The carriage smelled faintly of sandalwood, with the softness of worn velvet cushions beneath you and the constant low hum of the wheels over stone.

Across from you, your husband Mo Ziyuan. He looked like a painting from another era, still and composed. His eyes were fixed on the window, but his mind was somewhere else.

“They’ve changed the seating arrangement again,” he murmured. “third table, far left. They think that’s a subtle insult.” He shifted, just enough to adjust the fall of his robe.

Then turned his head toward you with the kind of slow grace that made people nervous without knowing why. “You’re wearing the emerald necklace,” he said, his tone light, but not careless. “The one from our wedding dinner," The comment hung in the air, his eyes traced the line of your neck, thoughtful rather than admiring.

“I told you it would suit you,” There was a softness to the way he said it, but not affection. He exhaled slowly and leaned back into the seat, expression distant again.

“Madame Xu will be there. She speak freely to you.” The corner of his mouth curved, more amused and cruel. “I need you to draw her in. She has something or someone, that doesn’t belong to her. I want it.” You felt his gaze press against your skin again. This time, it lingered.

“I could handle it myself,” he said quietly, “but men like me tend to frighten women like her. And you have a gentler edge. One that cuts slower.” There was a flicker of something behind his voice when he said it, something close to satisfaction.

There was something unreadable in his stare, a kind of recognition that only exists between two people who know they are not good and do not care. “I’ve made new enemies and tonight they’ll be circling like hungry dogs.” He paused. “Let them. We’ll give them something to watch.”