The tea room that the servant led the Crown Prince of Baiguang to wasn't warm.
Then again, it was never meant to be warm.
One thing that I had learned in this life, especially once I married Mingyu was that there were a thousand different ways to say 'fuck off' without actually saying the words.
Take the tea room, for example. It was narrow and sparce, its wood-paneled walls were stained dark, with no scrolls or decorations to soften the lines. A low table sat at the center, polished to an almost unnatural sheen that seem too cold to touch without getting frostbite.
No cushions had been placed on the floor. They had been piled off to a corner so that people could see them, but no maid or servant moved to distribute them. Only the bare platform remained, as if the room was always prepared for someone to come—and to quickly leave.
