Sweet Wife in My Arms

ething alluring about the way she moved.
She exhaled the smoke casually, as though she had done this a hundred, or perhaps a thousand, times before.

She puffed away at her cigarette, a wry smile on her slightly parted lips.
This Hong Yao did not inspire hatred and resentment, only sympathy: everyone who saw her now pitied her for her beauty, and what she was forced to do with it.

Suddenly, the window clattered.
Hong Yao heard something roll in from outside and turned to look.
It was not, in fact, a something, but a certain someone she knew.
She stared at the bloody, sorry-looking mess of a man who had trespassed into her boudoir.

There was a loud commotion outside.
She could hear a man shouting angrily as a woman wept loudly in the background.

The man on the floor struggled to get up, but did not have the strength for it.
He collapsed once more, hitting his head against the floor with a resounding thud.

Hong Yao leisurely set her cigarette in the ashtray upon the table before walking over to the man.
She lifted her slender, perfect calves and gingerly stepped over him.

Bang! The door burst open, and a troop of military policemen filed in.
Hong Yao was now seated at the table again, smoking languidly.
The men froze in place when they saw her sultry expression; suddenly, they could not remember what they were there for.

Men were always irrationally weak against beauty.
That was just the way the world worked.

Just then, Madam Huang wormed her way through the men and towards Hong Yao.

“Hong Yao, they’re accusing us of hiding a man inside Rouge Pavilion!”

“A man?” Hong Yao stood up and fluffed her hair.
“Madam, is that a joke? Of course we have men here.”

The corner of Madam Huang’s mouth began to twitch.

“How are we supposed to earn a living otherwise?” Yan Huan blew smoke over her fingers.
“Rouge Pavilion is full of men.”

“Search the place!”