Chapter 278: The Lotus Pavilion

The drive to the Coloane hills the following evening was solitary.

The Aston Martin was silver. Sleek. It hugged the road. The engine was quiet, almost silent. No armored glass. No contractors in the mirror. Just me.

I drove myself, leaving the armored Mercedes and the private contractors at the Wynn. The city lights fell away behind me. The air coming through the vents smelled like leather and faint cologne. My hands on the wheel were loose. No tension. Julian Croft didn’t grip the wheel like he was expecting an ambush.

I wore a bespoke black tuxedo, the fabric cutting a sharp, elegant silhouette. The jacket sat clean on my shoulders. The shirt was cool against my skin. I didn’t carry a weapon. I didn’t even wear the Vanguard tactical watch. My wrist was bare. I was completely unarmed and digitally isolated. No comms bead. No backup.

The road climbed. The hills got darker. Trees closed in on both sides. The headlights cut through the night and showed the stone walls of the Imperial Mountain.

I reached the stone archway at the base. The bronze dragons looked even more imposing in the dark. Their eyes were black pits. Water dripped somewhere off to the side.

The Imperial Guards didn’t stop me. They simply opened the heavy wooden gates and gestured for me to drive through. The wood groaned. The sound was low and old.

I parked the Aston Martin in a small, immaculate courtyard. The stones were smooth under my shoes. The air here was cooler. It smelled like pine and incense and damp earth. No city noise. Just crickets.

I walked the rest of the way to the Lotus Pavilion.

The path was lit by paper lanterns. Soft orange light. It threw long shadows across the stone. My shoes made no sound. The pavilion was ahead, glowing faintly.

The pavilion was transformed. The low rosewood table had been replaced by a professional-grade baccarat table, illuminated by a soft, warm overhead light. The felt was green. The chips were stacked in neat towers. The cards sat in a six-deck shoe.

The air inside smelled like expensive perfume, polished wood, and tea.

Empress Song Mei was seated at the center of the table, acting as the dealer. She wore a stunning, high-collared crimson gown, her dark hair pinned up with jade combs. The silk caught the light. She looked like a blade.

There were three other people at the table. Two older men in expensive suits—likely senior board members of the Song Dynasty Trust—and the female Imperial Shadow, who was standing silently in the corner, her eyes locked onto me the moment I stepped onto the wooden bridge.

I felt it immediately. That weight. That analysis.

"Mr. Croft," Song Mei said, her voice melodic and perfectly calm. "Punctual. A rare trait in men of your wealth."

The words echoed slightly in the pavilion.

"Time is the only commodity I can’t buy, Madam Song," I replied smoothly, taking the empty seat directly across from her. The chair was wooden. Hard. "And I prefer not to waste it."

The two older men offered polite, nervous nods. They were wealthy, but they were clearly intimidated by the Empress. Their hands shook slightly as they touched their chips. They were here as props, an audience for the psychological duel that was about to take place.

"Baccarat is a game of pure chance, Julian," Song Mei said, expertly shuffling a six-deck shoe of cards. The sound was soft. Rhythmic. "There is no skill involved in the draw. The only skill lies in how you manage your capital, and how you read the table."

Her fingers moved fast. Precise.

"I’ve always found that chance favors the man with the deepest pockets, and mine surely are deep compared to the average men." I countered, leaning back in my chair and projecting an aura of absolute, relaxed arrogance. My posture was loose. One arm draped over the chair.

Song Mei smiled faintly. It didn’t reach her eyes.

"Then let us test that theory," she said.

She dealt the cards. The game moved quickly. The cards made a soft sound on the felt. The chips clicked when they moved.

I didn’t focus on the cards; I focused on her. I watched the micro-expressions around her eyes, the subtle shifts in her posture, the way she handled the chips. She was a master of control, but everyone had a baseline. A tell.

I lost the first three hands, dropping fifty thousand dollars without blinking. The money meant nothing. Julian Croft lost 50k like other men lost pocket change. I didn’t show frustration. My face stayed bored.

The lanterns outside flickered. The night was quiet.

"You use decoys, Julian," Song Mei said casually, dealing the fourth hand. Her voice was light. Like she was commenting on the weather. "When you leave your hotel. It is a very... tactical maneuver for a tech investor I must say."

The two older men at the table froze, their eyes darting between us. They recognized the sudden shift in the conversation. The pleasantries were over. The air got colder.

"That is to show how much I value my privacy, Madam Song," I replied, picking up my cards. The paper was smooth. "Macau is a beautiful city, but it has a reputation for corporate espionage. I prefer to keep my movements unpredictable, you know in order to thtow off any potential stalker."

My voice didn’t change.

"Privacy is a luxury," she noted, turning over a natural eight. "But paranoia is a liability. A man who uses decoys is a man who expects to be followed. What are you hiding, Mr. Croft?"

The question hung in the air.

The Shadow in the corner didn’t move. But I could feel her watching. Waiting for my pulse to jump. For my breathing to change.

I set my cards down. The felt was soft under my fingers.

The pavilion was silent except for the sound of water somewhere in the garden.