Chapter 4: Five Million Strings Attached

**5**

After the recording, I headed to the parking garage with my assistant.

The usual van was nowhere in sight.

Only a silver-black Mercedes Maybach idled nearby, engine purring.

The concrete echoed every footstep, and the Maybach’s headlights cast long, eerie shadows.

The window rolled down.

Nick Warren lounged in the back seat, looking detached.

"Get in."

"What for?"

"Five million isn’t enough for Miss Wu to treat me to a meal?"

I didn’t move, he didn’t move either.

The car, parked in the middle of the garage, was especially conspicuous.

Damn, dragging this out won’t do me any good.

I held my breath and climbed in, slamming the door behind me.

"How did you know where I was?"

Nick Warren raised a hand and put up the privacy partition.

"Two people in a row ask to borrow money from me—I’m not that slow. And don’t forget, your reality show contract is with a company I have shares in. It’s easy to find you."

I looked out the window and sneered.

"Oh? You remember that clearly? I thought your mind was full of someone else."

Nick Warren gave a short laugh, then spoke slowly.

"Her dad is a business partner. Asked me to look after her. But she doesn’t behave, so she caused today’s mess. I can use this to get something from her dad. A thousand to fish a big one—good deal."

"Besides, my assistant sent her the money. I didn’t touch it."

"Oh, so strapped for cash? Going bankrupt? Makes me happy."

I didn’t even know why I was angry. He’d say something, and I’d have to retort.

Nick Warren wasn’t annoyed, just sighed, helpless.

"Yeah, I’m so broke. When someone ran off, she didn’t even leave the home renovations for me. Bathtub, toilet, solid wood doors—even the berry-pink bedsheets from Bed Bath & Beyond were gone. If I don’t make money, I’ll be sleeping on the street."

He glanced over, eyes unusually soft for someone usually so sharp.

I shivered. Tsk, here comes a long story...

Nick's gaze softened for a moment, his voice dropping to a tone just above a whisper, the one I remembered from those late nights when it was just us and the world outside didn't matter. In the quiet, the familiar scent of his cologne lingered in the air-conditioned car. If he noticed my sudden tension, he didn't say anything—just waited, a small ghost of a smile on his lips.

---

**6**

The first time I met Nick Warren was at a dinner party.

I’d just entered the industry, and my agent dragged me to some bigwig gathering—supposedly for networking.

In reality: just endless drinking.

The steakhouse was all dark wood and brass, the kind of place old money likes to hide out. The main guest sat half-hidden in golden shadows, looking bored.

I couldn’t even see his face clearly.

People kept coming up to chat with him, his hands lifting a wine glass in the light. After several rounds, his glass never seemed to empty.

Of course, none of this had anything to do with me.

I was busy fending off Director Kent from Summit Films. He kept touching me, making up excuses to get me to drink.

A few greasy men even egged me on to do a cross-cup toast with him.

"Miss Wu won’t drink—is it because you look down on Director Kent, or because you have too many suitors and can’t pick?"

Yeah, I do look down on you. So what.

Screw it, I’m done.

I tossed my hair, putting on my best seductress face.

"Yeah, I have tons of suitors. Which one do you want to hear about first? Sean Song from Boston, or Nick Warren from Lakeview?"

...

Instantly, the dinner froze. I was the center of attention.

Even Kent, half-drunk, sat down and fidgeted nervously.

Everyone stared at me, faces changing.

Come on, I was just making stuff up.

These two are as mysterious as dragons—no public photos, nothing. I only knew of them because my agent drilled me on the social register. All the other rich guys, you get full dossiers: habits, likes, hates, tastes. But these two? Just names.

I just threw out the two biggest names to scare them.

What, you all know them?

A dozen pairs of eyes stared me down, making my throat dry.

I was racking my brain for a way out when a crisp sound rang out.

The main guest tapped the table and spoke, calm as can be.

"Since you admit it, come sit over here."

Ah... Who are you, Sean Song or Nick Warren?

The waiter paused mid-step, the air filled with the smell of steak and expensive cologne. Even the pianist in the corner missed a note. My shoes suddenly felt two sizes too small as I shuffled over, trying to look unbothered.