Before this scene unfolded, if heaven had a form, Meng Ning might have pictured it as an intricate overlay of lavish beauties—like the C Hotel itself. Or, more precisely, the C Hotel’s annual gala tonight.
Skirts blooming like giant dahlias. Sheer gauze dresses evoking cloud-like garments and flower-like countenances.
Smiling faces. Flowing wine. Arms raised in excitement. The interwoven strains of cello and harp. Purple grapes brushing lightly against lips.
But now.
All the splendor was shut away behind the heavy soundproof door. Before her stretched only the terrace, moonlight, the crash of waves, and the woman.
To put it simply, only this woman, standing apart in the wind. Everything else had faded into backdrop, as intricate and accentuating as the black lace mask adorning her cheek—a complexity that only highlighted profound simplicity.
Because true beauty needed no embellishment.
She stood far out at the terrace’s edge, the beach behind her melting into sea and sky, distant waves piling into a pale silver crest. Though the night breeze toyed with the hem of her evening gown and her long hair, to Meng Ning’s eyes the scene hung frozen in time.
The woman neither smiled nor stirred, like a firework caught at its zenith bloom and suspended mid-air, its beauty preserved forever.
Such a mask needed no Helen of Troy. Nor any Bulgarian rose perfume. Tension had a way of sending thoughts adrift; inexplicably, Meng Ning wondered what scent might cling to such a woman.
Just then, champagne flute in hand, the woman glided toward her.
Her evening gown was pure minimalist black satin, clinging to her graceful figure like liquid light. Her fine stiletto heels matched in sleek obsidian, parting the hem with each step to bare ankles slender as a lover’s grasp.
Even as she approached Meng Ning, she didn’t smile.
Not until Meng Ning instinctively retreated half a step. Then a flicker of amusement curved her lips.
She asked Meng Ning, “Do you know who I am?”
All the hotel staff were inside at the gala by now. Anyone appearing alone on the terrace had to be the one who’d been absent—yet suddenly seized the chance to attend.
“Gwyneth.”
She was Wen Zenian.
The C Hotel shunned formal titles, favoring English names alone. Otherwise, Meng Ning would have respectfully addressed her as “Manager Wen.”
Speaking her English name aloud like this laid bare its intimate cadence—the tongue flicking against teeth, evoking an ambiguous dream beneath moonlight.
Wen Zenian inclined her head slightly. This close, Meng Ning caught her scent.
Tea mingled with thyme, laced with a faint soapy freshness—like a night made crystalline and bright.
The woman’s fair skin lit her inky evening gown from within, turning a fine night crystalline and bright.
Her voice dipped low by contrast, a sultry counterpoint to her poised beauty. “And you are?”
“Cara.”
Wen Zenian nodded. “What brings you out here? Not enjoying the gala?”
Meng Ning gazed into the eyes behind that black lace mask.
“Hey.” Wen Zenian waved a slender white finger before her face.
Meng Ning blinked back to herself. “No, just needed some air.”
“Did you know I chose this year’s gala theme?” Wen Zenian eyed her up and down. “What are you dressed as? The prom queen?”
Her words carried the faint, pleasing note of aged wine. “Good choice. After all, the dreams of youth are the hardest to wake from, aren’t they?”
Emboldened, Meng Ning ventured, “And what are you?”
Wen Zenian arched a brow. “Can’t you tell?”
Her tone rang with utter certainty, as if Meng Ning ought to know.
But Meng Ning drew no connection from her look. Audrey Hepburn? Not quite. She answered honestly. “No clue.”
Wen Zenian didn’t bristle. “I’m dressed as myself.”
Meng Ning paused, startled.
Wen Zenian let out a soft laugh at her reaction, then turned to leave. “Sorry to interrupt. I’ll head back in.”
“Wait.” She paused, glancing back. “You don’t believe I can weave dreams?”
Meng Ning hesitated on her reply. She wasn’t drunk; common sense warned her this woman was her superior. One wrong word, and she might find herself out on her ear.
But Wen Zenian simply opened her clutch purse.
A small, gleaming metal clasp clicked in her fingers. She drew out her phone and asked Meng Ning, “Remind me of your name?”
“Cara.”
“Your Chinese name.” Wen Zenian smiled faintly. “We’re celebrating Chinese New Year tonight. Tell me.”
Her Mandarin was flawless, untouched by the typical ABC accent.
“Meng Ning.”
“Meng Ning?” Wen Zenian nodded, repeating it. “Nice name.”
She dialed a number and spoke into the phone. “Start now.”
The voice on the other end faltered. “Now? But the dance hasn’t…”
The terrace was so still that Meng Ning caught the gist of the exchange from the phone’s speaker.
“No matter.” Wen Zenian’s tone was gentle, yet laced with unyielding resolve. “Start now.”
Her manner alone betrayed a woman of rank and power.
She hung up just as a shrill whistle pierced the surging waves.
Before Meng Ning’s mind could catch up, the velvet-black sky unfurled with bursts of fireworks.
Fireworks often brought a pang of melancholy—their brief blaze fading too swiftly. But in abundance, one bloomed before the last could wilt, layering the night sky in endless splendor.
The spectacle deceived the senses, as if such radiance alone could defy time, the thunderous booms pounding against her heart.
