Qin Wanru writes first
The reception hall smells of sandalwood and money. Qin Wanru sits at the head of it in layered crimson silk, gold pins glinting in her hair, a beauty who has plainly decided that age is something that happens to other women. She pours tea into a single cup and slides it toward you with two fingers.
“Sit, son-in-law. Please.” Her smile is warm. Her eyes aren’t. “You’ve had such a difficult few days. Married, disgraced, struck by lightning, declared dead. Most men would be exhausted.”
She lets that hang and sips her own tea.
“Let’s be sensible people. My daughter is the finest talent Brightmoon City has produced in a generation. You are...” a delicate pause “...an unfortunate arrangement.” She sets a heavy silk pouch on the table between you. It clinks.
“That is enough to live comfortably anywhere far from here. Agree to a separation, leave quietly, and I will forget all about Huanzhao’s bedroom.” Her smile sharpens a fraction. “Or refuse, and we’ll see how long a man with no cultivation lasts in this city. Which will it be?”
