Chapter 23 Part 2

She drew in a deep breath, feeling as if a thin metal wire were stretched taut along her spine.

She reached out and knocked lightly on the door—just as lightly as Wen Zenian had knocked on her dorm room door that one time.

But the administrative suite was so vast; how could anyone inside hear such a faint rhythm?

She glanced at the doorbell but had no desire to press it. Her hand dipped into her pocket, pushing aside the lighter to fish out the keycard.

A low beep sounded, the green light flashed, and with a soft click, the door lock released.

It felt just like opening Pandora’s Box.

Meng Ning pushed the door open and stepped inside, only to be met by utter darkness.

Not complete blackness, of course. The lights were off throughout the living room, bedroom, and bathroom, all silent and empty, clearly unoccupied. The sole source of illumination came from the streetlights outside. Wen Zenian’s balcony doors were always flung wide, allowing the subtropical breeze to waft in, carrying the pale moonlight-draped sheer curtains fluttering toward the sofa.

Beyond the terrace opposite the sofa, waves crashed against the shore beneath a night sky like inky velvet, adorned with a crescent moon.

Wen Zenian hadn’t returned yet. It was as if the heavens had granted Meng Ning a chance to flee.

Yet Meng Ning squandered that precious opportunity in luxury. She walked to the sofa and sat down.

Hugging her knees, she lost herself in thought.

She thought of Crane City Long Alley, where she had lived as a teenager.

She thought of the green-skinned train that had carried her south to this island.

She thought of that first reunion with Wen Zenian, when the woman had seemed as beautiful as a dream.

She had no idea how long she sat there, the night blurring all sense of time. Until another soft beep echoed from the door, which swung open, letting in a sliver of hallway light that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Wen Zenian materialized as a pale silhouette, enveloped in a hazy veil of fragrance.

She hadn’t expected anyone to be inside. She tossed her clutch onto the entryway table, kicked off her high heels as she walked deeper in, and let out a long sigh. Twisting her head, she reached up to remove one of her earrings.

Meng Ning’s eyes had fully adjusted to the dark by now, so she could make out the faint furrow in Wen Zenian’s brow, as if she were growing impatient.

What was there to be impatient about when removing an earring? Probably just the temperament of a beauty—always a bit temperamental.

She really ought to say something to alert Wen Zenian. But sitting there so long in silence seemed to have robbed her of speech. Instead, she simply watched as Wen Zenian fussed irritably with the diamond earring, a smile tugging at her own lips.

And so, when Wen Zenian glanced toward the sofa, this was the scene that greeted her—

A young woman of ethereal beauty sat there, the sofa’s recessed design making her appear as if she were lounging in a pool brimming with moonlight. Bathed in that glow, the young woman seemed even purer, even brighter.

Her hands rested on her knees, clenching tight the instant their eyes met.

Wen Zenian paused in the act of removing her earring and walked over. She had already kicked off her heels and now padded barefoot across the carpet, the hem of her skirt trailing behind with a soft whisper against the long pile.

The hotel’s decor featured black rosewood as a recurring visual motif. She stopped beside a pillar, leaning against it as she gazed at Meng Ning.

There was a hint of tension in Meng Ning’s eyes, but the smile lingered at the corners of her mouth, blending into an expression both unique and captivating.

The moonlight neither softened her cool detachment nor accentuated it—it simply was, drawing one in with the urge to step closer, not to kiss her yet, but to brush a finger across those lips.

But that impulse existed only in Wen Zenian’s mind. In reality, she simply leaned against the pillar, motionless. The earring from her right ear lay curled in her palm, its hard edge pressing faintly into her skin.

Meng Ning gazed at Wen Zenian.

The black halter evening gown made her look like a gift wrapped for the night. Yet her features carried the rich depth of aged wine; even unsmiling, there was an air of aloof pride about her. Who would dare reach out so presumptuously, past that swan-like neck, to give the tie a gentle tug?

The gown’s train dragged behind her like a mermaid’s tail, while the front was hiked up slightly, revealing the slender ankle where she had kicked off her heel.

Moonlight bathed her foot.

Perhaps someone like Wen Zenian was a siren incarnate—one of those mythical beings from fanciful tales, surfacing from the depths not with overt seduction, but with a voice alone to lure sailors to their doom.

Wen Zenian was even more adept. She said nothing, merely standing there in the moonlight, her eyes fixed on Meng Ning.

“You said you could help me,” Meng Ning said.

Wen Zenian leaned a bit more against the pillar. She had clearly drunk more since then; it lent her posture an added air of languid grace. “And what do you think I meant by that?”

Meng Ning blinked in surprise. “You’re asking me?”

Wen Zenian’s lips curved faintly upward. That smile held no frivolity; even in teasing, she exuded a calm indulgence.

Meng Ning steadied herself. “I think you meant you’re willing to tell me whether anything happened that night I stayed over in your room.”

