Sandra stood in front of an unfinished drawing, gesturing with the pencil in her hand.

"The proportions here are a bit off. Try it like this... and then like this. See how it makes the lines flow better?"

The boy nodded silently, biting his lips. His cheeks flushed. His gaze shifted between the drawing board and the model in the middle of the room.

Sandra stepped to the back of the classroom, peering through the gaps between the easels at the serene, beautiful woman reclining on the sofa, bathed in soft light.

She was like a perfect oil painting: flawless, pale skin, rounded breasts, a gentle waistline, slender legs, and elegant toes. From every angle, she embodied the epitome of golden proportions. A model like her was truly one in a million.

When Sandra first moved in with April, she accidentally walked in on her while she was taking a shower. Sandra was struck by her perfect figure and immediately asked April to become a figure model for her school, where she was studying Applied Arts and Visual Design.

For April, a nerdy girl who spent most of her time in front of her computer, the idea of public nudity was both humiliating and shameful. But Sandra, relentless as ever, used every tactic she could think of to persuade her roommate—and in the end, April agreed.

So here she was, reclining on the sofa, her eyes wandered, unfocused and dreamy, inviting countless interpretations: sadness, melancholy, longing, or loneliness? 

In truth, it was none of those. 

April simply couldn't see clearly without her glasses. That was also why she eventually agreed. Without her glasses, she couldn't tell who was sketching her, and even if they met face-to-face later, it wouldn't be awkward. At least, the awkwardness wouldn't be hers.

Suddenly, another perfect figure flashed in Sandra's mind—strong arms, a broad chest that seemed carved from stone, a chiseled eight-pack glistening with strength, narrow hips that accentuated his V-taper, a firm and powerful backside, long, muscular legs, and an undeniable allure that radiated confidence and grace....

She shook her head, trying to clear the images spinning in her mind. It was just a fleeting encounter, something to forget by the next day.

So why was she thinking about it now?

But then again, if he could be her model...

Ugh, what was she even thinking?!

🎬🔀

That night, she sat in his car with her eyes closed the entire way. To say she wasn't nervous at all would be a lie. Her usually sharp nerves felt dull, perhaps from the shock, the alcohol, or both.

At the door to the hotel room, he gently woke her. She stared at him directly, her heart racing but unwilling to back down.

He handed her the key card, suggesting she enter the room alone. She shook her head slightly, confused and a bit disappointed.

Drunk and barely able to stand, she struggled to insert the key card into the slot, letting out a soft whimper of frustration. He sighed, opened the door for her, and helped her inside.

He turned on only the hallway light, leaving the door ajar. She leaned against the wall, tilted her head back, and looked at him boldly, unrestrained. In the intimate space, she took in every detail about him—the hand braced against the wall, the exaggerated rings, the partially open collar, and the unruly hairstyle. His lips drew her gaze—honey-toned, thin and indifferent, with a small, slightly upturned cupid's bow. His faint smile—a slight curve at the corners of his mouth—had shifted from the reassuring vibe he had at The Roxy. Now, it was more wicked and bold.

He looked down at her, his eyes catching the hallway light like scattered stars, making her heart race. The alcohol muddled her thoughts, leaving her dizzy in the overwhelming presence of his masculinity.

She couldn't recall who stepped forward first, closing the gap between them. Like two opposite poles of magnets drawn into each other's field, they clung eagerly together.

Their lips met, and time seemed to dissolve. Their kiss was deep and unrelenting, as though they had never kissed before. A strange and electric sensation coursed through her nerves. He claimed her breath effortlessly—teasing, guiding, provoking, and enticing—completely conquering her before exhausting even a fraction of his power...

"Sasa, are you daydreaming again?" April, wrapped in a robe and happily sipping a bubble tea, teased with a cheerful tone.

Sandra snapped back to reality, feeling her cheeks heat up. She waved a hand in front of April's eyes. "How can you tell I'm zoning out without your glasses?"

April tossed her a juice box. "Honestly, I can't see a thing, but you just go silent when I try to talk to you."

Fortunately, her roommate didn't see the expression of infatuation on her face. Sandra broke off the straw and inserted it into the juice box, coming up with a random excuse to mask her inner turmoil, "I can't help it. I'm just so caught up in envy and resentment. Life's just unfair."

"Totally." April sighed, playing along. "How does someone as gorgeous as you even exist? How are the rest of us supposed to survive?"

Sandra playfully nudged her. "Hey, you're turning it around! I meant, how do you have such an amazing figure? It makes me want to give up on being a woman."

April plopped down next to Sandra. "What's the use of a great figure? Once we're dressed, we all look the same. A pretty face is what really counts. Oh, and by the way, I forgot to tell you— I ran into this weird guy the other day who circled around me a few times, then sneered, 'You're not even that good-looking.'"

"Who's that clueless? Someone you know?"

April shook her head. "Nope, total stranger."

"Did you do something to provoke him? Why would he say that?"

"I have no idea." April clung to Sandra's arm. "My poor little heart is seriously wounded. Comfort me, please..."

Sandra dramatically patted April's head resting on her shoulder. "Ignore people like that. Anyone who takes a jerk seriously is just wasting their energy."

April nodded vigorously in agreement.

Sandra sighed silently again. It's easy to talk the talk, but hard to put it into practice.

Wasn't she a fool herself? Her boyfriend hadn't even bothered to call, explain, or apologize after what happened on her birthday. Even if he'd said they were just chatting under the blankets, that would have been something. Maybe he thought it was self-explanatory. Finding out the truth this way was convenient for him, sparing him the trouble of making excuses.

