Chapter 19

Wen Zenian glanced back at Meng Ning.

Her posture in high heels always carried a hint of disdain when she looked at someone, yet she said nothing, merely tugging at her shirt collar.

Meng Ning followed her inside and closed the door with a soft click. She flicked on a small light in the entryway.

There was no lampshade; the bulb was recessed into the ceiling with low wattage.

“Want to wear my slippers?” Meng Ning opened the shoe cabinet door. The pair she had bought from the little shop downstairs weren’t great quality. She made a habit of picking up spares, but where had she put them?

Wen Zenian asked, “Can I say no?”

Meng Ning’s hand froze midway through her search.

Wen Zenian let out a soft chuckle from behind her. “Not that it matters if I do.”

Meng Ning found the slippers and crouched down to place them on the floor in front of Wen Zenian. She tilted her head back slightly at first, her eyes half-lidded as she exhaled slowly. Then she opened them again, lowering her gaze to fiddle with the metal buckle on her high heel.

Meng Ning couldn’t shake the feeling that the entryway seemed shorter with Wen Zenian there, the living room more cramped.

She quickly figured it out. She was too accustomed to seeing Wen Zenian in the soaring three-story lobby of the C Hotel or poised along an endless coastline. Wen Zenian in the humble setting of a rental apartment just didn’t fit.

Wen Zenian’s figure swayed as she kicked off her high heels, and Meng Ning instinctively reached out to steady her. “Careful.”

Wen Zenian’s shirt was made of fine material, the soft silk gliding like water against Meng Ning’s palm. It let her feel the warmth of her skin and the delicate shape of her slender arm clearly.

Meng Ning realized suddenly that this was their first real touch since reuniting.

The moment on the seaside cliff when Wen Zenian had leaped down didn’t count. That had been about rescue amid chaos—even someone as experienced as her had choked on seawater, leaving no space for stray thoughts.

Other times, Wen Zenian had come close. Even in the administrative suite of that five-star hotel, they had sat together on the overly pristine, yielding sofa that seemed designed to dissolve one’s resolve. Wen Zenian had propped an elbow on the sofa back, half encircling her like an embrace.

She had caught the rhythm of Wen Zenian’s breath and felt the subtle spread of her body heat, but none of that had been true touch.

Actual touch felt strangely profound, like the first confirmation that the person before her was solidly real—not some fleeting dream.

In truth, Meng Ning’s grip on Wen Zenian’s arm lasted barely half a second before she released it. Wen Zenian steadied herself quickly, slipping one foot into a slipper. Meng Ning glanced down and noted how strictly the five-star hotel rules must enforce standards. Even in those long tailored pants, with thin-strapped heels like these, Wen Zenian still wore sheer ankle socks.

The slippers looked mismatched against her feet, her toes peeking out and catching the light with a subtle sheen.

“Sorry,” Wen Zenian said.

Not “thank you,” but “sorry.”

Meng Ning wasn’t sure how to reply and simply shook her head. Once Wen Zenian had changed into the slippers, Meng Ning crouched to straighten the discarded high heel and set it neatly in front of the shoe cabinet.

Then she stood and switched off the light.

The abrupt darkness made Wen Zenian’s breath catch for an instant before it slowed into a deep, even rhythm.

Meng Ning switched on her phone’s flashlight. “This way, please.”

Wen Zenian laughed softly again.

All three bedroom doors were shut tight. Meng Ning pushed open the one farthest inside. What had once been a storage room had been converted by the landlord into a tiny bedroom for rent—of course, at the lowest price.

Meng Ning hadn’t chosen it purely for the cost. She simply didn’t have much to fill a larger space; a bigger room felt too empty.

Wen Zenian stepped in after her and eased the door shut. When she went to lock it, she found only an empty hole where the mechanism should have been.

“Oh,” Meng Ning said, remembering. “The lock’s broken, but it’s fine. Everyone here’s polite—no one goes into each other’s rooms.”

Wen Zenian gave a slight nod. Her chin was elegantly shaped, and the small motion carried a touch of pride, as if the broken lock mildly displeased her.

She scanned Meng Ning’s room first.

It was tiny: a double-door wardrobe against the right wall, an old rosewood desk facing the window with its paint chipped in spots, and a narrow single bed made of faux huanghuali wood—pure rental-room aesthetic.

Wen Zenian’s expression stayed neutral, but Meng Ning spoke up. “Pretty small, right?”

Wen Zenian said nothing, only setting her bag down on the little bedside table. Meng Ning asked, “Want to take a shower?”

She shook her head. “Too wiped out.” Then she turned the question back. “Mind if I crash on your bed like this?”

“No issue. The sheets are washable.”

“That means you do mind.” Wen Zenian crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. Meng Ning could see why those pricey clothes cost what they did—the tailoring was impeccable. Even slouched back in slippers now, Wen Zenian still looked wasp-waisted and long-legged.

Somehow, the way she had tucked her shirt into her pants made even the folds look artful.

