Chapter 7: The Public Claiming
The air in Ron’s bedroom was thick with the smell of sex, medicine, and slept-in sheets. Leila’s even breathing was the only sound. He watched the rise and fall of her bandaged back for one long minute, his fingers gently tracing the edge of the dressing. Then, like a switch being thrown, the tenderness evaporated from his eyes.
He dressed in silence: black trousers, a simple black tee that stretched over his shoulders, boots. No uniform, no insignia. This was household business. Personal business.
The main courtyard was a different world. Paper lanterns cast a soft, wavering glow over the smooth stones. A chill night breeze carried the distant sounds of the city—honking cars, the thrum of life—but here, it was unnaturally quiet. A half-dozen of Ron’s men, in dark civilian clothes, stood at casual attention near the colonnade. Feng was with them, his expression tight. In the center of the open space, two figures knelt on the cold ground: Meilin and Shu, their hands bound behind their backs. Their eyes were wide, darting between the soldiers and the main house door as Ron emerged.
Second Tai-tai stood just under the eaves, clutching a silk shawl around her shoulders. Her face was a mask of attempted composure, but her knuckles were white.
Ron didn’t rush. He took his time lighting a cigarette, the flare of the match illuminating the hard planes of his face. He drew in the smoke, exhaled it slowly towards the velvet sky. His gaze finally settled on his stepmother.
“You summoned me, General?” she began, her voice too high. “This… this display is unnecessary. The maids were acting on my—”
“They held her,” Ron interrupted, his voice flat. “Their hands were on her. Their eyes saw what they had no right to see.” He took another drag, letting the accusation hang. “But you. You gave the order. You wielded the cane.”
She stiffened. “I am the mistress of this household. Discipline—”
“You are the second wife of a retired man,” Ron said, cutting her off again. He took a step closer, and she flinched back against a wooden pillar. “You are here on my tolerance. You overstepped it.”
Feng shifted his weight, a barely perceptible movement. “Ron,” he started, his voice low.
“I know she is your mother, Feng,” Ron said, not looking at his brother. “This is the only reason she is still standing. The only reason.”
He finally turned his head, his eyes like chips of obsidian in the lantern light, pinning Second Tai-tai. “You wanted a social marriage for me. You wanted influence. Your brother’s shipping company leans on our contracts, on our port access. You thought pressuring me would secure them.”
Her breath hitched. She said nothing.
“Your brother’s company will be closed within the month,” Ron stated, flicking ash onto the stones. “The contracts are null. Port access is revoked. If he is wise, he will sell his assets for scrap before the creditors come. If he is not, he will be living on the street by Qingming Festival.”
A choked sob escaped her. “You can’t… Ron, please. He’s family!”
“You should have thought of that,” he said, his voice devoid of all warmth, “before you touched what is mine.” He dropped the cigarette, grinding it out under his boot. “This is your warning. The only one you get. Look at her, speak to her, think about her again with anything less than deference, and you will join your brother in poverty. Do you understand?”
She was crying now, silent tears cutting through her powder. She nodded, once, a sharp, jerky movement.
Ron turned his back on her, dismissing her existence. His focus went to the two kneeling maids. A slow, cold smile touched his lips. He addressed the courtyard, his voice carrying easily in the stillness. “All of you, listen. The girl, Leila Tan, is mine. Her body, her time, her breath. Mine. You will treat her with the respect owed to my property. You will not look at her with pity, or envy, or disdain. You will look at her and see my hand.”
He walked over to where Meilin and Shu knelt. They were trembling violently.
“You two,” he said, almost conversationally. “You held her down. You made it easier for the cane to find its mark.” He circled them. “You have eyes that saw her vulnerability. Hands that felt her struggle.” He stopped behind them. “Strip them.”
The order hung in the air for a stunned second before two of his men moved forward with efficient, brutal speed. They didn't hesitate. They yanked the women to their feet. Buttons popped. Fabric ripped. Shu tried to twist away, a whimper in her throat, until a backhand from one of the men snapped her head to the side and silenced her.
In less than a minute, they stood bare under the lantern light, their clothes in ragged piles at their feet. They hunched forward, arms crossing over their chests, trying to become smaller. The cool air pebbled their skin.
Ron studied them, his head tilted. There was no lust in his gaze, only a chilling appraisal. “You see?” he said, to the courtyard, to his men, to the watching shadows at the windows. “This is the consequence. This exposure. This shame. It is a fraction of what you inflicted.” He stepped closer to Meilin, whose teeth were chattering. “You wanted to throw her out with the trash? You are the trash. You are nothing. You are bodies for men to use and discard.”
He nodded to his men. “Take them to the docks. Give them to the crew of the Crimson Voyager. Tell Captain Luo they are a gift, to do with as he pleases for the duration of the Taiwan run. If they are alive when the ship returns, they can find their own way in the world. They are no longer of this house.”
The finality of it echoed. The two women didn’t even scream. They just went limp, a hopeless, dead weight as the men dragged them away, their bare feet scraping over the stones.
Ron watched them go until the darkness swallowed them. He turned, finding Feng’s eyes in the gloom. His brother’s face was a stone, but a muscle ticked in his jaw.
“Clean this up,” Ron said, his voice now just a tired rumble. He didn’t glance at his stepmother, a broken silhouette in the shadows. He just walked back towards the house, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft, final click.
The silence he returned to was profound. The bedroom was dark, save for the city’s glow behind the curtains. Leila was still asleep, or pretending to be, curled on her side. He could see the track of a dried tear on her cheek.
He stripped again, letting his clothes fall where they stood. The rage had been spent, leaving a hollow, cold certainty in its place. He slid into the bed behind her, careful of her back, his body curving around hers. His arm settled over her waist, his hand splaying possessively across her stomach. He pulled her in, her body yielding to his even in sleep.
She smelled of his soap, his salve, his come. The bandages under his arm were a stark reminder. He nuzzled the nape of her neck, inhaling deeply.
“Mine,” he whispered into her hair, a vow and a verdict. The word wasn’t gentle. It was a brand, searing into the quiet dark. Outside, the courtyard was empty, the lanterns guttering in the wind. Inside, he held the consequence of his actions, warm and breathing against him. Her innocence was just another thing he owned now, and he had no intention of letting it go.