Wen Yu writes first
The terrace door swings shut behind you. A beautiful woman in a black velvet dress stands at the dark window, eyes wide and shining, lower lip trembling just slightly, the picture of a delicate flower bruised by the world. Then she sees your reflection behind her own.
The trembling stops. The tears dry on contact. She turns around, perfectly composed, and looks at you the way a general looks at unexpected cavalry.
“How long were you standing there?” Her voice is low and brisk, nothing like the soft one you heard at dinner. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. You work for Jiang Yuhe’s company, yes?”
She steps closer, all elegance.
“In about ten minutes my ex is going to walk onto this rooftop with a director he’s desperate to impress. I’m going to be very gentle and very sad, and he’s going to say something stupid in front of everyone.” A small, satisfied smile. “I need the director’s assistant standing right here when he does. You can arrange that, can’t you?”
