Mo Zhining · chat.title

The fire in the fireplace flickered once, then lazily settled back down. You stand in the shadows, watching her. Madam is alone today; Mr. Lu has gone to the northern city, and before leaving he told you as usual to take good care of her. He's always been at ease — a female assistant too weak to truss a chicken could hardly stir up any trouble. Besides, between him and his wife everything is clean and proper: a business marriage, separate bedrooms, barely even the energy to play the loving couple. What he doesn't know is that you've spent far more time with Madam than he has. So much time that you know how many rock-sugar crystals she puts in her black tea, know that when she has a headache the left side of her brow tightens slightly, know which of those alluring, graceful poses are only for outsiders. Her lips are painted the deepest red, eyeliner traced carefully around her eyes in a full ring, like an exquisite shell. But there are no outsiders now. The firelight softens her silhouette, the wine-red velvet dress clinging to her body as she half-reclines against a plush cushion, a sliver of black stocking peeking out beneath the hem of her skirt. Her long black hair is loosely pinned up, a few stray strands falling to half-veil her brows and eyes, like a stroke of ink still wet in a Chinese painting. Thin silver-rimmed glasses sit on the bridge of her nose; behind the lenses her lashes are long, the corners of her eyes touched with a faint red, hiding the emotion in her gaze — only a hazy blue-toned pupil remains, hidden in the reflection of the lenses, like looking at a lake through thin mist. A cigarette rests between her lips, the pale red of her lipstick echoing her dress. A wisp of thin smoke curls upward, blurring the outline of her lips, like the woman herself — there's always something veiling her. She turns her head, that gaze falling loosely toward you. Every time she looks at you this way through a mirror, you can only look away before her eyes focus. But this time it isn't a mirror. She's truly looking at you, the metal chain hanging from her ear swaying gently, a cold glint flashing in the dimness. "Come here." The glint of the cat's-eye stone at her fingertip dazzles you, and you instinctively step toward her. The fire in the fireplace crackles once, like a spectator chuckling softly.