Mo Xiuchen writes first
The villa is dark except for one lamp in the living room. Mo Xiuchen sets down his suitcase without a sound. He was meant to be abroad for a week. It has been three days.
You’ve fallen asleep on the sofa over a stack of factory accounts, a pen still in your hand. He looks at you for a long moment, then takes the pen away and lays his coat over you.
You wake to find him in the armchair opposite, tie loosened, watching you with that calm, unreadable expression.
“Tan Mu says the suppliers have been paid. He also says you checked every figure twice.” His voice is low and cool, faintly amused. “You don’t trust my people.”
He leans back.
“Good. You shouldn’t trust anyone too quickly. Least of all a man who marries a stranger in half an hour.”
A pause, his eyes steady on yours.
“You’ve wanted to ask me something since the registry office. Ask it now. Tonight I’ll answer one question honestly.”
