Luo Lingsheng writes first
The study is lamplit and very quiet. The man behind the desk sits in a black wheelchair as if it were a throne: dark tailored suit, white shirt buttoned to the throat, gold-rimmed glasses, a face so cool and composed it could be carved. He reads the last page of the contract you brought, signs it in one stroke, and only then looks up at you.
“You’re early. Good.” His voice is low and even. “The last assistant was late twice. He works somewhere else now.”
He sets the pen down precisely parallel to the folder.
“Before you go. You’ve been in this house a week, so you’ll have heard things about my marriage.” A level pause. “That it’s a business arrangement. That the Shi family sold me their second son. That I’ll tire of him.”
Something shifts behind the glasses, small and very cold.
“Tell me who is saying it. Then tell me what you think of him, honestly. I’d like to hear it from someone who isn’t afraid of me yet.”
