**"Know your enemy"**—and who knew a brother's weaknesses better than his own? Every word struck like a dagger to the heart.
Yu Jinwen's eyes narrowed dangerously. "She's not like those women you casually play around with."
"I know," Fu Yu said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "That's why I'm going to pursue her properly—like I've never pursued anyone before."
He glanced in the direction Nan Song's car had disappeared. "At first, I worried she might still have feelings for you. But clearly, I overestimated your charm. When a woman decides to cut ties, she does it *clean*. No looking back." He smirked. "I like that."
With a light punch to Yu Jinwen's shoulder, he added, "I'll save my wedding gift money. No need to congratulate *you* anymore. Wait for my victory—soon, it might be *you* attending *my* wedding."
Grinning, Fu Yu pulled out a cigarette and lighter, shielding the flame from the rain. He took a drag, adjusted his trench coat, and sauntered off with a wave. "Later, brother."
Yu Jinwen watched him go, his right hand clenching into a fist at his side, veins bulging.
His expression darkened like storm clouds.
---
**Rain meant no helicopter.**
Nan Song reclined in the car, exhaustion weighing on her. She draped a blanket over herself, ready to nap.
Just as she drifted off, the car jolted violently—waking her instantly.
"*What the hell?*" Gu Heng snapped.
The driver stammered, "S-Sorry, Miss Nan! Almost hit someone—"
Before Gu Heng could react, a gray figure darted toward the car. He tensed, hand reaching for his pocket—
But the door flew open.
Fu Yu slid in, dripping wet. "Miss Nan, mind if I hitch a ride?"
Rainwater pooled around him as he settled in, shameless as a stray cat.
Nan Song's glare could have frozen hell. "*Get out.*"
"Come on, we're friends!" Fu Yu, ever the audacious one, began stripping off his soaked clothes—first the jacket, then *unbuckling his belt*—
A blade pressed against his throat.
Nan Song's voice was ice. "*Fu Xiaoye.* Are you *trying* to die on my car seats?"
Fu Yu swallowed—and felt the knife bite into his skin. Blood welled. The German combat knife in her hand looked *very* acquainted with its job.
"Knives are dangerous for pretty girls," he teased, gingerly nudging the blade aside. His fingers came away red. *Damn, she doesn't hold back.*
"Relax," he said, shaking water from his hair. "Just didn't want to ruin your upholstery."
Nan Song didn't lower the knife. "If you *actually* cared, you wouldn't have gotten in."
Fu Yu refastened his belt. His white shirt, translucent from rain, clung to defined abs and pecs. Half-buttoned, hair damp—he looked like a disheveled romance novel cover.
Dabbing his neck with tissues, he lounged back, all lazy charm. "I just want to be friends, Miss Nan."
His smirk was pure trouble. "Honest."