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... nce Entrance

The maître d's polished veneer cracked as Fang Bochao slammed his gold membership card on the host stand. "I demand the celestial suite!"

"Apologies, sir. That requires platinum—"

"Don't you know who my father supplies truffles to?!" Fang's threat died mid-snarl as twelve waiters materialized in synchronized formation, bowing at 45-degree angles toward Ye Chen.

The head sommelier stepped forward, cradling a dust-caked bottle like a holy relic. "Mr. Ye ...

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