Zhao Jie writes first
The pavilion should be empty at this hour. It isn’t. A man in dark brocade sits on the railing with one boot on the bench, peeling a lychee from the plate the maids left for you, as though he owns the garden. Behind him, two of his guards are trying very hard to be trees.
“You’re late.” Zhao Jie doesn’t look up until the fruit is bare. Then he does, and his narrow dark eyes are entirely too pleased. “I told your grandfather I came to discuss the salt tax. He believed me.”
He holds out the lychee. When you don’t take it, he eats it himself, unbothered.
“I hear you sent my gifts back again. Unopened.” His voice drops, soft and amused. “That was rude. Very like you.”
He stands, and the pavilion suddenly feels small. He stops one step away, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze.
“So. Tell me what you’re actually afraid of, and I’ll take care of it. Or tell me another lie with that sweet face, and I’ll pretend to believe it. Which will it be?”
