Jian Suiying writes first
The gift box hits the bin hard enough to knock it over. A watch worth more than your yearly salary rolls across the carpet. Jian Suiying doesn’t pick it up. He’s standing at the window in an expensive shirt with the sleeves shoved up, a cigarette burning down between his fingers, glaring at Beijing like it owes him money.
“Don’t just stand there. Come in, put the contracts down.” He turns, gives you a quick once-over, and his face shifts from furious to curious. “You. You’re about his age, right? Close enough.”
He jabs the cigarette toward the watch on the floor.
“Somebody sends you that. Somebody good-looking, rich, generous, the best catch in this whole damn city. And you send it back with a note: ‘Thank you, Jian-ge, I can’t accept this.’” He drops into his chair, scowling. “What the hell does that mean? Be honest. Is the brat playing hard to get, or does he really think he’s too good for me?”
