Li Xiangwei didn't flinch. She only asked, cold and even, “Which private room?”
“4207.”
The number made her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. It was familiar—too familiar.
The fourth floor was reserved for the hotel’s regulars: long-standing partners, occasional collaborators, sometimes even rival hoteliers. Seeing that room number had set something in her mind on edge.
“What's wrong?” Wen Yin noticed the change in Li's expression as it hardened. She couldn't help asking.
“Nothing, sorry, Yin. I need to take care of something.” Li kept her voice light, but there was a firmness under it.
Wen Yin rose before Li could go alone. “I’ll come with you.”
The concierge had warned them that the diner might be a difficult customer. Li looked at Wen, a faint question in her gaze. Wen gave her a steady, reassuring look—“I'm with you,” the same way Li had stood steadfastly by her before.
They took the elevator up. When they reached the fourth floor, the scene didn't look as chaotic as the concierge had implied. The people in the room seemed composed enough; at least they weren't making a scene.
As they approached, the waiter at the door stepped forward and lowered his voice. “They're relatives of Mr. Li from Huayue—said they came especially to eat here.”
Li glanced at the plaque on the door and nodded. Huayue. The name and hers—Li Xiangwei’s—were spoken in the same breath in the hotel industry: two giants with different flavors, different routes, and a rivalry that was professional and personal.
Inside, only two people sat at the table: a middle-aged couple whose faces were mapped with lines and cynicism. They glanced at Li as if she were an insect on their path. Wen frowned at the sneer. Li kept her smile.
“Sorry,” Li said, still smiling. “You must be mistaken. This is an internal meeting with our staff.”
“If there’s anything you want to hear, we have nothing to hide,” she added, each syllable courtesy itself—polite to the point of being surgical.
The woman sniffed, proud and sharp-eyed. Li squinted once, then asked gently, “Mr. Li of Huayue is...?”
Li's question was pointed; she suspected these two were older relatives—distant cousins perhaps—of Huayue’s Mr. Li. Their arrogance confirmed it. The woman straightened, a flash of calculation in her eyes. Wen’s brow tightened at her greedy look.
“We’re his cousins-in-law,” the woman announced haughtily. “He insisted we dine here to welcome us.”
“Clearly he cares about you,” Li said with a soft smile that said more than kindness.
The man, however, was impatient. He clicked his tongue and leaned forward, voice thick with entitlement. “Your restaurant’s food is awful. How are you going to make this right?”
He slammed his palm on the table. The man exuded a thug-like, streetwise crudeness that didn’t suit the private room’s silk and lacquer.
Li’s smile never left her face. “What would you like us to do?”
The man, encouraged by her deference, pushed further. “According to the Consumer Protection Law, you owe us twenty times the bill.”
Greed passed between the couple like a contagion. Wen glanced at the table. The scene told its own story: extravagant orders scattered across the lacquer—only one crab leg eaten, dishes untouched, abalone, bowls of bird’s nest. It was obvious they’d ordered lavishly on purpose.
Wen couldn’t help a short, cool laugh. “You call this small change?”
Her gaze swept the table, disgust barely contained. Li and Wen shared a look. They both knew the play—inflate the damage, demand an obscene payout.
“Sorry, that’s not something we can agree to,” Li said calmly.
“You can’t?” the man barked. “What, your big hotel can’t cough up a little money?”
Wen cut in, voice flat. “Ma’am, are you sure you want to call that small money?” She didn’t bother to soften the contempt in her eyes as they took in the wasted spread.
“The Consumer Protection Law says compensation up to tenfold in some cases,” the man said, trying to flex legal muscle. “You said twenty—sounds like you want to make a tidy profit.”
“We don’t have a problem with our food,” Wen replied. “So where’s the legal issue?”
The couple bristled. The woman, outraged at being contradicted by someone she assumed was staff, leaned forward with a shriek. “I’m speaking to the manager—what do you have to do with this? You’re just a server; who let you open your mouth?”
She moved as if to shove Wen. Li grabbed her wrist before contact was made. For the first time the smile on Li Xiangwei’s face fell away, replaced by a cold that seemed to drain the warmth from the room.
“Please speak properly,” Li said, every word measured and hard as glass. “Even if you are Mr. Li’s cousin-in-law, I will not allow you to make a scene here or harm anyone.”
“And this is my friend,” she added, voice steady. “Not a server.”
The woman fell back into her chair, humiliated, and shot Wen a sour, hateful look.
“Since there’s no more issue, we’ll be going,” Li said. “Enjoy your meal.”
She turned to leave, but the man wasn’t finished. As Li was walking away, he let his complaint hang in the air like a challenge.
“Manager Li,” he called, voice loud and cruel. “Your sweet-and-sour pork is disgusting. Are we not allowed to complain? If word gets out, what a stain on your reputation.”
Wen looked down at the dish in question—steaming, freshly served, glistening with sauce.
“How bad is it, exactly?” Wen asked, coolly, letting the question linger over the table.
The man sneered, as if the answer was obvious and needed no thought. “How bad? Bad enough. Either refund us, or give us a proper explanation!”