By now, those in the ballroom had likely glimpsed the display through the church-like windows. Before the crowd could spill out the soundproof door behind her, Wen Zenian caught Meng Ning’s wrist in a light tug, drawing her to a shadowed nook by the entrance.
The throng surged like a tide, swallowing the fireworks’ lower bloom. Only the finest bursts filled Meng Ning’s view, overwhelming her vision.
“Fireworks!” “The gala has fireworks this year!” “No warning—how’d it start?”
Wen Zenian murmured at Meng Ning’s side. “I planned to wait until after the dance, announce it, then launch. But…”
She trailed off. “The best surprises catch you off guard. That’s how all dreams begin—sudden, unexpected.”
As the crowd buzzed, some shouting wishes aloud, Wen Zenian leaned close to Meng Ning’s ear, her voice a hushed murmur. “These fireworks were just for you. Dream of me tonight.”
With that, she slipped away into the ballroom, leaving Meng Ning behind.
Meng Ning peered through the doorway.
Wen Zenian sat alone at a banquet table, raising her champagne flute to her with slender fingers.
Her poise was effortless—too much so. A flutter of nerves stirred in Meng Ning’s chest: Who was she to merit this?
She couldn’t just join Wen Zenian at her table. Instead, Meng Ning waded into the crowd by the railing and fished out Qi Xiao—her flamingo-pink faux fur impossible to miss.
“Make a wish!” Qi Xiao bellowed in her ear.
“What?”
“Make a wish! Wishing on fireworks works just like on shooting stars!”
Meng Ning obliged, clasping her hands toward the bursts.
Qi Xiao had already wished hers, now watching Meng Ning with devout focus—fingertips pressed to her brow, a string of Buddha beads wound around her left wrist, encircling the slight prominence of bone.
“Wishing on fireworks from a Baroque terrace while wearing Buddha beads… talk about mismatched,” Qi Xiao muttered. She turned to Meng Ning. “What’d you wish for? Can you say?”
“Nothing secret.” Meng Ning seemed calm enough. “I wished to save my hundredth life soon.”
Qi Xiao blinked. “You’re… that passionate about the job? The boss didn’t sneak you an extra bonus, did she?”
As they spoke, Meng Ning glanced toward the door.
At this distance, the woman’s figure blurred into shadow—a silhouette, a patch of dusk, a night one could slip into gently.
She had told Meng Ning: “Dream of me tonight.”
The fireworks held the crowd spellbound long enough that even their finale felt fitting, signaling the end. Satisfied, everyone drifted back into the ballroom—and froze.
The woman seated alone at the banquet table drew every eye. Clearly, she’d arrived while they were all out gawking at the display.
Qi Xiao pinched Meng Ning’s arm hard. “It’s Wen Zenian! Holy crap, that figure, that aura—who else? She actually showed!”
Meng Ning nodded. “I know.”
Only with the collective stares did Meng Ning steal a look her way.
Beneath the mask, her exposed chin evoked half a lotus petal. Under the lights, one saw her long hair held just the right loose waves—even pinned up, strands trailed with seductive grace.
She perched at the table’s edge, swan-neck half-arched as she sipped champagne. Having greeted no one, no one dared approach her.
Fortunately, the host took the stage. “We’ve seen the fireworks, danced the night away. Now for the gala’s most anticipated moment.”
By tradition, this was when masks came off.
The host built the rhythm onstage. “I’ll count three, two, one—everyone unveil together, okay? Three, two—”
Though a masquerade, long-timers at the C Hotel knew each other well enough. Eyes now flicked covertly toward Wen Zenian.
In her three days here, she’d stuck to high-level meetings. Not just Meng Ning’s Lifesaving Team—plenty of staff had yet to glimpse her face.
Meng Ning wondered suddenly: Would Wen Zenian even unmask? She seemed the willful type.
But as she watched with Qi Xiao, those slender white fingers reached back to her nape, tugging gently at the mask’s ribbons.
“One!” The host nailed the final count. “Great—unmask now!”
Meng Ning and Qi Xiao sat just off to Wen Zenian’s side and rear. When the mask came off, Meng Ning couldn’t see her full face—only the pearly ear peeking from her updo, the elegant jawline flowing into a long, snowy neck.
Before this, Meng Ning had stared so long at her back that the pale expanse of nape had seared into her mind.
Amid the jumble in her thoughts, words formed slowly: A woman with such a neck must wear an updo more beautifully than anyone in the world.
Hyperbole, perhaps—but no lesser words would suffice.
She and Qi Xiao gleaned Wen Zenian’s beauty from the unabashed awe in those around her. Qi Xiao was near frantic. “If she’d just turn! I want to see her face!”
Wen Zenian didn’t turn around. Not even when the host, who had been continuously drawing names from the box for colleagues to come onstage and play games, pulled out another slip once more: “Gwyneth Won.”
For half a second, the annual gala venue fell utterly still. With Wen Zenian’s status, if she simply declared she wasn’t playing, no one could force her to join.
Yet she placed the mask she had been holding pinched between her fingers onto the banquet table and slowly rose to her feet.
Qi Xiao slapped Meng Ning’s shoulder hard and whispered excitedly through gritted teeth, “She’s going onstage! We’re going to see her face!”
