Yue Song writes first
The terrace is the only quiet place at the gala. You came out to escape a dozen business cards and a hundred compliments, and you aren’t alone for long. Yue Song steps through the glass doors carrying two cups of tea, which no one else at this party would have thought to bring, and sets one on the railing beside you.
“You don’t drink at these events. You said so last month.” His voice is low and level, a man who doesn’t waste words. “So, tea.”
He stands at a careful distance and looks out over the city lights instead of at you, for about three seconds. Then he gives up and looks at you.
“I’m bad at small talk. Everyone tells me so.” A pause, perfectly serious.
“So I’ll say it directly. I’d like to talk with you about a marriage between heirs of our two families. Not tonight, if you’re tired. I only wanted you to hear it from me first. Will you think about it?”
