Chapter 32 Part 1

Whiskey on the rocks. Blues drifting through the air. Dancing. High heels clicking. Drunken crowds. Carefree laughter scattered about.

Meng Ning was twenty-seven, a strangely liminal age.

Sometimes she still felt young—young enough to believe a wild party could go on forever. Other times she felt old, aware that youth faded all too quickly, stirring an instinctive melancholy as the first light of dawn crept in.

She listened as Wen Zenian said those words to her: “You can do to me what you wanted to do in the storage room.”

Meng Ning paused her kiss for a moment. Her fingertip hooked the stray lock of hair falling across Wen Zenian’s forehead, tucking it back behind her ear, then lightly brushed the delicate curve of her earlobe.

It was a gesture laced with tenderness and desire. Wen Zenian fluttered her eyelids subtly.

Then Meng Ning’s hand withdrew from her ear.

Wen Zenian lifted her lids, peering at her through a fringe of thick lashes. Her eye makeup had smudged from a night of dancing, but Wen Zenian never wore mascara, so there were no ugly black streaks beneath her eyes—just a faint diffusion like ink bleeding across aged rice paper, the edges blurred into something profoundly alluring.

In that gaze, Meng Ning sensed a quiet satisfaction. Wen Zenian had no idea why she had stopped; it was a look of curiosity, unable to pierce her veil. Or perhaps Wen Zenian feared she might leave.

Meng Ning relished maintaining that air of mystery around Wen Zenian. In the presence of someone she could only admire from afar, “mystery” was likely the only asset she truly possessed.

She slipped out from under the soft cushions first, ensuring Wen Zenian lay comfortably, then rose to her feet and tugged at Wen Zenian’s slender fingers. “Get up.”

Wen Zenian sat up, yielding to the gentle pull.

Meng Ning realized she liked Wen Zenian when she was drunk. The woman, usually so decisive and polished, let a flicker of innate bewilderment show unguarded in her eyes only in these moments.

But Wen Zenian had guessed wrong. How could Meng Ning bear to leave?

Even the night was still locked in battle with the encroaching dawn, refusing to yield the stage. She was just as greedy, knowing a night as illusory as a dream must eventually end—like fireworks fading into the sky—yet she lingered beneath those final smoky traces etched on the horizon, unwilling to depart.

She took Wen Zenian’s hand and led her through the side living room to the wall near the terrace.

The wall bore an artistic texture. A hanging artwork of greenery in medieval patterns dangled high above, while the console table against it curved in an irregular half-arc.

Meng Ning steadied Wen Zenian’s waist with a light touch, guiding her to perch on the edge of the table.

She pressed close to Wen Zenian’s neck, as if lingering in the pale, slender hollow there—or perhaps merely to whisper. “In the storage room, you weren’t the one lying on the sofa.”

Wen Zenian embodied a beauty full of contradictions at that moment. The style of her evening gown evoked a holy priestess from a temple, yet its deep red hue was utterly seductive. Her features and makeup projected strength, but the lingering bewilderment in her eyes—wondering if Meng Ning might slip away—had yet to fade.

I won’t leave, Meng Ning thought.

She leaned in to kiss the soft, full lobe of Wen Zenian’s ear. The impulse had peaked earlier that night, when they had sat amid the crowd watching the movie and Wen Zenian had absentmindedly toyed with her own earlobe.

The room thrummed with its own contradictions. The hanging artwork overhead conjured visions of a tropical summer paradise, yet the late-winter—or early-spring—dawn brought a chill from the terrace, carried on the sea breeze along the coastline.

As Meng Ning toyed with the two ribbon straps draped over Wen Zenian’s shoulders, letting them slide down those slim limbs.

Wen Zenian was usually restrained, parsimonious with revealing even parts of her beauty—like her legs sheathed in silk stockings or the generous swell of her upper body. But now, with Wen Zenian drunk, Meng Ning took control of the rhythm. Perhaps the dark red gown was simply too silky, slipping through her palm like liquid silk.

A fine layer of goosebumps prickled across Wen Zenian’s porcelain-pale skin.