Meng Ning stepped to her side, bent to fluff the pillow and pat it smooth, then retreated. “I really don’t mind.” Now she was the one leaning against the wall, right by the wardrobe.

Wen Zenian curved her lips in a faint smile and flung herself onto the bed. Meng Ning’s plain light-yellow fuzzy blanket lay heaped to one side like a rumpled hill. Wen Zenian ignored it, draping one arm over her forehead, eyes closing as her breathing grew heavier.

Then, in English, she muttered, “A bunch of idiots.”

Meng Ning figured the investors must have worn her down. They’d attended the banquet only to spurn the paradise of the C Hotel and insist on leaving the island—who knew what went through rich people’s heads.

Wen Zenian had drunk too much and, after seeing them off, hadn’t bothered returning. But why not just book an administrative suite at any five-star hotel in the city? Money was no object for her.

Was it disdain? Or some professional code among hoteliers? Meng Ning had no idea.

The room’s lighting was dim. Meng Ning considered it, then switched off the main light and twisted on only the bedside lamp. The glow dimmed further, that faint yellow battling the enveloping night until it shattered into tiny flecks of pale gold dust suspended in the darkness.

Wen Zenian hadn’t shifted position, her eyes still closed. “And you? Where will you sleep?”

“Me? The sofa, haha.” Meng Ning wasn’t even sure why she laughed.

Wen Zenian’s face remained serene, unamused. “Then wait until I’m asleep.”

Meng Ning dragged over the room’s lone chair from the desk and sat down. She twisted at the waist, slumping against its sagging back—the thing was so old, she half expected it to collapse one day.

Wen Zenian lay on the bed without bothering to remove her slippers. Her slender legs angled sideways at a polite slant, feet dangling off the edge.

The sheer stockings made her ankles gleam smoothly and elegantly. One slipper clung precariously halfway off, swaying as if ready to drop.

Meng Ning hated that precariousness; it left her heart dangling too. But offering to remove Wen Zenian’s slippers? That felt far too intimate.

She simply sat there, eyes on the dangling slipper. Until Wen Zenian rolled over. The slippers finally slipped off with a soft plop. She curled her long legs into a side-lying position, and her limp shirt collar fell open, baring the straight line of her collarbone and a glimpse of pale chest.

Meng Ning looked away.

She had smelled all sorts of scents in this rental over time. Since she only came back weekly, she always aired it out with the windows flung wide.

Mornings brought the faintly off-putting tang of live poultry from the market. By three in the afternoon, it sweetened—the corner bakery’s fresh croissants wafting old-fashioned buttery richness. Come nightfall, first the bitter edge of dew-heavy grass and leaves, then the distant cumin haze from a barbecue stall.

But tonight, every earthly aroma had vanished.

With the window shut, the little bedroom sealed itself off, thick with Wen Zenian’s perfume. As that faded slightly, her natural scent emerged—perhaps laced with smoke from a cigarette she’d smoked, or that sultry English accent she’d used to curse troublesome clients. It all mingled now,

blending with the treacherous lamplight to encase the room in dreamlike amber.

Wen Zenian’s breaths came long and steady. She seemed asleep.

Meng Ning rose quietly and approached the bed. The blanket had been shoved toward the wall; to reach it, she had to lean across Wen Zenian’s side-lying form.

She had drunk plenty herself—would she lose her balance and topple onto Wen Zenian?

It was only a fleeting worry. She hooked the blanket smoothly, folding a corner to drape it gently over her.

Just before she did,

it wasn’t deliberate; her gaze simply drifted downward by instinct. Wen Zenian’s long lashes, the earth-toned eyeshadow slightly smudged into something even more alluring. A tiny diamond earring glinted on her earlobe, her elegant updo untouched even for sleep.

Her limp shirt clung to the graceful curve of her chest. From Meng Ning’s angle, as she prepared to cover her, the open collar offered a glimpse of a bra strap—ink-black and plain, a thin band digging into flawless pale skin, descending to a patch of intricate lace.

Meng Ning pulled her eyes away, tucked the blanket over Wen Zenian, and twisted off the lamp.

She knew the room by heart; darkness wouldn’t hinder her. Besides, the flimsy blackout curtains always let in faint streetlight from outside.

She moved to the wardrobe and opened the door, hesitating a fraction before pulling out another blanket. Then she slipped from the room.

Meng Ning was casual about her own comfort, propping a sofa cushion under her head like a pillow. But it was a double sofa, short and narrow; lying on it forced her to curl her legs.

She lay on her side, elbow tucked under her cheek, eyes ostensibly closed in a transparent pretense of sleep. In reality, she was wide awake.

Her mind replayed that instant when she’d opened the wardrobe—like uncorking Pandora’s Box. The room held a muted gray from the seeping outside light, but the wardrobe’s depths were a rich, inky black.

It felt as if some buried desire had surged forth the moment the door swung open, unleashed by her own hand.

Her heart gave a sudden thud.

The very person she had fantasized over countless times that night, staring at her photo, now lay sleeping on the bed behind her.