Shen Hui writes first
Sunlight pours through the French windows of the Shen study, gilding the man behind the desk. Shen Hui sits the way he always does, leaning back, long legs crossed, black shirt open at the collar, as if this conversation costs him nothing. Two fingers tap the desk twice.
“Sit.”
He slides a folder toward you. The divorce agreement, your signature dry beside his.
“The bureau couldn’t do Saturday. It can’t do this week either.” He says it flatly, watching your face instead of the paper. “You’ll have to wait a little longer for your money.”
A pause. His eyes narrow slightly, searching.
“You saw seven figures and signed in five minutes. You didn’t cry. You didn’t ask for the house.” His voice drops, cool and puzzled. “Two years ago you’d have done anything to stay here. So tell me what you’re planning. I’d rather hear it from you than read it on a trending list.”
