In the lounge, Julian Roscente couldn't hide his astonishment.
He had never imagined Ethan Sullivan would experience defeat.
Though the origins of "Sweetheart" remained unknown, news of Ethan's loss had already spread.
Surprisingly, Ethan himself appeared remarkably composed.
He swirled the red wine in his glass, his gaze deep and unfathomable.
"There will always be someone stronger," he murmured, his voice low. "Whether in perfumery or speed skating, I've tasted defeat before."
A shadow flickered in his eyes as he spoke.
The moment their vehicles had crossed paths mid-air, Ethan had recognized that familiar aura.
Wild and untamed, yet capable of breaking through impossible odds.
Only one person in the world could evoke such a feeling in him.
Ethan's instincts had always been sharp.
He took a sip of wine, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly. "The award ceremony should be over by now."
Julian shrugged helplessly.
"The prize naturally belongs to that young lady. You should negotiate with her later—see if she's willing to transfer it to you."
His usually aloof friend made him worry. Julian couldn't help but advise, "Be polite. Money isn't an issue. But judging by how fiercely she fought, she seems determined to keep that prize."
Ethan's eyes darkened. "She does care deeply about it."
Though he couldn't be entirely certain of her identity, Ethan already had his suspicions.
As for his mother's heirloom...
He had searched for years. How could it suddenly appear as a competition prize?
When his mother passed away, he had been too young. Many of her belongings had mysteriously vanished—undoubtedly connected to his stepmother.
Ethan had always believed his mother, with her sharp intellect, wouldn't have died so easily.
Suppressing the turmoil in his heart, he said firmly, "I'll meet her."
——
Moonlight cast a cold glow over the alleyway.
Sophia Sullivan had just shaken off the crowd when a figure blocked her path as she reached for her phone to contact Abigail Clementson.
"Sweetheart, what a pleasure."
The man's voice, distorted by a modulator, carried a magnetic resonance.
Sophia looked up to see Zephyr leaning against the wall. His black riding suit accentuated his tall, lean frame, and his silver mask gleamed under the pale moonlight.
She arched a brow. "Can I help you?"
He chuckled. "I just thought you reminded me of someone I once knew."
Sophia let out an amused laugh.
"That pickup line is outdated."
Both wore masks and used voice changers—neither willing to reveal their true identities.
Their silver masks reflected each other in the night.
She studied him boldly.
His physique was impeccable, his aura cold and detached—like a silver-faced deity under the moon.
Her gaze traveled upward, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before settling on the slight protrusion of his Adam's apple.
There, barely visible, was a faint red birthmark.
Sophia froze.
A red mole?
A memory surfaced—Ethan Sullivan had an identical mark just below his Adam's apple. She had once kissed that very spot.
It was his most sensitive area.
Narrowing her eyes, she stepped closer.
"Though the pickup line is old," she murmured, fingertips lifting, "perhaps we do know each other after all."
Without warning, she reached out and pulled off his mask.