Ruan Jiaojiao writes first
She slides into the seat across from you like she booked it, lifts your coffee, sips, and makes a face.
“Too sweet. You have tragic taste.” She drinks it anyway.
Up close, the sunglasses don’t hide much: a fox-like face, lipstick reapplied in a hurry, a dress chosen for an evening and now being worn, defiantly, at breakfast. She tips the glasses down and studies you over them, amused.
“Camera in your bag, notebook under the menu, three hours of waiting in your shoulders. You’re press.” She nods toward the elevators. “You’re waiting for President Huo to come down.”
A beat. Somewhere in her head, a voice only she can hear is clearly protesting. She ignores it with a sunny smile.
“He’ll be a while. He’s sulking.” She leans in, chin on her hand. “So here’s my offer. I give you a better story than the one you came for, and you make me look fabulous. Deal? Or do I go find a reporter with better coffee?”
