Hao Lianhua didn't need permission to enter.
She knocked anyway—three soft taps, polite enough to be a courtesy, confident enough to be a warning.
The VIP room went quiet like someone had pinched a candle flame.
Guo Dalu's men, who could face bandits on a bad road without blinking, suddenly remembered they had mouths and didn't know what to do with them. Half straightened their robes. Half stared at the door like it might bite.
The wooden lattice slid open.
Lianhua stepped in with the calm of a woman who knew exactly what every eye would do when she appeared.
She wasn't dressed for conquest. She was dressed for control: pale silk layered over the kind of figure that made men realize silk was a lie and bodies were the truth. Her sleeves were long, draping, her collar modest—yet the fit at her waist and the soft swell at her chest were undeniable. Her hair was pinned with a simple ornament that looked innocent until you noticed it could be sharpened.
She didn't smile widely. A wide smile invited greed.
Her smile was small—just enough to make you feel chosen, not enough to make you think you owned her.
"Gentlemen," Lianhua greeted, voice light. "I hope the wine isn't disappointing."
Dalu cleared his throat like a boy. "Sister Lianhua."
Shen Yan didn't rise. He didn't need to. He only tilted his head and flicked his fan once, the movement lazy.
"Sister Jade Lark," he said. "You're late."
Lianhua's eyes glittered. "And you were early?"
"I was dragged," Shen Yan replied. "By wolves."
Dalu snorted. "He calls us wolves like he's not the one with teeth."
Lianhua's gaze slid over the men, measuring quickly: who was loud, who was shy, who watched exits, who watched her.
Then she crossed the room and sat beside Shen Yan as if that seat had always belonged to her.
Close.
Close enough that the perfume on her sleeve kissed his skin. Close enough that when she leaned slightly, the soft weight of her chest pressed his upper arm through the fabric, gentle and deliberate.
Several escorts swallowed visibly.
Rui Shanjin muttered under his breath, "Damn."
Shen Yan didn't move away. Moving away would look like panic.
He only angled his fan to hide the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"You pushed me onto the stage," Shen Yan said, voice low enough to be intimate without letting the men hear. "Do you enjoy watching me embarrass myself?"
Lianhua covered her mouth with her sleeve, laughter bright behind her eyes. "If I didn't," she murmured back, "you would have sat upstairs and watched the world like it was a play performed for your amusement."
"It is," Shen Yan said smoothly. "That's why I pay."
Lianhua leaned closer, the press of her chest becoming slightly more pronounced, and her voice turned teasing. "Then consider tonight… my fee."
Shen Yan's eyes narrowed with mock offense. "Extortion."
"Motivation," she corrected.
Dalu, who was pretending not to watch, leaned forward with a grin. "Third Young Master, don't complain. We all benefited from your poem."
Shanjin clicked his tongue. "He didn't do it for us. He did it because his ego can't stand losing to a scholar."
Shen Yan looked at him over the fan. "My ego is very kind. It lets scholars feel tall."
The escorts laughed, relieved to have somewhere to put their awkwardness.
Shen Yan tapped his fan against his palm. "Since Sister Lianhua has dragged me into spotlight," he announced, letting his voice carry so the room could join the game, "I demand compensation."
The escorts immediately made greedy noises.
"Compensation!"
"What kind?"
"A kiss?"
"Two kisses!"
Shen Yan ignored them and turned his eyes toward the men like a benevolent tyrant. "Look at my brothers," he said, solemn as if reading a memorial. "Lonely. Jealous. Like dogs who see another dog eating meat."
Dalu choked on his wine. "Dogs?!"
An escort slapped his chest dramatically. "Third Young Master, my heart—"
"Broken?" Shen Yan asked.
"Yes!"
Shen Yan nodded gravely. "Your heart is too easy to break. That's why you'll never be rich."
The room erupted.
Even Shanjin laughed, though he tried to bite it back into a cough.
Lianhua's eyes crinkled. "Third Young Master," she said sweetly, "if your brothers are so lonely, then don't worry."
She clapped her hands twice.
The sound was soft, but it carried like a command.
The door slid open again, and a line of courtesans entered—four, then five, then six—each one chosen like a weapon chosen for a particular hand.
They were not the Pavilion's ordinary girls. These were the ones with practiced smiles, careful eyes, bodies trained to sit in a room and make men forget they were dangerous.
One wore crimson and laughed easily. One wore pale gold and had the calm gaze of a woman who listened more than she spoke. Another carried a pipa case like it was an accessory, not a tool.
They bowed together, graceful as a single organism.
"Good evening," Lianhua said to her sisters, and in that simple phrase there was both affection and hierarchy.
The girls smiled at Shen Yan first—warm, genuine, a little mischievous.
"Young Master Shen," the crimson-sleeved one said, "we heard your poem."
The pale gold one added, "It was… satisfying."
Dalu's men exchanged looks like boys offered sweets. One of them leaned toward Shen Yan and whispered, "Third Young Master, if you keep writing poems, we'll never survive."
