The Tea House Incident
The rain had stopped, but the scent of wet earth still lingered in the narrow streets of Yunzhou. Merchants shouted prices over steaming pots, silk vendors fanned away flies, and the aroma of spiced pork buns drifted on the wind. Lu Mei walked quickly, her straw hat tilted low, hiding her face from prying eyes.
She had no intention of seeing Zhao Wei today—absolutely none. After last night's disastrous dinner with the Zhao family, she wanted nothing more than to disappear into a quiet corner of the city and breathe.
The tea house at the end of Lotus Street was her sanctuary. Its lacquered doors and faded red lanterns were unassuming, but inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of jasmine leaves, and blissfully removed from the chaos of the outside world.
She stepped in, shaking droplets from her hat, and slipped into a corner booth. The old tea master, Uncle Chen, greeted her with a nod and wordlessly placed a pot of chrysanthemum tea before her. Lu Mei inhaled the floral steam, trying to calm her racing thoughts.
The arranged marriage had already felt like a chain around her neck, but Zhao Wei's attitude last night had been the final straw. Arrogant. Condescending. Infuriating. If she hadn't been bound by her father's debt, she would have walked out before the first course.
The door slammed open. A gust of wind sent the lanterns swaying.
And there he was.
Zhao Wei strode in like he owned the place—because of course, in his mind, he owned every place he entered. He wasn't in his family's formal silks today; instead, he wore a dark robe with silver thread along the cuffs, his hair pulled into a loose knot. Even dressed casually, he drew stares.
Her fingers tightened around her teacup. "Is there nowhere in Yunzhou you don't haunt?" she muttered under her breath.
His eyes scanned the room—and landed on her. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his expression. Then he walked straight toward her booth.
"Lu Mei," he said, sliding into the seat across from her without asking. "You've been avoiding me."
She raised an eyebrow. "Avoiding? No. I'm simply… choosing peace."
"Peace?" His lips curled into the faintest smirk. "You and I both know peace is not an option for us."
Her heartbeat quickened. Not from his words—she told herself—but from the way his gaze seemed to pin her in place, sharp and searching. "Then what do you want, Zhao Wei? Another argument? We seem to excel at those."
"I came to talk." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "You're not safe walking alone these days. There's been trouble in the southern quarter. My men told me they saw you heading this way."
She blinked. "Your men? Are you having me followed now?"
His jaw tightened. "Call it… looking out for my future wife."
The words landed between them like a stone dropped in still water.
Lu Mei's pulse thudded in her ears. Future wife. She hated how those two words could sound both like a threat and a promise, depending on how he said them.
Before she could reply, a loud crash erupted near the entrance. Two men burst into the tea house—ruffians with wild hair, scarred faces, and the kind of swagger that came from knowing they could break things without consequence.
"Uncle Chen!" one of them barked. "Where's our payment?"
The old tea master froze, clutching his tray. "I—I told you, business has been slow—"
The man grabbed his collar. "Not my problem, old man."
Lu Mei started to stand, but Zhao Wei's hand shot out, pressing gently but firmly against her wrist. "Stay here," he murmured.
And then he moved.
It was fluid, almost too fast to follow. One moment Zhao Wei was at the table; the next, he had crossed the room, his robe swirling like a shadow. His hand clamped onto the thug's arm and twisted. The man yelped, dropping Uncle Chen.
"Yunzhou doesn't take kindly to vultures," Zhao Wei said coldly.
The second man lunged, but Zhao Wei sidestepped, catching him by the shoulder and slamming him into a pillar. The entire tea house fell silent except for the groans of the defeated men.
"You have until sunset to leave this district," Zhao Wei told them, his tone like steel. "If I see your faces again, I won't be this polite."
The ruffians stumbled out, muttering curses under their breath.
Zhao Wei dusted off his sleeves and turned back toward Lu Mei.
She stared at him, the tea in front of her forgotten. She had known he was dangerous in the way rich men with power often were—but seeing him fight, seeing the quiet precision in his movements, stirred something unexpected.
He sat down again as if nothing had happened. "Now," he said, pouring himself a cup of her tea without asking, "where were we?"
Lu Mei found her voice. "You're… not what I thought."
His eyes met hers, and for once, the arrogance softened. "Neither are you."
For the first time since the engagement was announced, the air between them felt less like a battlefield—and more like the space between two people who might one day fight for each other, not just against each other.