Chapter 45: Lunch with the Enemy

The restaurant is right next to the company building, close enough that we walk there instead of driving.

It’s one of those upscale places that tries too hard to look casual, exposed brick and Edison bulbs and a menu written on a chalkboard like that makes it authentic.

Wuchen Ming is already there when we arrive, sitting at a table near the back with a glass of wine in front of him.

He looks up as we approach and smiles.

"Ah, finally," he says, tone light and pleasant. "I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about this old man."

"Traffic," Bael replies smoothly, pulling out a chair.

"In the elevator?"

"You’d be surprised."

I bow a little, then sit down across from Uncle Ming, trying to arrange my face into something polite and neutral.

He’s watching me with that same smile, the one that doesn’t reach his eyes, and I can feel the calculation behind it like a physical weight.

"I’m pained, nephew," Uncle Ming says, turning his attention back to Bael. "Your lovely wife graced us with his presence at the company today, and yet you didn’t bring him to greet me properly."

"I wasn’t aware you were in the building," Bael says.

"Weren’t you?"

The question hangs there, light on the surface, edged underneath.

Bael doesn’t answer immediately.

He studies Uncle Ming for a second, expression unreadable, fingers resting loosely against the table like he’s in no hurry at all.

Then...

"You seem well-informed," he says, tone mild. "For someone who wasn’t in the building."

It doesn’t even sound like an accusation, that’s what makes it worse.

Uncle Ming’s smile holds, but there’s a flicker in his eyes this time, something quick and sharp that disappears almost as soon as it appears.

"I must have missed the notification," Bael adds, like an afterthought.

Uncle Ming’s smile doesn’t waver. "How careless."

A waiter appears before either of them can continue, and Uncle Ming orders without looking at the menu, rattling off dishes in a way that suggests he’s been here before, knows exactly what he wants.

The waiter turns to me expectantly.

"I’m fine," I say quickly.

Uncle Ming’s eyebrows raise slightly. "Not hungry?"

"I ate too much in the office just now," I reply, keeping my voice light. "If I’d known you were inviting us for lunch, I wouldn’t have touched anything."

"How polite." Uncle Ming tilts his head slightly. "Bael is very lucky to have you."

There’s something in the way he says it that makes my skin crawl, but I keep the smile in place.

"However," he continues, "won’t you eat at least a little? Just to save this old man’s face?"

The request sounds reasonable.

It’s not.

I’ve read enough novels to know where this is going, the overly insistent host, the food that’s just slightly too important to refuse, the way he’s watching me a little too closely to see if I’ll take the bait.

The food is probably poisoned.

Or drugged.

Or something equally unpleasant that I really don’t want to find out.

I open my mouth to decline again, trying to think of a polite way to say *absolutely not*.

Bael speaks first.

"Oh, uncle," he says, voice carrying just enough concern to sound genuine. "Please go easy on my pregnant wife. What if he eats too much and the baby gets an upset stomach?"

Uncle Ming’s hand tightens around his wine glass.

Just slightly.

Just enough that I notice the way his knuckles go white for half a second before he forces them to relax.

His smile doesn’t change.

"Of course," he says smoothly. "Forgive this old man. I wasn’t thinking about your delicate condition."

The word *delicate* lands like an insult wrapped in silk.

I keep my expression pleasant and say nothing.

The food arrives despite neither of us ordering, plates arranged carefully in front of each seat, and Uncle Ming makes a show of picking up his chopsticks.

Then he pauses.

He sets down his chopsticks carefully.

"You see," he says lightly, "I always forget how delicate young people are these days."

His gaze shifts to me, not long, just enough.

"Especially when they’re carrying something... important."

He stands, smoothing his jacket with practiced ease.

"The food here really isn’t very good." He says thoughtfully. "I’ll have to invite you both somewhere better next time."

"We’ll look forward to it," Bael says.

Uncle Ming’s smile sharpens just slightly. "I’m sure you will."

Then he’s leaving, walking out of the restaurant without looking back, and I watch him go with the distinct feeling that I just survived something without entirely understanding what it was.

The plates of food sit untouched between us.

Neither of us moves to eat.

I stare at the dish in front of me, some kind of fish in sauce that probably cost more than I want to think about, and wonder if it really was poisoned or if I’m just paranoid.

"Don’t touch it," Bael says quietly.

So not paranoid then.

Great.

A few minutes pass in silence.

Then Shen Rui appears at our table, moving with that same efficient calm he has, and leans down to speak quietly to Bael.

I can’t hear what he’s saying, the restaurant noise covering it completely, but I watch Bael’s expression shift slightly as he listens, something hardening in his eyes.

He nods once.

Shen Rui straightens and disappears as quickly as he came.

Bael stands, pushing his chair back. "Let’s go."

I follow without question, leaving the untouched food behind.

The walk back to the office is quiet.

Bael doesn’t offer any explanation for what just happened, and I don’t ask, because honestly I’m not sure I want to know.

Back in his office, the rest of the day passes in a strange kind of normalcy.

Bael works at his desk, typing and making calls and reviewing documents with the same focused intensity he always has.

I eat.

Everything Shen Rui stocked in the fridge, basically, working my way through different flavors and textures until I’m full and then somehow still finding room for more an hour later.

The baby seems to have opinions about what I should eat and when, and those opinions change every twenty minutes.

At some point I end up on the couch with a container of mango pudding, watching Bael work and thinking about Uncle Ming’s smile, the way his hand tightened on that wine glass, the fact that he invited us to lunch just to not eat and leave.

What was the point of that?

Testing us?

Sending a message?

Just enjoying the game?

I don’t know.

But the unease sits in my stomach alongside the pudding, heavy and persistent, and doesn’t go away even after the sun starts setting outside the windows and the office slowly empties around us.