Chapter 3: The Taste of Dragon's Blood
The champagne flute felt slick in her hand. The silver-haired man—he’d said his name was Carl, “like the jazz musician, but with more assets”—smiled, all practiced charm. His hand, heavy and warm, rested on the small of her back, guiding her away from the bar. It wasn’t a suggestion.
“Thompson has impeccable taste,” Carl murmured into her ear, his breath smelling of gin and mint. His gaze kept dropping to where the Dragon’s Blood silk parted. “And an eye for potential.”
She saw Mr. Thompson watching from the booth as they passed. He gave a slight, approving nod, like a curator watching a prized piece be presented. He settled the check with a flash of black titanium, then followed at a discreet distance as Carl led her to the private elevator.
No one spoke in the ascension. The elevator was mirror-lined, and Mei Lin saw herself multiplied into infinity: a legion of women in crimson silk, their eyes hollow, a silver-haired man’s hand possessive on each of their backs. The ring between her breasts swung like a tiny, golden pendulum with the elevator’s rise.
The penthouse suite doors hissed open. The air was different up here—cool, filtered, humming with silent money. It smelled of lemon-polished wood and, beneath it, something sweet and cloying, like overripe orchids. The main room was vast, all floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city as a sprawl of glittering circuits. A bottle of champagne, identical to the one at dinner, sat sweating in a bucket on a low mahogany table.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Carl said, shrugging off his jacket. He moved to a sleek panel on the wall and dimmed the main lights. The city glow became the primary illumination, painting everything in shades of blue and shadow.Mr. Thompson entered behind them, closing the door with a soft, definitive click. He didn’t take off his jacket. He was still the conductor. “Carl’s firm is considering a very significant merger of interests with ours,” Thompson said, his voice casual, conversational. “He likes to understand the assets. Thoroughly.”
Carl turned from the window. “Thompson mentioned you’d made some… modifications. To suit the new role. I’m a details man.” He poured three glasses of champagne, the foam overflowing. He handed one to Mei Lin. His fingers brushed hers, lingering. “Let’s see them.”
Her mouth went dry. The champagne flute trembled. She looked at Thompson.
His expression was neutral, instructive. “The blacklight, Carl. For the full effect.”
Carl’s smile widened. He walked to a door off the main room—a bedroom—and flipped a switch. A strange, ultraviolet glow spilled out, bleaching the colors from the plush carpet, making the white sheets glow an eerie, celestial blue.
Mei Lin’s feet carried her toward that doorway. Each step was a mile. The memories flashed, unbidden: the jewelry shop in a part of town she’d never visit, Thompson’s hand on her elbow, the sterile smell, the sharp, clarifying pain that had made her eyes water. “An investment,” he’d whispered while the piercer worked. “A secret only the right light will reveal.”
She stopped at the threshold. The room was a blur in the blacklight.
“The blouse, Mei,” Thompson’s voice came from behind her, close.Not a shout. A reminder. “It’s in the way of the demonstration.”
Her fingers felt numb. She set the champagne flute on a dresser. She focused on a painting on the wall, a meaningless abstract swirl. Her hands went to the delicate, self-tied closure at her sternum. A single pull, and the silk sighed open, pooling at her elbows before slithering down her arms to puddle on the floor at her feet.
The city-lit air was cool on her skin. She stared straight ahead, her arms at her sides.
“Turn around,” Carl said. His voice had changed. The polished charm was sanded away, leaving something flat and assessing.
She turned, facing the doorway where the two men stood silhouetted against the softer light of the main room. She saw their faces in shadow, but she felt their eyes. The blacklight licked at her skin, making the fine hairs on her arms stand up in a silver halo. It crawled over her breasts, and the two small, titanium barbells through her nipples glowed with a vibrant, otherworldly violet.
Carl let out a low, appreciative breath. “Well done.”
Thompson stepped into the room, picking up her champagne glass. He came to stand beside her, not touching, but his presence was a physical pressure. “As I said. Attention to detail. It shows a commitment to the firm’s new aesthetic.” He held the flute to her lips. “Drink.”
She sipped. The bubbles were an affront.
“Not like that,” Carl said, moving forward. He took the bottle from the bucket. Condensation dripped like sweat. “This is a celebration.”
He stood behind her. She tensed, but he didn’t touch her skin. Instead, she felt the cold, wet tip of the champagne bottle press against the knob of her spine. A shock of cold. Then, the tilt.
The liquid poured, a shocking, icy river tracing the groove of her back. It cascaded over the curve of her hips, soaking into the waistband of her skirt, trickling in maddening paths down the backs of her thighs. She gasped, shuddering, as champagne pooled in the small of her back before overflowing. The smell of it, sharp and yeasty, rose around her, mixing with the cloying room perfume.
Carl laughed, a short, blunt sound. “Now that’s a vintage.”
Thompson watched her face. She kept her eyes locked on the painting, her jaw so tight it ached. The cold was a baptism. It woke her up, and put her to sleep, all at once.
“You can get cleaned up,” Thompson said after a moment, his voice cutting through the hum in her ears. “The ensuite is through there. We have business to discuss.”
He plucked his handkerchief from his breast pocket—crisp, white linen—and dropped it onto the rumpled bed. A command, not an offering.
She walked to the bathroom, her stockings sticking to her legs with every step, the smell of alcohol clinging to her. She closed the door and didn’t look in the mirror. She turned the shower on hot and stood under the scalding spray, fully clothed, until the silk of her skirt hung leaden and the last traces of the champagne swirled down the drain.
When she emerged, wrapped in one of the hotel’s thick robes, the main room was different. The men were seated at the table, documents spread between them. They spoke in low, casual tones about equity and thresholds. They didn’t look at her.
On the bed, the white handkerchief lay where he’d dropped it. As she dressed in her damp, wrinkled clothes, she saw it wasn't entirely white anymore. A single, faint smudge of her lipstick, from when he’d wiped a drop of champagne from her chin at dinner, marked one corner. It looked like a tiny, rust-colored flower.
Thompson finished signing something with a flourish. He looked up as she stood by the door, composed, her blouse once again holding her together in its flimsy way. “The car will take you home,” he said. “We’ll be late. Excellent work tonight, Mei. Truly.”
Carl didn’t look up from his phone.“Yeah. Send the paperwork in the morning.”
The ride down in the elevator was solitary. In the back of the town car, watching the neon blur, she felt nothing. A profound, echoing silence. Her phone buzzed in her clutch.
A single notification from her bank.A deposit. The discretionary bonus. The number was indeed triple her old monthly salary. It felt less like money and more like a measurement, a quantitative assessment of what had just happened in that ultraviolet room.
She leaned her head against the cool window. The wedding band, still hanging cold between her breasts, had left a small, perfect circle indented on her skin. She didn’t reach up to touch it. She just watched the city pass, a script of light she was no longer reading.