Li Qiao walked into the western-style building with a composed expression, the orange glow of the setting sun seeping through the crack of the door onto the dark red floor, elongating her shadow at an angle, and what followed was the floating scent of smoke all around her.
Shang Yu sat in the living room with his legs crossed, an ashtray in front of him filled with cigarette butts.
Li Qiao approached him, leaned against the back of the chair, and trailed her fingers over his shoulder, "Why smoke so much?"
He put down his legs and pressed the cigarette into the ashtray, not looking at her but staring at the brocade box on the coffee table as he asked in a deep voice, "Have you finished reading the translation of the document?"
Li Qiao's heart tightened, and she, too, looked toward the coffee table.
The position of the brocade box hadn't moved; he probably had his suspicions, which was why he asked such a question.
