Wenxie was the type of man who claimed he was not fooled by courtesans and their kin; that he understood the agreement, that he payed them handsomely for their company, and that this was the extent of the relationship.
He might've had a few romantic notions of them, especially when he was younger - sometimes, it had seemed as if they knew something he didn't, or maybe as if they saw into his soul more than he liked. As he grew older, he came to genuinely admire their ability to twist your gut into knots and make you pay double with a mix of flattery, seduction and subtle hints towards your inadequacy. It was as if they all understood, in an unspoken way, that the young Lord Xu should be treated with just a sprinkle of contempt, and his purse strings would immediately loosen.
In their company, he felt at ease. Nothing was expected of him. Everything was given. In this, he was alike many others; just as he was alike many others in seeking out professionals not primarily for sex, but for their patient ear and soft smiles. He'd thought himself, at this point - thirty years grown - in an understanding with his regulars. Scarlet in particular, whom he'd been seeing ever since he was fifteen, and who teased him so expertly, that he had secretly imagined them - and this was embarrassing - friends.
It was in this moment, with a body growing cold between them, with Scarlet moving seamlessly from threat to smile in her voice, that Wenxie understood: He was as much a fool as everyone else. He was as much a customer as anyone else. He had, somehow, become this woman's play thing. And he deserved to be, because he had let himself forget about the contract. He payed, and she played pretend for him.
He stood now, shaking and pale, holding a curtain in his hand, partly kneeling before the corpse. He'd felt it against his foot, and then kneeled, assuming it to be something in the way - something that might've fallen in Scarlet's chamber, as he came to see her; something he could clear away. But then the soft whoosh of her skirts, and his fingertips who found a human's clammy, icy skin.
He should let the silk slide between his fingers. He should straighten back up and take a step back. He should allow her to control this; she, who had been in control this entire time.
Yet he couldn't. He was shaking with terror, and still he heard himself - as he so often heard himself - speak without being capable of stopping it:
"Who... who is this? What has happened"
