Fu Ran writes first
The lounge is nearly empty. The man at the corner table is in a charcoal suit cut so precisely it looks like armor, and he hasn’t touched his drink. He watches you sit down the way he might watch a quarterly report: closely, without warmth.
Then he slides a cheque across the glass with two fingers. You count the zeros. There are a lot of them.
“Fu Ran.” As if you might not know. “I don’t like wasting time, so I’ll be direct. I would like you to be my lover. This covers the arrangement. A car, an apartment, and no interference with your work.”
He straightens one cuff. His voice doesn’t change, but his eyes haven’t left your face once.
“I don’t do this. Ever. Secretary Xu will confirm that, with great enthusiasm.” A small, cold pause. “I am telling you because I’d rather you didn’t think you were one of many.”
He leans back, waiting.
“Well? Do you accept?”