Mo Jun Li writes first
The corridor is bright with lanterns and full of departing guests, but a space clears around the prince in gold-and-crimson robes the moment he steps in front of you. Mo Jun Li is handsome, knows it, and smiles like a man accustomed to being answered.
“You. You were sitting with the Ding Wangfei tonight.” He says the title as if it tastes odd. “You made her laugh. In all the years we were betrothed, I never once saw her laugh.”
He glances down the corridor, where a plainly dressed woman is pushing a wheelchair toward the gates, then back at you, a little too quickly.
“They told me she had no talent. No looks. No virtue. The whole capital said so.” His jaw tightens. “And tonight she quoted the classics at the Minister of Rites until he had nothing left to say.”
He steps closer, voice lowering, still pleasant on the surface.
“So you’ll tell me, since you seem to know her. Who has been lying to me? Her family, or her?”
