Willa, Ninth Brother will clear the way for you — prologue.
—
Under the neon haze of Zhu City, a white Mercedes rolled to a stop at the entrance of the club.
The wind outside was biting. Willa Vaughn held a freshly dry‑cleaned men’s coat in her hand, the leather of her little lambskin boots tapping softly as she climbed the steps.
The club’s waiter recognized her right away and hurried over. “Miss Vaughn, Young Master Sterling is inside waiting for you.”
Willa gave a gentle nod.
As she followed the waiter toward the private room, she tilted her face slightly, her delicate chin nestled in the fox‑fur collar. “It hasn’t started yet?”
“No, not yet,” the waiter replied respectfully. “We’re still waiting for one more guest.”
Willa’s head tipped a fraction to the side, her eyes clear and soft like spring water, a hint of question rippling through them.
This whole gathering had been arranged by Sterling Hutchinson. The people invited were all those usual friends of his.
Sterling, proud to the bone and forever at the center of attention—there were barely a handful in all of Zhu City who could make him wait willingly.
Catching her doubt, the waiter lifted a hand to his mouth and whispered, “The young master from the Harbor District is back. I heard… someone in Young Master Sterling’s circle offended him, so Sterling set up this gathering…”
He didn’t know the full story; even if he did, he wouldn’t dare spell it out.
That young master from the Harbor District was no soft persimmon.
Willa nodded lightly and didn’t press further.
They were already at the door. The waiter knocked twice, his gloved fingers curling around the handle as he pushed the door open from the outside.
Noise crashed out instantly.
Willa kept her gaze straight ahead, carrying the coat as she stepped inside.
More than a dozen people filled the room, guys and girls both. The place was buzzing with excitement, and her arrival didn’t cause so much as a ripple—no one paused, no one greeted her.
Willa was long used to this kind of polite neglect.
She moved quietly, slipping past everyone’s gaze as she handed the coat to the young man lounging in the middle of the sofa. “It’s washed. All clean. Wear something warmer.”
Sterling Hutchinson leaned back against the leather cushions, his expression frosty. “Mind your own business.”
Willa Vaughn pressed her lips together, then tried patiently, “You texted me. Asked me to bring your coat…”
Before she even finished, Sterling’s eyes lifted, cold and mocking. “I. Texted. You?”
He dragged out every word, the sarcasm practically dripping.
Willa caught it instantly. The coat still hung from her hand; Sterling hadn’t even looked at it.
A beat passed. Then Sterling turned his jaw toward the side, sounding bored. “Dorothy, were you messing with my phone just now?”
Dorothy Lindsey had been chasing him hard lately.
She was gorgeous and bold, and she admitted without hesitation, “I just care about you, that’s all.”
“Great,” Sterling muttered, pulling his gaze back. He sounded done with all of it. “Since it was her, just give it to her.”
Willa lowered her lashes, the neat fan of them hiding every ripple of emotion.
Without a word, she held the coat out to Dorothy.
“Sorry, Willa,” Dorothy said with a shrug. “Didn’t think you’d come running so quickly. Heard your shop’s super busy? I’ll pay you for the time you wasted, okay?”
Willa shot her a calm look. “Sure. One hundred eighty‑eight thousand. Cash or transfer?”
Dorothy: “…”
What the hell was 188k?!
“It’s the price for a new coffee we just launched,” Willa explained matter‑of‑factly. “A food vlogger ordered one on the spot. Too bad I’m the only one who can make it.”
And she’d had to turn that order down—because one text from Sterling had dragged her here.
Dorothy choked on her own breath, completely shut up.
Annoyed, she shook Sterling’s arm, looking for backup.
As if he couldn’t be bothered with whatever petty drama was happening between the two women, Sterling Hutchinson took the glass of red wine handed to him and gave it a practiced swirl.
He lowered his nose to the rim, took a light sniff, and said casually, “Willa Vaughn, yeah, that message was from me.”
“...”
The room went dead silent.
“What?” Sterling lifted his eyelids lazily. “You don’t buy it?”
