Liam was what the gossip pages called a "Cậu ấm" —a young master. He spent his mornings sleeping off champagne hangovers and his nights at rooftop bars in District 2, surrounded by models and other heirs. His life was a gilded cage, but he never tried the lock. Why would he? The silk sheets were soft.
They stopped at a small apartment. Inside, an old woman named Mrs. Huong sat on a plastic stool. Her hands were gnarled like ginger roots—permanently curved from forty years of pushing fabric through a sewing machine.
He walked to his father’s study. The door was open. Mr. Tan was sitting alone, reviewing ledgers, a cup of cold coffee beside him. He looked small without his suit jacket.
Liam looked down at his own soft, unmarked hands. "I want to know how much the thread costs."
Bà Huống buông tay cậu ra. "Lụa thì bền đấy, cu ạ. Nhưng nó bắt đầu từ con tằm. Đừng quên con tằm."
Liam đỏ mặt. Cậu tưởng bà sẽ khen cha mình. Nhưng không, bà giơ hai tay lên.
"Six in the morning," Mr. Tan said. "Don't be late."
Liam flushed. He had expected her to praise his father. Instead, she lifted her hands.