When Mr. Guokai Wang dismissed me, I moved with deliberate calm. At my desk, I made sure the surveillance camera caught me placing my laptop down—just another loyal employee wrapping up her day. Then I slipped out, my heels echoing in the sterile hallway like a countdown.

  The late afternoon sun scorched the pavement as I walked two blocks toward People’s Square. Kevin’s cab waited like a sentinel. The moment I closed the door, he pulled away, merging into traffic with surgical precision. He navigated us into a nearby underground parking structure, selecting a spot in the shadows, carefully hidden from the all-seeing eyes of security cameras.

  Without a word, he handed me a USB drive.

  “Everything about his company,” Kevin said, voice low and steady. "Fully operational, all licenses in order. Account at Merchants Bank currently holds 200,000 yuan—untouched. No limits on transactions, no restrictions. Clean, but easily traceable to him."

  I nodded, feeling the weight of the tiny device in my palm.

  He passed me a second drive. "This one contains 50 accounts. Distribute the money between them. Lyra will handle the rest. Your cut will be waiting for you at Barclays the next day."

  “Last, passport.” He handed me a black holder.

  “With new identity and visas. You are now a free woman.” He smiled.

  I hesitated, my thoughts turning to David. "What about David? Can Lyra arrange visas for him too?"

  Kevin studied me, a knowing glint in his eyes. "You've caught feelings for this guy? Is this charade bleeding into reality?"

  “Absolutely not,” I said—too fast, too sharp. “I just don’t want to see him rotting in a Ruby Republic prison.”

  “Tell him to get a traveler’s visa. Lyra can work her magic once he’s out.”

  Beneath Kevin's hardened exterior beat a compassionate heart. I had always known this.

  "Don't worry," he added, his voice softening. "Lyra takes care of her people. That's why so many are willing to risk everything for her."

  “Thank you,” I murmured, just as my phone vibrated. David’s name lit up the screen. I stared at it, then let it go to voicemail. His call was a thread I wasn’t ready to pull.

  "Where to?" Kevin asked, hands poised on the steering wheel.

  "Go home and change, then Little Red Mansion," I replied, my voice hollow.

  I knew Guokai's methods. He would strip David down—layer by layer—until nothing remained but ambition and obedience. The Little Red Mansion wasn’t just a playground for the powerful. It was Guokai’s crucible. Where conscience went to die.

  ... ...

  This place isn't Lyra’s. She deals in desire and influence, but she draws the line at degradation.

  Nor is it Mengshu’s. She manages it—for Fuyang Zhao.

  Zhao wears the mask of legitimacy. A polished front for the Ministry of Public Security’s inner circle. Their white-gloved puppeteer.

  His company, Shanghai Wangji Culture and Media Co., holds broadcasting rights for public safety programs on Rule of Law Channels. The irony is acid—Shanghai’s most ruthless criminal kingpin controls the media that preaches morality.

  Zhao’s empire thrives on pain. His debt collection network feeds off the explosion of high-interest internet lending. And his reach extends to Little Red Mansions across major cities. Shanghai houses the first—and the most elaborate.

  His recruitment methods are brutal. Aspiring actresses arrive at Wangji Media's imposing six-story headquarters for interviews, only to be abducted, savagely broken, and delivered to the Little Red Mansion to serve as high-end escorts.

  Inside the Mansion, they live in gilded captivity. A parallel reality, sealed off from the world. Here, the powerful indulge their darkest appetites without consequence.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Zhao wanted elegance. Sophistication. Women who could be paraded, then defiled. The more refined they appeared, the more satisfying their humiliation.

  He needed someone to craft that illusion.

  The Minister of Public Security introduced Lyra.

  Initially, Lyra balked at aiding someone as contemptible as Zhao. Yet she recognized the strategic advantage of infiltrating his operation.

  She designed the building. Crafted the services. Trained the women.

  When she departed, she left Mengshu to manage the day-to-day operations.

  … …

  Mengshu greeted me at the gate, her silhouette etched against the still-bright afternoon sky. The Little Red Mansion stood eerily quiet in its off-hours—the calm before the nightly debauchery.

  When I explained my visit, a smile curved her vermilion lips. Not polite. Not amused. Knowing. It transformed her from beautiful to dangerous.

  “Is our Oxford high-achiever finally tangled in love’s web?” Her voice carried the silky confidence of someone who’s mapped every contour of desire and knows exactly where it leads.

  “Absolutely not,” I replied. “I just want to see if the Little Red Mansion truly has the power to transform a man.”