Shen Yan flicked his fan to smack the man's forehead lightly. "Don't blame my ink for your weakness."
Lianhua's smile sharpened. "They were very happy," she told Shen Yan, voice bright. "Especially after listening to Master Kong's poem."
The word "Master" came out like honey. The meaning beneath it came out like vinegar.
A couple courtesans' smiles tightened for an instant—brief enough that any man watching only for breasts would miss it.
Shen Yan's eyes softened. "Then my embarrassment was worthwhile," he said, and raised his cup toward the girls. "Sit. Eat. Bully my brothers a little."
The courtesans obeyed, settling beside the escort men with ease—one per man, like Lianhua had assigned them in her head before she even clapped.
Dalu's shoulders visibly relaxed. Payday tension melted into laughter. Chopsticks moved again. Wine poured.
One escort, cheeks already pink, leaned toward the girl beside him. "Sister, do you know a clerk at the cloth shop? Pretty. Mole on her cheek."
The courtesan laughed, delighted. "Ah. That one."
The escort's eyes widened. "It's true? She's—"
"Mistress," the courtesan confirmed lightly, as if discussing the price of rice. "And not only to one merchant."
The escort's jaw dropped. "Third Young Master wasn't lying…"
Shen Yan sipped his wine, expression serene. "I'm offended you doubted me."
Shanjin snorted. "He's offended like he's never lied in his life."
Shen Yan pointed his fan at him. "I lie professionally. There's craft."
The courtesans laughed louder.
The noise, the warmth, the steady rhythm of food and teasing turned the room into something that almost resembled peace.
Almost.
Across the open space of the Pavilion, in a VIP room facing theirs, Tao Kang watched the laughter like it was an insult carved into stone.
He sat with his silk fan half-open, eyes narrowed. A girl poured him wine. Another leaned close, whispering flattery.
He didn't touch them.
Xu Biao drank, hard and fast, anger making him careless. "That waste," he muttered. "Showing off like he owns the Pavilion."
Kong Shijing's expression remained composed, but his gaze was cold. "He made a spectacle," he said quietly. "People love spectacles. It doesn't mean he has worth."
Tao Kang smiled. It wasn't pleasant. "Worth is measured by what you can take," he said. "And what you can keep."
He snapped his fan shut and gestured sharply.
The balcony screen slid closed, cutting off the sight and sound of Shen Yan's room, as if blocking it would stop the jealousy burning in his chest.
"Call for girls," Tao Kang said.
The girls bowed, grateful to finally be used for something predictable. Wine poured. Laughter manufactured itself in that room the way smoke manufactured itself from a burning wick.
But even with noise, Tao Kang's eyes kept drifting toward the ceiling, as if he could see through wood and silk to the third floor.
Back in Shen Yan's room, the wine climbed higher.
Dalu maintained order the way he maintained roads—by scolding early and laughing after.
"Slow!" he reminded, tapping a cup. "Drink like men, not like pigs."
"Captain," an escort protested, "I'm celebrating."
"You can celebrate tomorrow when you wake up without puking on your own shoes," Dalu said.
The courtesans made delighted noises. The crimson-sleeved girl fed her escort a slice of pork with her chopsticks and laughed when he nearly bit the chopsticks in excitement.
Rui Shanjin sat with the pale gold courtesan beside him, posture relaxed but eyes still sharp. He didn't drink much. He liked watching.
He watched Shen Yan too.
Shen Yan let the room enjoy itself for a while. He played the role everyone expected: lazy young master, loose smile, fan fluttering as if he had no worries beyond wine temperature.
But his hand under the table—resting on Lianhua's knee—told a different story.
He didn't squeeze. He didn't grope. He just held, a quiet anchor.
Lianhua's eyes flicked down for a breath, then up again, amused.
When the escorts' laughter rose loud enough to cover private speech, Shen Yan leaned toward her.
"What are you scheming?" he asked softly, voice warm as if it was flirtation.
Lianhua's lips parted in mock hurt. "Scheming? Me?"
Shen Yan's eyes smiled. "Sister Lianhua, you don't knock on doors for fun."
She placed a hand over her heart. "How cruel. I came to reward you."
"And to use me," Shen Yan said gently.
Lianhua pouted like a girl half her age, but her eyes stayed sharp. "Fine," she whispered. "I needed an excuse."
"An excuse to avoid Tao Kang," Shen Yan guessed.
Lianhua's pout softened into a wry smile. "He has been… persistent."
"And you chose to hide behind me," Shen Yan said, feigning sorrow. "So this is how you sacrifice friends."
Lianhua laughed under her sleeve and poked his cheek with a finger. "You don't care," she murmured.
Shen Yan tilted his head. "I'm wounded."
"You're entertained," she corrected, poking again. "If Tao Kang wants to hate someone, better you than Madam Mei."
Shen Yan's fan flicked. "True. I'm cheap."
Lianhua leaned closer, voice lowering. "Also," she whispered, "I want to introduce a sister to you tonight."
