My name’s Clara Lawson. Just graduated from college and currently interning as a junior planner at an ad agency.

According to my friends, I’ve always been the textbook “good girl”—never dated, never acted out. Now that I’m older, people around me have officially labeled me a “leftover woman.” Seriously though, I’m only 23.

After endless nagging from my mom and friends, I finally gave in and started looking for love—in the most old-school way possible: blind dates.

Today’s another one. The meetup spot? Some fancy French restaurant. I looked around from the booth I was in.

This month alone, this is my seventh blind date. Yep, you heard that right—seventh. And that’s not even counting last month's disaster lineup.

Honestly, if there's one thing I’ve learned from this month's dating marathon, it's that there’s never a shortage of weirdos out there.

Take a guy I met two days ago. Claimed he was some big-shot scholar at B City Normal University, Vice President of the Writers' Association or whatever. But when he showed up—thick glasses like bottle bottoms, buck teeth. I mean, not to judge a book by its cover but…

Then the first thing he asks is if I own a place, what my job is, blah blah. I tell him I can’t afford a house right now—normal, right? Dude straight-up scoffs, then barely ten minutes in says he’s off to the bathroom… and never comes back.

...

I glanced again at the info on my phone about today's date. The matchmaker said he's a structural engineer. Has a car and a house. Just... kinda dark-skinned. Makes sense, right? Out on construction sites all day, a tan’s normal.

That much I could accept.

Half an hour passed and I was already on my second coffee refill when Mr. “Engineer” finally strolled in.

He was rocking a tight leopard-print tee, a massive gold chain with a Buddha pendant on it, and under his arm was this deep brown leather bag.

“You’re that Ye… Ye…” The guy squinted at his phone, mangling my name with a strong regional accent. “Clara Lawson, yeah?”

I instantly felt my heart drop. Engineer? Nah. More like some sketchy site foreman.

“Hi, I’m Clara Lawson. And you must be Mr. Keith Allen?” I forced a polite smile and extended my hand.

He wiped the sweat running down his cheeks, grabbed my hand for a quick shake, and chuckled, “Haha, just came from the site. So Clara, what do you do for work? You busy usually?”

I had to take a deep breath to stop myself from wiping my hand immediately. “It’s manageable. I work in ad planning. Occasionally pull some late nights.”"Marketing planner?" Keith Allen's face instantly darkened. He dug through his bag and pulled out a stack of crumpled papers. "I was told you’re a kindergarten teacher. And, seriously, you don’t look anything like your photos, Clara. You’re not being straight here."

I nearly rolled my eyes so hard they’d fall out. Who’s lying here exactly? He edited his pictures till he looked like some K-pop star. That’s ‘honest’?

"Mr. Allen, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. My profile clearly says marketing planner."

"Whatever," he waved it off. "Someone like you? My family won’t go for it. Once we’re married, you’ll quit and stay home—take care of my parents and the kids. I’ll give you a thousand bucks a month for food. Beats playing around with those ad campaigns."

The dishes had just been served. Keith dabbed his sweaty forehead with a napkin and started eating without even glancing at me.

The whole vibe turned awkward—heavy, even.

Before I could say a word, the bulky, rough-looking man across from me spoke again.

"Wait… Clara Lawson, right? That name rings a bell." He wiped his mouth and squinted like something just hit him.

"What is it?" I asked, feeling uneasy.

Keith scratched his half-bald head. "Clara… yeah. Now I remember. Your dad’s that murderer, isn’t he? Did time for it, right? I knew that name sounded familiar!"

My fists clenched tight under the table. Looking at the indignant man in front of me, I actually started to find the whole thing ridiculous.

"A murderer’s daughter thinks she can go on blind dates?" Keith sneered, grabbed his bag, and stormed out without even looking back.

He didn’t give me the slightest chance to explain.

I sat there stiffly, trying to pull myself together and get out of there. But then a waiter leaned over with a polite smile.

"Miss, you haven’t paid yet."

"How… how much is it?" I asked, feeling my face burn.

"You both ordered the couple’s set. One bottle of Lafite, live violin performance—that totals twenty-four thousand yuan."

Like a bolt from the blue. That jerk! The last time I ate here, a regular meal cost about five hundred, tops. Keith actually booked a couple’s package? Dropped more than twenty grand on wine—and even walked out with the half-empty bottle!

"Can I… write an IOU? I lost my wallet," I asked, totally flustered.

The waiter shook his head, his tone suddenly less friendly. "Sorry, miss. We can’t do that. Please take care of the bill."

"I—" Panic bubbled up in my chest. My intern paycheck barely covers rent. I’d just used up whatever I had left to repay a loan today.

"This is a high-end place, not somewhere you dine and dash," the waiter said, clearly about to call security over.

"How much exactly did she spend?"

A low, smooth voice cut through the noise, like the sound of steel brushing against silk—it made my heart skip a beat.