In front of everyone, he switched his story without so much as blinking, twisting black into white and taking the blame himself. No one could tell if he was shielding Dorothy Lindsey… or picking a fight with someone else entirely.
Dorothy Lindsey stood there with the smug look of someone who thought she’d won, her gaze sweeping over Willa with obvious pride.
Willa had rushed over; she was only wearing a gray cashmere coat with a thin white knit underneath, nowhere near enough for the sudden drop in temperature that night.
Under the coat, her slender frame shivered ever so slightly.
The atmosphere froze on the spot.
The next second, the door was pushed open again. The ten‑plus people inside instantly straightened up, all noise vanishing at once as greetings rose one after another. “Sebastian!”
Even Sterling got up from the sofa.
In an instant, Willa was swallowed up by Sterling’s tall silhouette.
“Well, well,” the newcomer drawled lazily, his Mandarin smooth and accentless, “what’s this? Making our little Willa stand in the corner again?”
Sterling’s face darkened, his annoyed gaze cutting toward her.
Willa straightened her spine and slowly turned, looking toward the man at the door.
She parted her lips and greeted him like the others. “Sebastian.”
“What Sebastian?” The man let out a soft scoff. “Since when am I your anything?”
Willa: “...”
The man had the kind of face that practically screamed trouble—handsome in a way that felt both effortless and dangerous. His slightly messy fringe made him look even more roguish. A tiny mole rested on the side of his snow‑pale nose wing, like some wicked little mark meant to lure people straight into the dark.
His name was Sebastian Foster.
Youngest of the famous Foster clan in the Harbor District, known for being the kind of guy who looked at the world sideways and could pick a fight with the sky if he felt like it.
Sebastian was tall, all clean lines and long limbs. Under a white crew‑neck sweater and black dress pants, he’d thrown on a brown military‑style coat with a fur collar, just hanging off his shoulders like he didn’t care whether it stayed there or fell off.
The coat swayed behind him as he moved, his legs impossibly long, his presence blasting through the room like he owned the air.
“Hey, Ninth Master,” a man eyed the coat and clicked his tongue twice. “That’s the new L‑series drop, right? I checked—must be over a hundred grand.”
Sebastian kept both hands stuffed in his pockets, strolling in with that lazy, couldn’t‑care‑less vibe.
“Sixty‑nine.” The number rolled off his lips, low and casual.
Everyone froze.
The guy who asked the question paused, then forced out an awkward laugh. “Six hundred ninety thousand? Figures—it’s you.”
Sure, these people were loaded, but dropping nearly seven hundred grand on a coat? Not even they were that ruthless.
The private room’s layout was U‑shaped. Two main seats sat in the center; Sterling Hutchinson occupied one. The other was obviously saved for Sebastian.
But Sebastian ignored it completely, sauntering past the main seat and collapsing into a corner of the sofa like a cat finding a warm spot. He crossed his legs, lifted his lashes, and added, “Sixty‑nine bucks.”
The room: “...”
Silence. Long, painful silence.
Finally, someone braved a question. “Sixty‑nine… where’d you even get that? My brother bought one for a hundred sixty‑eight thousand.”
Sebastian flicked the fur collar with pale fingers. “Pin‑Doo‑Doo.”
“...”
The room went dead again. Willa Vaughn had to bite the inside of her cheek—she swore he was trolling them just for fun.
“All right,” Sebastian said, fiddling with his fingers, voice slow and bored. “Sit down already. I’ve got a phobia of huge objects. You all stand around me like that—kinda freaks me out.”
“...”
Everyone had already taken their seats, and when Willa Vaughn walked in, the huge private room had only one spot left—the main seat.
And that one was absolutely off-limits for her.
Once the others settled down, she became the only person standing there without a chair, which made her stick out even more.
She set down the freshly dry‑cleaned coat and said softly, “I’ll head back first…”
“Hey, little Weed.” Before she could finish, Sebastian Foster lifted his gaze, those long, fox‑like eyes slicing right toward her. “Were you laughing at me just now?”
His look carried that lazy kind of dominance, like someone born to be on top. He tapped two fingers against his knee, slow and arrogant. “Come here. Stand in front of me. Smile.”
“...”
