The Peony Circle list lay inside a lacquered box, every name sealed beneath crimson wax. It had been only a week since Lan Hua launched the VIP service, and yet the Red Lantern House already moved with a new rhythm—courtesans meeting behind screens to discuss candidates, Madam personally approving dowries and dates, and nobles lowering their voices when they said her name.
Which was why the scandal hit like a dropped gong.
"Lord Liang has withdrawn his son," Madam announced that morning, her fan snapping hard enough to bruise her own palm. "He claims we failed to provide a suitable match. He wants his advance returned."
The room chilled. A breach of contract in the Peony Circle? If the house refunded a VIP, the list would become a joke—and the other nobles would demand concessions too.
Lan Hua's gaze didn't waver. "Which clause did he cite?"
Madam thrust the scroll across the table. "None. He simply refuses. He is loud, and his brother sits on a minor board at the Ministry of Rites. If he shouts long enough, others will listen."
A small, cynical smile touched Lan Hua's mouth. "Then we will make sure they listen to the right thing."
She turned to Ping'er, Rui Yun, and Mei Xiu—now her quiet lieutenants. "Prepare the receiving hall. We will meet Lord Liang there. Have the contract ready, with the seal visible."
Ping'er paled. "Will he… cause a scene?"
"Oh, I hope so," Rui Yun drawled. "It will be useful."
Lan Hua's eyes glinted. "Exactly."
Lord Liang arrived with a swagger and a temper, a silk-clad storm trailing two scribes and a nervous steward. He was not an idiot, merely accustomed to pushing lesser people until they bent.
He found Lan Hua waiting, serene in a pale gold robe, the contract box at her elbow. Courtesans lined the edges of the hall—witnesses both to his complaint and, if she had her way, to his lesson.
"Miss Lan Hua," Lord Liang boomed without bowing, "your circle is a fraud. You promised discretion and priority; instead, your candidates insult my son's standing. We withdraw. Return the silver."
A tremor of whispers. Yue Niang watched from the far screen, eyes glittering.
Lan Hua rose, motion a ripple of silk. "My lord, I regret any misunderstanding. Perhaps we can read the agreement together to remind ourselves of its spirit."
She unrolled the parchment. The black strokes gleamed like iron.
"Clause One," she said, voice calm as water, "states that you receive priority to appropriate candidates—those whose families meet the status and temperament criteria you yourself listed."
The steward cleared his throat. "The lady's candidates did meet those points, my lord."
Lord Liang shot the man a murderous glare. "Then add a point! The girls lacked refinement."
Lan Hua's lashes lifted. "Refinement is not a legal measure, my lord. Nor did you specify lessons—though our circle offers finishing training for future brides at additional cost." She let the bait glitter. "If refinement is your concern, we may elevate a candidate to your exacting tastes—for a fee."
Soft laughter rippled. Lord Liang flushed. "I will not pay a coin more. You failed. Return the advance."
"Clause Four," Lan Hua continued, unbothered, "stipulates that if you withdraw without cause, the advance remains with the house to compensate for time, discretion, and lost candidates. It protects both parties from whims."
Lord Liang's jaw tightened. "Then I will show cause. The last candidate—Lady Wen's niece—refused my son's poetry! She said it was trite!"
Rui Yun coughed delicately. The hall hummed with suppressed amusement.
Lan Hua inclined her head. "Your son's pride was offended. Understandable. But the criteria were status, temperament, dowry, alliance value—not poetic taste. If you wish to add literary admiration as a condition, we may amend the contract—again, at additional cost."
Lord Liang slammed his fist into the low table; cups jumped. "You are a courtesan, and I will not be toyed with!"
Lan Hua's smile vanished. What remained was steel.
"I am a matchmaker," she said softly, and the hall seemed to lean in. "And you are a man who signed his name."
She turned the parchment so the seal caught the light—the peony pressed deep into the red wax. "Contracts keep powerful men honest. If you break yours, the penalty is due. However—"
The word hung like a bridge.
"—the Peony Circle prizes legacy. I will offer a graceful path: you may retain your membership, and we will present two additional candidates—at no extra fee—provided you honor the advance and add a charitable tithe to the dowry school we sponsor for orphaned girls."
The hall stilled. Lan Hua just created a third path: not surrender, not war—but a face-saving victory that cost him silver and bought them prestige.
Lord Liang scoffed. "Charity? You're extorting me with poetry and orphans!"
Lan Hua folded her hands. "I am offering you a way to prove refinement looks like generosity. Your peers will approve. Your wife will praise you. Your son will have poems written about his magnanimous father."
A beat. Another. The steward swallowed, then leaned to his lord's ear. The two scribes looked everywhere but at him.
Finally, Lord Liang's anger curdled into calculation. "Two more candidates. No gossip about my withdrawal. And the tithe is a single chest—not two."
Lan Hua allowed a breath of warmth into her tone. "One chest, witnessed by the city registrar."
He hesitated, then pressed his seal to an addendum. The wax cooled—decision made.
"Done," he snapped, gathering what dignity he could.
"Done," Lan Hua echoed—and smiled as he stalked out.
The courtesans exhaled as if they'd been underwater. Ping'er grabbed Mei Xiu's hand; Rui Yun's mouth curved like a drawn bow.
"Did you see his face?" Rui Yun murmured, delighted. "He paid to keep from looking small."
"Prestige buys loyalty," Mei Xiu whispered, half to herself, remembering Lan Hua's lessons.
From behind the screen, Yue Niang stepped out, applause soft and poisonous. "A performance indeed," she purred. "You turned a tantrum into a temple fundraiser. How noble."
Lan Hua glanced at her without heat. "Nobility is a way to price stubbornness. The truly stubborn pay most."
Yue Niang's smile thinned. "Enjoy your ink, Sister. Beauty still rules the night."
"Then why," Rui Yun said sweetly, "did the night just bow to a seal?"
Laughter skittered; Yue Niang's fan snapped shut as she turned on a heel, velvet fury in her wake.
Madam summoned Lan Hua minutes later. The ledger lay open like a satisfied cat.
"That tithe will be the talk of the district," Madam said, voice husky with pleasure. "A noble bought his pride and fed orphans. You made silver multiply."
Lan Hua inclined her head. "And we kept the Peony Circle's teeth sharp. No one will dare break ink lightly."
Madam's eyes flicked up. "I dislike that you corner powerful men."
"You adore that they pay to escape the corner," Lan Hua replied, gentle as tea—and just as hot.
A beat. Then Madam laughed, rich and unwilling. "Extend the circle," she ordered. "Carefully. And double the number of girls trained in your loyalty system. I want stability baked into the walls."
"As you wish," Lan Hua said. As I planned.
That night, the house glowed brighter. Stories flew through tea shops: how the Peony Matchmaker made a lord pay for breaking ink—and turned the scandal into charity. Men called it cunning; women called it justice. Either way, the Red Lantern House rose on their tongues.
In her chamber, Lan Hua set the addendum beside the original contract, two seals shining back at her like twin stars.
Beauty fills a room, she thought, but ink rules it.
Outside, a carriage rolled past the gate and paused. Curtains shifted, revealing the briefest profile of a man with lazy posture and laughing eyes—the kind that missed nothing.
The carriage moved on.
Lan Hua didn't see him.
But the Third Prince had seen enough to be intrigued.