Liu heir’s finger, meowing like a cat!

“Damn, this is… too wild!” a second-gen muttered.

“Worth every cent of my gift to see this!” another laughed.

“Who’s this chick? No shame. I wouldn’t kneel and lick a guy’s finger in public for a million bucks, let alone meow,” a third scoffed.

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

If it were some nobody, they’d just laugh it off.

But this was Liu Wangjiang—the golden boy every parent praised: “If I had a son like him…” While they squandered family wealth, he was already raking in his own fortune.

The Liu family, once a political and business dynasty, would’ve stayed elite if not for that mysterious fire decades ago.

Lu Qingqi’s mind blanked, the searing heat of Liu Wangjiang’s finger in her mouth burning through her senses.

The crowd’s giggles, gasps, and chatter blurred into noise, but that finger—hot as a branding iron—was painfully clear.

Why?!

What’s wrong with my powers?!

Shame crashed over her like a tidal wave, a thousand times worse than when she’d knelt.

Her cheeks burned, her body shook—not with thrill, but with raw humiliation, rage, and panic.

She wanted to let go, to bite down, but her jaw felt locked, forcing her to hold this degrading pose, staring into Liu Wangjiang’s darkening eyes.

His fingers stiffened, surprise and confusion giving way to a deep, probing scrutiny, like she was a variable spiraling out of control.

He withdrew his hand.

The moment his fingers left, Lu Qingqi could move. She staggered to her feet.

The crowd’s stares stabbed like needles—teasing, mocking, curious, some openly leering—lighting up her humiliation like a spotlight.

Heat surged from her neck to her scalp, her face red as if bleeding.

She’d never felt so mortified. Shame coiled around her like vines, choking her breath. Her nails dug into her palms.

“It’s all your fault!” she spat, pointing at Liu Wangjiang, voice cracking with tears and defiance.

Overwhelmed by shame and fury, or desperate for an outlet, she swung a fist at his chest—more petulant than angry, like a girl throwing a tantrum.

Liu Wangjiang sidestepped easily.

Unsteady in her heels, Lu Qingqi stumbled, her balance collapsing. She lurched forward, nearly falling.

She grabbed the table’s edge, barely steadying herself, but her skirt hitched up, sparking more snickers.

“What’re you laughing at?!” she snapped, eyes red, fighting back tears.

She glared at Liu Wangjiang, voice trembling with rage and shame. “I’ll remember this grudge forever!”

With that, she covered her burning face and bolted from the hall.

Liu Wangjiang watched her flee, his calm facade cracking, brows furrowing.

That tone, that attitude, that stubborn vow for revenge…

Just like Lu Qingqi.

“Tch, better than the dance show!” a second-gen jeered.

“Lu, where’d you find this girl? She’s a riot!” another called.

“Seventy grand for her contact info!” one shouted.

“Screw that, I’ll pay a hundred, but you dance for me first!” another retorted.

The jeers rolled on. Second-gens with grudges against Lu Qingqi clung to their dates, dripping with mockery.

Then, a faint sound came from the entrance.

Lu Qingqi stood there, sweat on his brow, cheeks flushed, as if he’d just stepped out for air—or something else.

He adjusted his disheveled collar, eyes sweeping the scene of the fiasco, pausing on Liu Wangjiang, then landing on the massive cake on the central table.

Deep breath. Deep breath.

That wasn’t me. I was in the bathroom for half an hour.

Right!

The one who knelt and licked fingers was “Xiao Yan,” not Lu Qingqi!

Liu Wangjiang stepped toward him.

Lu Qingqi’s heart skipped, the memory of sucking his finger exploding in his mind, heating his neck. His fading blush flared, as if doused in rouge.

Failing twice against this man sparked a creeping fear, his knees tingling from the earlier fall.

But seeing Yuki Shirahara watching from the crowd, he straightened, meeting Liu Wangjiang’s gaze.

At nearly 1.8 meters, Liu Wangjiang’s shadow loomed over Lu Qingqi’s 1.63-meter frame. His cold, violet eyes cut like a scalpel, piercing to hidden secrets.

They’d been college classmates—Lu Qingqi in electronic programming, Liu Wangjiang in psychology.

“Is this your doing?” Liu Wangjiang asked.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about. I was in the bathroom for half an hour.” Lu Qingqi dodged his gaze, playing dumb.

“It’s my birthday. I invited you for old times’ sake. If you’re here to stir trouble, leave. I won’t stop you.”

Liu Wangjiang’s eyes darkened.

Then, he smiled.

“Happy birthday. Let me cut the cake for you.”