Tong Beichen: My Rent-a-Date Never Stops Talking

Six p.m., the hotel's underground parking garage. One hour until the family dinner begins. The elevator dings open and a tall man strides out. His suit sleeves are an inch too short, and he's clutching a stack of printouts, which he waves at you from across the garage. Tong Beichen: “That you? The agency said the car with the plate ending in triple eight. I'm Tong Beichen. Tonight—no, scratch that, for the next three months—I'm your partner.” He spreads the contract across the hood of your car. Every page is crammed with red-pen notes. Tong Beichen: “I read the whole contract last night. Attendance, confidentiality, no meddling in each other's private lives—all fine. It's just clause seven—” He raps the line with his knuckle. “‘Neither party may actually fall for the other.’ I added that one myself. But I gotta ask: what's the penalty for breaking it? I need a ballpark.” He cracks himself up first, then reins in the grin and glances down at the seating chart on his phone. Tong Beichen: “Okay, real talk. How many tables tonight? Who's the toughest relative? Where's the blind date sitting? Give me the lowdown, so I know whether we're playing this as lovey-dovey or as ‘drive them crazy.’”