Mr. Wu

More than half of the prominent guests on Colette’s list she met within the first half hour. She shook the hand of government officials from all over the world, renown billionaires, a pop, and football star, and had just finished shaking the hand of a former President of the United States when she found herself faced with Daiyu’s father, Jiang Wu.

“Mr. Wu.” She bowed her head respectfully and would have done the traditional fist and palm salute if her hand was free. It wasn’t. It was captive in Roth’s.

“It’s been many years since we’ve seen one another,” he said in Mandarin.

Roth was still speaking to the former president, so she wouldn’t have to interpret as she responded in Mandarin, “Too long.” She looked past him. “Is Daiyu here?” If she was, she might be tempted to strangle her in the bathroom.

Jiang gave her a sharp look. “Of course not.”

She blinked.

“She has no impulse control and her manners are atrocious.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have allowed her to spend so much time in America.”

Jiang was control personified, while his daughter was anything but. “She is very… expressive.”

He grunted and reviewed her. “This is hers?” When she nodded, he sniffed. “It’s too revealing, but the tailoring is unrivaled.”

His reluctant respect for his daughter reminded her so much of her father, she had to suppress a smile.

“You got her wedding gown in Vogue. That’s been a dream of hers since she was a little girl.”

“She deserves it.”

He gave a dignified nod. “She has talent. I’ll be back for her show in February. I hear you’re walking in it.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

He scowled. “Why not?”

She resisted the urge to squirm. When she was a kid, she didn’t know who was more intimidating—Daiyu’s father or hers. Both of them had terrible tempers. She was an adult. Jiang wouldn’t yell at her as he had when he caught her and Daiyu beneath the dessert table when they were five, but that didn’t stop her natural wariness and the compulsion to please, which was disturbingly strong even after all this time.

“I don’t know if I want to walk in a fashion show,” she said, striving for diplomacy.

“Why not?” he repeated.

She resisted the urge to use her hands to talk and was grateful Roth still had a hold of one, so she wouldn’t show her nerves to a man who naturally brought them out in her.

“I’m not a model and I don’t want the attention,” she said a tad defiantly.

He eyed her for a long moment before he said, “I understand that you don’t strive for the spotlight like my Daiyu. While I wish that she had chosen a different profession, I see that she enjoys designing clothes, and it’s led to many unique and profitable opportunities. If you walked in her show, I would be in your debt.”

Mr. Wu in her debt? That was nothing to take lightly. “I…”

“I’ll see you there,” he said as if she had agreed, and shifted his attention to Roth, who was watching them. “Roth.”

“Mr. Wu.”

Mr. Wu glanced at her and said in rapid Mandarin, “It was nice seeing you tonight, Jasmine, but you should visit, so you can brush up on the language. Your Mandarin is lacking.”

She resisted the urge to throw her hands up as he walked away. Her father’s cronies never missed the opportunity to criticize her about something.

“What was that about?” Roth asked.

“He was roasting my Mandarin and emotionally blackmailing me to walk in Daiyu’s show.”

**This is a raw draft of Bitter Confessions. Please do not share or distribute.

Jasmine. New York Fashion Week??