“Oh.” Wen Zenian nodded and came over to sit on the sofa’s edge, leaving a careful distance between them. She tilted her head slightly and began removing the diamond earring from her left ear. Meng Ning watched, her own eyes crinkling just a touch at the corners.

Until Wen Zenian casually dropped both earrings onto the obsidian-hued coffee table with a pair of faint clinks.

She turned to Meng Ning. “When you’re asking someone a question, shouldn’t you at least look at them?”

“Or are you afraid to look at me?”

“Nothing like that,” Meng Ning replied slowly, turning to face her.

Wen Zenian dipped her chin in apparent satisfaction. “I can tell you.”

“Nothing happened that night. You were very well-behaved, very honest—like a kitten drunk on wine.”

“So if that’s the answer you came for, you can go now.”

“Oh, all right.” Meng Ning stood up.

Perhaps from sitting too long, her knees felt stiff, making her gait awkward and halting.

A soft rustle came from the sofa behind her.

She could picture it: Wen Zenian propped on one elbow against the sofa back, floating amid the moonlight, her waist twisted as she watched Meng Ning’s retreating figure.

Just like that scene in the break room.

Meng Ning took one step, then two, then three. As she lifted her foot for the fourth, Wen Zenian’s voice finally sounded from behind her:

“But do you want to leave?”

Wen Zenian said only that much before rising and heading toward the bedroom.

Meng Ning didn’t turn back or pause. She continued to the entryway and reached for the brass door handle.

Her fingertips hovered in midair, lingering for a moment.

Slowly, she turned. The living room stood empty now. Only the moonlight spilling from the terrace remained, the breeze lifting the sheer curtains, the two diamond earrings of Wen Zenian’s still on the coffee table. Everything was serene and beautiful, like a lavish dream.

The C Hotel Executive Suite had a distinctive design. Rather than solid walls dividing the rooms, it employed screens and layered partitions to create a fluid sense of beauty.

From where she stood, Meng Ning could still glimpse the pale purple bed curtains in the bedroom direction, like a mist of roses dispersing on the wind.

Dreams were the most beguiling illusions of all.

Meng Ning dropped her hand and walked toward the bedroom.

Wen Zenian hadn’t bothered turning on any lights along the way. Only now did she twist on a bedside lamp. The snowy white bedding framed her like a fallen jewel from the night.

She was raising one arm—sculpted like Venus herself—to undo the chignon at the back of her head, drawing the eye inevitably to that graceful swan neck.

Meng Ning recalled a certain director who adored filming the curve from a woman’s ear to her shoulder, hailing it as a divine marvel.

Whenever Meng Ning caught sight of Wen Zenian’s nape gleaming smooth beneath her updo, she felt that admiration keenly.

Now Wen Zenian was dismantling the chignon: her left hand cradling the bun, her right plucking out slender pins and tossing them carelessly onto the nightstand.

The look she gave Meng Ning was lazy, unhurried; she offered no greeting. Not until six pins had gathered on the nightstand did she lift her eyelids, tinged faintly pink. “Just one left.”

Meng Ning caught on. She meant the final pin in her chignon.

“Do you want to take it out?” Wen Zenian asked her.

Meng Ning walked over.

Wen Zenian’s updo was nothing like her own haphazard ponytail secured with a rubber band. Wen Zenian’s was intricate and elegant, suiting both her daily crisp business attire and this alluring evening gown.

Standing before Wen Zenian, Meng Ning felt a touch at a loss. Wen Zenian cradled her chignon with her left hand and grasped Meng Ning’s right, giving it a gentle squeeze in her soft palm. Then she guided it downward, lacing their fingers and drawing Meng Ning’s hand to the nape of her neck.

It was the first time Meng Ning had touched that raven hair: plush and thick. The ancient poets spoke of “clouds and mists of tresses,” and now she understood the exquisite poetry of it. Her fingers threaded in, satin-smooth, imbued with the cool, moist sheen of island life.

Wen Zenian’s hair was beautiful, her neck even more so. No wonder she wore an updo better than anyone.

That conviction burned firm in Meng Ning’s heart.

Her slender fingers roamed through the glossy strands until they found the metal pin, its hardness contrasting the silken softness. Wen Zenian let out a soft “mm,” like tacit permission, like encouragement.

Meng Ning applied a bit more pressure and slid the pin free.

Wen Zenian’s left hand released the chignon at almost the exact same instant.

Meng Ning froze.

They said scientific truth was merely one revelation overturning the last.

In Meng Ning’s mind, she drew a massive strike through her firm belief that “Wen Zenian looked best with her hair up.”

That notion held only until those lustrous locks tumbled free. With a casual flick of her jade-like fingers, it wasn’t a cascade like a waterfall but the dreamlike mist hovering above one.

Wen Zenian sat poised amid it, her proud features softened by a hint of allure—the moon glowing bright through veils of water vapor.

Slowly, Meng Ning raised her hand and tilted Wen Zenian’s chin upward.

Wen Zenian’s expression remained proud, but her body yielded obediently, arching that long swan neck back as her thin lips parted slightly. “This is on you for not leaving.”