Barbican Centre, Dressing Room A-1
Lin Yawen stood before the mirror, adjusting the diamond snowflake brooch at her throat. The reflection showed a woman in control: midnight-blue gown, hair coiled in its signature chignon, makeup flawless. Only her hands betrayed her—the slightest tremor as she touched the brooch’s cold points.
Ten thousand pounds for this pin, she thought. Ten thousand to hold ice at my throat while I play of fire.
A knock. Her manager, Alistair, hovered at the door. “They’re seated. Prime Minister in Box A. Home Secretary beside him. BBC cameras rolling in five.”
“And my daughter?”
“Third row center. As requested.” A pause. “She’s not alone. The Wei man is with her.”
Lin’s fingers stilled on the diamond. “Security?”
“Cleared him personally. No devices beyond a ph