Shen Yan's eyes narrowed slightly. A sister. In this Pavilion, "sister" could mean many things: a courtesan with a story, a girl with danger behind her smile, a pawn Madam Mei needed moved.
He sensed the hidden hook in Lianhua's tone—something heavier than lust.
But he didn't ask.
Asking would turn a secret into a burden. Shen Yan preferred secrets light enough to carry with one hand.
Instead, he opened his fan wider and smiled like the shameless young master Xiapi gossiped about.
"Oh?" he said louder, enough for the courtesans nearby to hear. "Which lamb will be offered to this wolf tonight?"
The room burst into laughter.
Courtesans covered their mouths, shoulders shaking. Escorts hooted. Even Dalu almost spilled his wine.
Downstairs, heads turned. Jealous eyes lifted toward the second floor, hearing the laughter and imagining pleasures they hadn't paid for.
Lianhua's cheeks flushed pink despite herself. "You—" she hissed, and pinched Shen Yan's waist hard.
Shen Yan made a dramatic choking sound and clutched his side like he'd been stabbed. "Mercy!"
The courtesans shrieked with laughter.
"I've never seen Sister Lianhua like this," the crimson-sleeved girl teased. "So relaxed."
Another chimed in, "She's smiling with teeth!"
Lianhua's ears went red. "Shut up," she snapped, embarrassed—and pinched Shen Yan harder.
Shen Yan's eyes didn't change. The pinch probably barely registered. But he arched his back and grimaced theatrically anyway.
"Forgive me," he begged, voice full of false suffering. "I'm fragile."
"You're shameless," Lianhua shot back, but her lips were trembling with a smile.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice again. "Can Sister Lianhua forgive this wolf?"
Lianhua's eyes flicked over his face as if measuring how much of him was mask and how much was real.
Then she lifted her chin. "Come," she said, simple.
She stood.
The room's laughter softened into curious anticipation.
Dalu raised his brows. "Oh? Already?"
Shen Yan rose too, slipping his fan back into his sleeve. "Business," he said lightly. "Don't miss me too much."
As they moved toward the door, Shen Yan paused and glanced back at the table.
"Who's picking me up tomorrow morning?" he asked casually, as if asking who would carry his breakfast.
Dalu tilted his cup. "Shanjin. His turn."
Shanjin groaned. "Why is it always my turn?"
"Because you don't get drunk," Dalu said. "And because you complain prettily."
Shen Yan nodded thoughtfully. Then he slid his fan out from his sleeve and held it out toward Shanjin like a token.
"Here," Shen Yan said. "So you don't pick up the wrong man."
Shanjin reached out with one hand, lazy. "Give it."
Shen Yan released it.
The fan dropped into Shanjin's palm like a brick.
Shanjin's hand jerked down. His shoulder dipped. His balance—already slightly off because he'd been sitting—failed him. He toppled sideways off his cushion with a very unheroic grunt and landed on the floor.
For a heartbeat, the room went silent.
Then it exploded.
Dalu's laughter came first, loud enough to shake the table. Escorts howled. Courtesans laughed until tears shone at their lashes.
Shanjin sat up, hair mussed, face dark with humiliation. "What in the hell—" he snarled, gripping the fan with both hands now. "Why is your fan so heavy?!"
Shen Yan looked down at him with innocent eyes. "For practice."
The courtesans shrieked again.
One of the escorts slapped the table. "Third Young Master, you're evil!"
Shen Yan shrugged. "He said he wanted to carry me. I'm simply helping him prepare."
Shanjin glared up at him. "If you add another weight to that thing, I'll throw you into the river."
"You'll miss," Shen Yan said pleasantly. "Your arms are weak."
Lianhua covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. "Enough," she said, breathless with laughter. "Come."
Shen Yan stepped over Shanjin with exaggerated care, as if stepping over a fallen hero on a battlefield.
At the door, he glanced back once.
The escorts were still laughing. The courtesans were still teasing. Dalu's cheeks were red. Shanjin was rubbing his shoulder like it had been assaulted by iron.
Good.
Let them remember this.
Men who laughed together fought together better.
Shen Yan offered Lianhua his arm. She took it without hesitation, linking hers through his with a practiced intimacy that made the corridor's lanternlight feel warmer.
As they walked, she pressed close—her chest brushing his arm again, deliberate and playful.
Shen Yan kept his expression calm.
Inside, his senses sharpened.
Third floor meant higher-priced rooms. Quieter rooms. Rooms where secrets happened.
Behind them, the VIP room roared with laughter again as someone retold Shanjin's fall with extra flourishes.
Downstairs, the jealous murmurs grew.
And somewhere across the hall, behind a closed balcony screen, Tao Kang's anger simmered into something patient.
Shen Yan let Lianhua guide him upward, arm-in-arm, as if the night belonged to them.
The staircase creaked softly beneath their steps.
Silk whispered.
Lantern smoke curled.
And above, behind a door Shen Yan hadn't seen before, the Pavilion held its "introduction" waiting like a blade wrapped in velvet.