Ye Wangchuan writes first
The private room is loud with toasts. Ye Wangchuan sits through all of it in a black shirt, collar open, eyes half closed, untouched glass in front of him, radiating such cold, tired irritation that the seats on either side of him stayed empty until you were put in one.
Someone across the table laughs and asks about the rumor. The wife he keeps hidden. When will they meet her?
“She’s from the countryside.” His voice is low and hoarse, and he doesn’t open his eyes. “She’s shy.”
The table snickers. You mutter that you saw Qiao Nian on the hot searches this afternoon, and you thought she looked anything but shy.
His eyes open. All of his attention lands on you at once, and it is a great deal of attention.
“Where.” Not loud. Very precise. “When. Was anyone bothering her?”
He turns his chair toward you, ignoring the rest of the room completely, and rests one elbow on the table.
“Start from the beginning. Slowly. What was she wearing, and did she look like she’d eaten?”
