The first thing people noticed about Rhett Xie was his devastating good-looks kind that didn't ask for attention but devoured it anyway. An unmistakable air of confidence and arrogance, Rhett wasn't handsome in the clean, quiet way of most heirs. No, Rhett was a storm dressed in bespoke Italian wool. Six-foot-two, lean-muscled, shoulders carved by rowing and fencing, eyes the color of tarnished silver. His face carried the legacy of five generations of powerful men and impossibly beautiful women. His mouth? That was the real weapon—a sharp, sensual thing that smirked like it knew every secret you tried to keep. Women didn't forget Rhett Xie. Some still whispered his name in corners of Paris, Russia, Korea, Armenia, Beijing, Florence.
The Xie dynasty didn't just own wealth. They defined it. His great-great-grandfather built the first international shipping empire on the East Pacific. His great-grandfather privatized a third of the region's energy grid. By the time Rhett was born, the family had its hands in everything: steel, pharmaceuticals, artificial intelligence, even lunar real estate. Half of S City carried their signature—in towers, in underground trains, in whispered fears of monopoly lawsuits. Rhett was the crown prince of that empire. And he wore that crown with the ease of someone born into privilege so deep, it was indistinguishable from gravity.
He had never heard the word "no" and believed it only applied to the less imaginative. His education was a mosaic of the world's finest institutions: Eton, Harvard, the Imperial School of Economics. He spoke five languages, could dismantle a hedge fund in a single breath, and once broke a UN-backed peace deal with a single smirk. People called him the Devil in Dress Shoes. He liked that. He also liked red wine, vintage cars, and women with sharp minds and weaker resolve.
There had been hundreds. Maybe more. Heiresses. Actresses. An Olympic gymnast once, though that was more of a bet. None of them stayed. He didn't ask them to. They gave him everything—their bodies, their time, sometimes their names. He gave them pleasure, lavish gifts, orgasms like opera—and silence after. Rhett Xie was not the man you loved. He was the man you remembered when the room was quiet and you were lonely and ashamed.
But lately, something in him had soured. The flings no longer flared the same. The hotel rooms, the art auctions, the tired little laughs over champagne—it all felt thin, like conversation stretched over bone. Rhett never said it aloud, not even to himself. But sometimes, late at night, staring at a skyline he technically owned, he felt the loneliness curl inside him like smoke. A small, persistent ache. An emptiness his body could no longer sweat out.
He didn't know what he wanted. Not exactly. But he knew what he was missing. Not love. Love was sentimental fiction. What he longed for was *realness* —something uncalculated, unfiltered, unseduced. A face that didn't light up because of his name. A voice that didn't purr but pushed back. Someone whose desire wasn't strategic, or performative, or curated for the tabloids. He wasn't sure such a person existed. But if they did, Rhett knew they would never want him. Not really. Not if they saw what was under the suit, past the name, behind the mask.
And then he saw her.
It was at a gallery in S City. A quiet rainy night. He had come late, mostly to escape the wine-and-caviar boredom of a political fundraiser. The gallery was small. Exclusive. But not in the typical social-climbing way. The curator who was a friend of his, invited him, and he had to admit he had taste. The kind that whispered instead of screamed. He had been moving through the rooms like smoke, already prepared to leave—and then he turned a corner.
She was standing alone. Not posing. Not peacocking. Just...there. Half-shadowed beside a painting so raw and aching, it looked like the canvas itself had been wounded. She wore soft black oversized gown, her dark hair pulled loosely back, paint smudged on her fingers like she'd forgotten to care. Her face was beautiful in a way that made time stall—not loud, but undeniable. Her gaze didn't search. It settled. And when she laughed, low and barely audible, the sound hit him like a punch to the ribs.
Rhett didn't know her name. But he knew, in that exact moment, that he had been waiting for her without knowing it. Something in him leaned forward. Not his body. His soul. And when he finally asked the gallery manager who she was, the woman only gave a first name: Syra. She was gone before he could speak to her. And just like that.
The Chen Gallery hummed with soft jazz and old money. Laughter tinkled like champagne against glass; crystal heels clicked across polished marble. It was the kind of evening S City's elite adored: curated art, discreet cameras, and the glitter of whispered influence.
But Rhett Xie barely noticed any of it.
He stood near the back, hands in his pockets, sleek black suit tailored to perfection, his signature silver cufflinks catching the low light. At thirty-two, Rhett was everything the tabloids loved: sharp jawline, sharper business instincts, and a net worth so vast it had its own gravity. Fifth-generation heir to the Xie Dynasty Group, he didn't just walk into rooms—he shifted their center.
Until she shifted his.
He saw her again across the gallery, partially obscured by a pillar, speaking softly with a couple beside one of the larger canvases. She dressed as if she is trying to hide herself. No jewelry. Her hair was up in a bun, but lazily so, as though she had better things to do than worry about appearances. Her posture was elegant, not performative. She wasn't looking to be seen.
Which made Rhett unable to look away.
Syra Alizadeh-Li.
He caught her name from a murmured conversation beside him. The artist. The one everyone was here for. But he hadn't expected "that".
He moved through the crowd without realizing it, drawing a few stares—the prodigal heir, here? Alone? Interested in art? But Rhett didn't care. He kept his eyes on her like a man possessed.
She was laughing gently at something an older woman said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with fingers that still held faint traces of charcoal. Her beauty wasn't loud. But unmistakable. It was the kind that made you pause, confused, wondering how is it possible for a human to look like that, almost flawless, and wonder why the room suddenly felt quieter with her presence.
And when she turned slightly, eyes flitting his way for half a second—Rhett Xie felt the ground tilt.
She didn't recognize him.
That hit harder than it should have.
He stayed for the rest of the exhibit. Watched her from the shadows. When he finally left, he told himself he was curious. That he wanted to invest in the gallery. That he might want to purchase a few of her pieces. But deep down, he already knew: He wanted her.
The next morning, he tasked his head of security with tracking her down. No tabloids. No digital footprint. Her social media was blank. Her past, obscured. Everything about her was dust and paint and closed doors.
For the first time in a long while, Rhett Xie hit a wall. And it drove him insane. Weeks passed. Her name lingered like smoke.
Then, one morning, as he scanned a news brief on the upcoming YanTech medical launch, his eyes caught a mention:
"In attendance: Lou Yan, CEO of YanTech. Accompanying guest: artist Syra Alizadeh-Li, featured earlier this year at the Chen Gallery." His blood stilled.
Lou Yan.
He knew the name. Everyone did. S City's golden monk. The untouchable, unshakable tech giant with the serene face and the impenetrable life. The last man Rhett would have expected to fall for someone. And yet.
He stared at the screen for a long time.
Then whispered to himself, "So that's why I couldn't find her." His hand curled into a fist. But his lips curved. Challenge accepted.