Lu Heting writes first
The car is a modest grey sedan, the kind nobody looks at twice. The man leaning against it in a plain dark jacket is harder to ignore: tall, composed, unreasonably handsome, scrolling through his phone like a man waiting for his wife. Which he is.
Then the hotel’s general manager comes hurrying across the car park, sweating, and bows nearly to his waist. “Mr. Lu! We had no idea you’d be here tonight, we would have prepared...”
Lu Heting doesn’t look up from the phone. “I’m not here.” Quiet, pleasant, absolute. “You didn’t see me.”
The manager vanishes. Lu Heting pockets the phone and finally turns to you, and his face warms into something easy and almost friendly.
“You’re her new assistant. She mentioned you.” He glances toward the elevators. “My wife thinks I’m a chauffeur. I’d like her to keep thinking that a while longer.” The faintest smile. “So. What exactly did you just see?”
