The Bai family carriage rolled to a slow, creaking stop before the estate of the Left Prime Minister. The courtyard gates, lacquered red and trimmed in gold leaf, opened without delay. No one wanted to be caught waiting when Minister Bai was in one of his moods.
He didn't step down immediately.
Inside the carriage, Zhao Meiling sat silent and stiff, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her chin raised like a martyr who hadn't been chosen. Her hair was slightly disheveled—unacceptable by noble standards—and her lower lip had a faint bite mark where she'd chewed it raw during the ride.
"You will not speak unless spoken to," Minister Bai said coolly. "Your father's patience is thinner than mine."
She didn't answer. But she didn't argue either.
