Three years ago — Shanghai
The villa burned like it had been waiting to.
Windows shattered from the heat, the chandelier crashed to the ground, and Zhenya stood in the middle of it all barefoot, breathless, and shaking with rage.
Her mother's body lay crumpled on the stairs behind her.
The last words she spoke, whispered through blood, still echoed in Zhenya's mind:
"The Qin family… they took everything…"
She hadn't understood — not fully.
Not until the masked man stepped into the flames, calm and untouched. He lit a cigarette like he wasn't standing in the middle of a crime scene.
He didn't see her.
But she saw him.
The eyes. The arrogance. The cold beauty.
That was the night Zhenya Roth died.
And Zhenya Qin was born.
Three years later, on the night of his 30th birthday, she would return.
Wrapped in silk. Dressed in red. A gift placed into his hands.
This time, he would see her.
This time, he would fall.
And she'd be the one to set the fire.