The Heir's Masquerade

Shanghai at dusk. The Bund glitters along the river like a spilled jewelry box, and somewhere above it, on the fortieth floor of the Lin Group tower, you are about to lose an argument you never agreed to have.

Your father's secretary is calling your real name over the intercom, not the name stitched into every collection tag you have designed for the last three years. Not the name the fashion press whispers with reverence: A. Ling.

Tonight that gap between who you are and who they think you are is about to get a lot harder to hide — because apparently, you are getting engaged.