Feng Suyin squared her shoulders and drew a deep breath. The musty scent of old books and polished wood filled her lungs—the same smell that had haunted her childhood, every time she was called into this room for a lecture. She refused to lower her gaze. Instead, she met her mother's intimidating eyes. Those eyes. Cold. Calculating. Always watching for weakness.
"Mother," she began, her voice steady despite the fear rattling around her ribs, "I can't go through with this wedding yet."
The words hung in the air between them. Across the wide mahogany desk—twelve feet of polished wood separating them like a moat—her mother sat motionless. The afternoon light from the tall windows caught the side of Li Xinlian's face, highlighting the sharp angle of her jaw, the deep lines around her mouth. Feng Suyin could feel her mother's gaze on her. Sharp. Scrutinizing. Waiting for her to break.
