On the screen, the woman in the video brushed her hair forward, revealing the back of her neck—
smooth skin, no birthmark.
A ripple of shock moved through the crowd.
Bianca Fang bit her lip so hard it nearly bled.
It had been Helen Zhao who told her to dress like Vivian Wen and film that staged video in the hotel,
then backdate the footage.
They thought it was flawless.
But no one had told her—Vivian had a small peach-blossom birthmark behind her neck.
Even Helen herself hadn’t known.
George Wen, Vivian’s own father, had never noticed it.
And yet this man—Simon Min—had.
Vivian’s hand instinctively rose to the back of her neck, fingertips brushing the faint mark.
She turned to Simon in disbelief.
That birthmark was something only someone intimate with her could have known about.
How could he have noticed?
Simon’s gaze was like a hawk’s—sharp, unrelenting.
“Defamation. False testimony. You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“With fabricated evidence,” he added, his tone cool, “you could easily be sentenced for years.”
Bianca’s legs went weak.
“N-no—it wasn’t me!” she stammered, spinning toward Helen Zhao.
“It was her! She told me to do it!”
Helen Zhao instantly clung tighter to George Wen’s arm, her voice trembling sweetly.
“George, listen to her lies. I don’t even know that woman!”
Her hand went to her stomach, her tone pitiful.
“Why does everyone always try to blame me? What about our baby, George? If anything happens to me, what will happen to our child?”
At the mention of the child, George’s rationality crumbled.
He turned coldly to Bianca.
“This is our private family matter. You are no longer welcome here. Leave!”
Bianca’s face twisted with rage. She had no evidence, no allies left.
“Stupid old fool,” she spat. “Enjoy your green hat!”
Gasps rose from the guests.
Vivian stepped forward, blocking Bianca’s way.
“Delete the video,” she said coldly. “Or I’ll call the police.”
Bianca glared at her, defiant for half a second—then wilted under Simon’s piercing stare.
With trembling hands, she deleted the video, gave a final snort of frustration, and stormed out of the hall.
Helen Zhao leaned weakly against George Wen’s chest, sighing delicately.
“George, I feel a little dizzy…”
Worried for the child, George immediately turned to the guests.
“My apologies, everyone. My wife isn’t feeling well. We’ll end the ceremony here.”
The farce was finally over.
One by one, the guests murmured their farewells and left the banquet hall.
Vivian stood there, watching her father support Helen Zhao as they disappeared into the corridor.
The ache in her chest deepened—disappointment, exhaustion, heartbreak all tangled together.
The moment she turned to leave, her foot caught on something.
She stumbled—but before she could fall, Simon Min’s arm caught her.
She looked up—straight into Tiffany Liu’s smirking face.
Tiffany sat with her legs crossed, swirling a glass of wine.
“Oh dear,” she drawled, “you really should watch where you’re going. You’ve scuffed my shoes.”
Vivian’s patience snapped.
“You tripped me. Apologize.”
Tiffany laughed coldly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone saw it—you stepped on me.”
“I saw it.”
The voice was low and dangerous.
Simon’s arm tightened protectively around Vivian, his dark eyes glinting with restrained fury.
“Apologize to her.”
Tiffany blinked, stunned.
“Why should I? She’s the one who—”
Smack!
The sound was loud enough to silence the entire room.
Victor Shao—the man she came with—had stood up and slapped her across the face.
Tiffany reeled, clutching her cheek, eyes wide with disbelief.
“Apologize!” Victor snapped, his voice trembling with anger—or fear.
Tiffany’s tears spilled over. Victor had never hit her before.
But the look in his eyes told her that this time, disobedience wasn’t an option.
“I—I’m sorry,” she choked out, bowing her head toward Vivian.
Victor wiped sweat from his brow and turned respectfully toward Simon.
“My companion was out of line. I apologize on her behalf, and to your fiancée.”
Fiancée.
The word hung in the air.
Only now did Victor get a proper look at Simon’s face—
and the blood drained from his own.
He knew this man.
He had met him once at a private auction—a man whose presence alone made the city’s most powerful tremble.
What on earth was he doing here, playing the role of some woman’s fiancé?
Simon’s lips curved faintly, his tone casual but chilling.
“No need. I’m just an ordinary man. You owe only my fiancée an apology.”
Victor immediately bowed lower. “Of course. Of course, sir.”
As Simon and Vivian left, Victor watched them go, beads of sweat sliding down his temples.
He would never breathe a word of this to anyone.
Beside him, Tiffany rubbed her stinging cheek, voice trembling with confusion.
“Why… why did you make me apologize to her?”
Victor glared, his voice like a whip.
“Shut up. If you ever provoke them again, you’re done.”