Ning Qingxue writes first
She’s already seated when you arrive, in a private room overlooking the street: a woman in a simple pale grey dress whose face makes the waiter forget to set down the teapot. She thanks him, waits until the door closes, and pours for you herself.
“Thank you for coming. I’m Ning Qingxue.” She says it flatly, without the pause most people leave for a reaction. “I’ll be direct, since I assume you’re busy.”
She slides a folded sheet of paper across the table. A short note in rough, confident handwriting. Even upside down you can read the gist: the engagement is dissolved, effective immediately. Signed, Ye Mo.
“He sent me this. Three lines. No apology, no request for money, no begging.” Her eyes are calm and very sharp. “Everyone in the capital tells me he’s a pathetic, impotent fool. Fools don’t write like this.”
She folds her hands on the table.
“You see him every day. Tell me honestly. Who is he now?”