Six months of relationship ended just like that. Saying there's no resentment would be a total lie. These days, her heart just felt empty. She didn't want to do anything or think about anything. Everything seemed dull, and even food lost its taste. She had always been so full of energy, but this was different.

Was this what heartbreak felt like? Wasn't it supposed to be all heart-wrenching, with tears, hysteria, and utter despair? But all she felt was exhaustion—too tired to even replay the memories of the past six months with that jerk. Nothing seemed worth remembering. Instead, the guy she met at The Roxy occasionally drifted through the corners of her mind like a ghost.

In her culture, there was a saying: "A charming man is always a troublemaker." 

Sandra reminded herself firmly: You really need to stop thinking about him.

🎬🔀

"Hey, Arden, got any plans for tonight?"

Ryo casually draped his arm over Arden's shoulder. Arden brushed him off like dust, keeping his usual confident stance as he scoped out the college girls passing by through his sunglasses.

Arden remembered something a friend back in Asia had once said: "College is a great place—fresh supplies delivered every year, and you don't have to worry about hooking up with underage girls."

Sure, there might still be a few underage ones around, so you had to tread carefully. But fresh? Absolutely. Girls who hadn't stepped into the real world always carried an innocence charm that made him want to spoil them.

Ryo seemed eager to prove that point and said excitedly, "There are some new international students at the CSSA, and they're hosting a Mid-Autumn Festival gathering tonight. You wanna go?"

Arden tilted his head a bit, not even looking at his friend, and replied with an indifferent tone, "Why bother? Just to listen to those aunties from the Institute of Advanced Studies belting out Chinese propaganda songs?"

Ryo, who hadn't attended such events before, felt a bit deflated. He couldn't picture himself sitting through what sounded like an old-school Chinese cultural show from way back when.

Arden stood up, reached out, and ruffled Ryo's hair. "What are we supposed to do with someone who grows taller but not smarter?"

🎬🔀

The ideal male-to-female ratio for throwing a party is at least one to two. Having an arm around two girls—preferably more—is every guy's dream. Obviously, whoever came up with that was definitely a guy.

Arden lounged on the sofa in the karaoke private room, watching four girls huddled around the computer, chattering as they fought over which songs to pick. The corner of the sofa had become a mini showcase of luxury handbags, with brand logos filling his view. Glamorous, but somehow lacking something.

Suddenly, he felt bored.

Ryo, on the other hand, was thoroughly enjoying himself, his eyes darting hungrily over the girls' ultra-short skirts. It was unclear whether the girls were truly oblivious, but as they bent over or crossed their legs, fleeting glimpses of their "beautiful scenery" left one dazzled.

The new international students left Arden in awe—turns out, girls barely out of puberty could smoke even more fiercely than he could. One girl, holding a pink heart-shaped "520" cigarette, scrawled Arden's name on it. She took a few deep breaths, inhaling the smoke into her lungs like a man-eating demon.

Demon or angel—he didn't care. He wasn't one to show them any mercy. Words like "cherish" or "mercy" didn't exist in his dictionary.

The party lasted way past midnight, and Arden couldn't really remember the songs they sang or the conversations they had. What stuck with him, though, was the way the girls were eyeing his SVJ. Too bad his supercar only had two seats.

Lucky Ryo.

As they were leaving, Arden slipped a small vacuum-sealed bag with blue pills into Ryo's pocket, patted him on the shoulder, and said, "Good luck, bro."

Ryo's face brightened. "I'm not gonna thank you, bro. You totally owed me this from last time."

The girl Arden brought along had long, dark hair that fell partially down her front, veiling a face covered with such intricate makeup that he couldn't quite tell what she actually looked like. Unlike her friends, she was pretty quiet. While the others had been eager to jump into his car earlier, she stood silently off to the side, her soulful, expressive eyes locked on him.

At a red light, Arden cast a glance at his "midnight snack" for the evening. She was dressed elegantly, carrying a classic white leather Chanel bag. The golden chain entwined around her delicate fingers adorned with acrylic nails. Her slim, short dress exposed bare legs that gleamed with an alluring sheen, likely from some kind of lotion. On her feet were black-and-white high heels—sleek, yet modest in height.

Not his usual type.

After a party, he gravitated toward wild, sexy type—the ones who were fun, daring, and knew how to let loose. When had his tastes shifted? Just one sip of "pure water" that night, and his preferences seemed to have become dull.

A freshman, 18 years old—fresh, indeed. Yet her demeanor carried a surprising familiarity with sex for someone her age. From their conversation that evening, she appeared to be the daughter of a nouveau riche. However, her myriads of tricks in bed made Arden wonder if she was a professional. He knew there were no aristocrats in the country she came from, but he couldn't understand why young girls like her lived such a prodigal life. Oblivious to his own double standards, he couldn't help but think this way, even though he was no better himself. Wasn't this like slapping his own face?

Not the same—he was a man. The world had always been unfairly hard on women.

Arden wasn't in the mood tonight. His first time with her was rushed and perfunctory. When the girl glanced at him while walking into the bathroom to clean herself, her gaze carried a hint of disdain, clear and straightforward. If there was one thing Arden couldn't stand, it was being despised, especially by a woman. So he grabbed her by her long black hair, pressed her against the wall, and took her from behind one more time.

This time, he did it with fierce intensity. He watched as her legs gave way, and she slid down to the floor. Without even sparing her another glance, he headed to the shower, got dressed, settled the bill, and left.

Wandering through the deserted streets in his SVJ, the midnight breeze cooled his feverish head. Suddenly, Arden realized he was thirsty. He wanted "water".

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Our company Christmas Event was at Top Of Vancouver Revolving Restaurant this year 🤓

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