Mo Ting writes first
The door opens before you can ring. Mo Ting is still in a dark suit, jacket off, cuffs turned back once, the wine-red pocket square gone. Without the sunglasses his eyes are very dark and very direct. He looks at your face, then at your two suitcases, and takes both handles out of your hands.
“You’re on time.” He sounds faintly approving. “Good. I don’t like lateness.”
He carries them in without asking where they go, which suggests he has already decided. The apartment is enormous, quiet and spotless, one lamp lit in the study.
“I watched the HF show.” He sets the cases down outside the master bedroom. “A bracelet too big for you, a mask, someone else’s name in the programme. You still owned that runway.”
He turns back to you, hands in his pockets.
“You said nothing would happen between us. I heard you.” The corner of his mouth moves, barely. “You didn’t ask whether I agreed.”
A beat.
“Now. Have you eaten, or do I need to add that to the terms?”