  Something flickered behind her eyes—amusement, challenge, certainty. “Care to wager on it?” Her confidence radiated like heat. She believed in her operation’s corruptive gravity with religious conviction.

  “What kind of bet?” I asked, curiosity blooming despite myself. “And what are the stakes?”

  “I bet your devoted boyfriend won’t survive our diamond services.” Her smile sharpened. “If I win, I claim one night with him.”

  The words hit like cold water. Yet a cynical voice whispered inside: if David gave in to one of her girls, what difference would it make if he gave in to her? The thought left a hollow ache I hadn’t anticipated.

  “And if I win?” My voice came out softer than I intended.

  “What would you desire?” Her gaze held mine, unflinching.

  I searched myself. I’d be leaving the Ruby Republic soon. Nothing material appealed. No possession seemed worth claiming.

  But as my eyes traced the elegant line of her neck, the poised set of her shoulders, the words escaped before I could stop them.

  “A night with you.”

  Her laughter—low, rich, melodic—rippled across her breasts like silk in motion.

  “Now I don’t want to win anymore,” she said, eyes glittering with genuine intrigue.

  … …

  Inside Mengshu’s office lay her hidden sanctuary—a suite with a bed, a mirror, and a view of the compound. I settled into the space, bracing for David’s initiation.

  Guokai Wang’s entourage arrived at 6:30 sharp, just as the sun surrendered to dusk. Mengshu glided away to greet them, her movements precise, unhurried.

  Twenty minutes later, she returned—composure cracked by anticipation.

  “No man has ever resisted our diamond service,” she said, not as a boast, but as doctrine.

  Despite the Mansion’s claim of being camera-free, surveillance was everywhere—just subtler. Number 66’s flashlight concealed a listening device. Mengshu and I leaned in, absorbing every word exchanged between David and his escort.

  When No.66 asked, “First time here?” and he answered yes, Mengshu smiled like a cat watching a mouse step into the trap.

  “First mistake,” she murmured. “He should’ve kept his mouth shut.”

  Then his breathing changed—sharper, uneven—when she told him to turn around.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, tension rising.

  Mengshu slid open a drawer and pulled out a training photo. The escort’s bare breast, positioned directly before the client's face.

  Impulse overtook me. I called David.

  “That’s cheating,” Mengshu said, though her eyes sparkled with intrigue.

  I ignored her and put the call on speaker.

  When David answered, I asked where he was—my voice calm, deliberate.

  He didn’t lie. His honesty earned a nod from Mengshu.

  A strange warmth bloomed in my chest.

  “Don’t be nervous,” I told him. “I know these people. Just imagine I’m there beside you. I understand how hard it is to resist temptation. But I trust you. Whatever choice you make, I’ll support it. I’ll be waiting at home—no matter how late.”

  When David asked the girl to change positions, Mengshu’s expression faltered.

  Later, the escort told him he was a good man—their code for failure.

  My heart flipped.

  “I must concede,” Mengshu said, studying me with something like respect. “You may have found someone worth keeping.”

  Number 40 escorted David to the training room. We watched the livestream. Each test escalated—the masturbation on his foot was novel, the nuru massage brutal. My nerves stretched thin. I found myself silently rooting for him, realizing this was no longer about a wager.

  David's unwavering resolve transformed him before my eyes. He was no longer merely a man with endearing naiveté, but someone rarer—principled, grounded, quietly unbreakable.

  After each session, the women reported back. With every return, Mengshu’s surprise deepened, evolving into admiration.

  “You know,” she said quietly, “this business has taught me to value one thing above all else—a trustworthy man. I’d trade everything I have for that.”

  Then she told me what Number 3 had said.

  “He whispered your name. Over and over.”

  Goosebumps rose across my skin. The defenses I’d built—layered, strategic, impenetrable—crumbled like sand against tide.

  His whispered devotion didn’t just echo in my ears. It resonated in places I’d forgotten existed. My chest tightened. My fingertips tingled. This wasn’t calculated affection. This was something raw. Terrifying. Real.

  David had crossed the threshold. Not just of the Mansion—but of me.

  “Turn off the surveillance,” I said, my voice urgent, unfamiliar.

  Mengshu hesitated, then obeyed.

  She looked at me—no longer amused, no longer superior. Just knowing.

  “Let me take you to him,” she offered softly.

  … …

  And now I’m here.

  In the bath. With David.

  Warm water wraps around us. Logic screams warnings—how will I explain this? Can Mengshu be trusted not to record?

  But those thoughts feel distant. Faint.

  All that matters is this moment. This communion.

  Not just to reward him.

  But to unite with him.

  Physically. Emotionally.

  And maybe, even deeper.