The heat from her palm—was it enough to soothe, or did it ignite fresh shivers? In that instant, Wen Zenian seemed fragile. Her hands looped around Meng Ning’s neck, her toes curling behind Meng Ning’s slender calves to draw her in, kissing with utter abandon.

Wen Zenian demanded the same abandon from her. Her fingertips first fumbled for the zipper of Meng Ning’s uniform, then trailed up to the Buddha beads encircling her wrist.

Meng Ning was drunk too, but she clung to a thread of clarity. “No.”

Wen Zenian let out a soft, helpless sigh. “You don’t trust me.”

Trust her with what? Keeping boundaries without prying questions? Or accepting her with gentle indulgence?

Wen Zenian slid down from the curved console table. Meng Ning wondered if she was a little angry; Wen Zenian took a few steps forward and glanced back just as Meng Ning moved to follow. “Stand still. Don’t move.”

Her tone had regained its commanding edge.

Meng Ning discovered she didn’t mind Wen Zenian’s dominance.

She had once been a rudderless sail adrift on a lonely sea, utterly lost in life’s direction. Sometimes she craved someone to tell her what to do and how—a presence that made her feel safe.

Wen Zenian shed the evening gown entirely and crossed the expansive hall to the bathroom. She returned with a small blue box and an envelope in hand.

The room lights remained off. In the thin morning light, Wen Zenian gazed at Meng Ning from afar.

Meng Ning’s frame was startlingly slender, her skin a cold porcelain white. She stood there with her hands hanging limply at her sides, head bowed in the cool dawn air, lost in her thoughts. She wasn’t always obedient, often resisting closeness. Yet she was obedient too—told to stand still, and she did so without stirring.

Was it the morning mist or echoes of the past that made her shrink slightly? Perhaps a faint tremble ran through her.

Wen Zenian approached, brushing past her to settle back onto the console table behind. She wrapped her arms around Meng Ning from behind. “Are you cold?”

She buried her face as if inhaling the scent at Meng Ning’s neck. With the cool, moist sensation came the realization that Wen Zenian was kissing the black mandala tattoo at the nape of her neck.

Meng Ning tensed. “Hey…”

Wen Zenian’s soft “shh” could have soothed her, but she didn’t stop there. Instead, her arms clamped firmly around Meng Ning, tightening as she continued to kiss the tattoo.

In Wen Zenian’s mind, that distant glimpse of Meng Ning standing by the wall stirred a fierce urge both to cherish her desperately and to ravish her just as fiercely.

But she had to hold back. Take it slow.

She murmured into Meng Ning’s ear, “You’ve gone so many days without coming to find me. What are you sulking about?”

Then she added, “When I read you the story today, shall I make it a little more interesting?”

With her left hand, she drew the note from the envelope and shook it open. Her right hand kept working on Meng Ning. She leaned close to her ear and began reading the story aloud, her warm breath grazing the sensitive skin.

“Today’s page from the sci-fi story stays with me,” she said. “If you want to know how the plot unfolds, listen carefully.”

Meng Ning thought, what now? On one hand, Wen Zenian’s teasing scattered her wits to the winds. On the other, she had to focus on the cadence of words spilling from Wen Zenian’s lips.

It split her in two—the sensation was unbearable. She realized this was punishment.

Punishment for what?

For refusing to remove the Buddha beads, even now when their bodies bared such honesty?

Or for staying away all those days?

The surging desire Meng Ning had felt for Wen Zenian in the storage room found release in another form, with Wen Zenian now the aggressor.

Everything she did carried the weight of retribution. She twisted Meng Ning’s head, forcing her to meet her gaze. Her expression was grave, as if savoring Meng Ning’s unraveling—frowning in sync with her furrowed brow, pursing her lips to mirror Meng Ning’s.

A streak of sunset pink that had lingered at the horizon now flushed the corner of her eye. “Meng Ning, you really are so stubborn.”

“Be good, won’t you?”

Bolstered by alcohol, by this dreamlike night, by the commanding timbre of Wen Zenian’s voice.

As Meng Ning’s lips parted ever so slightly, Wen Zenian felt a shock rising from the depths of her soul.

She adored the sound of Meng Ning’s voice. Even in this moment, it was stubborn yet fragile—like a faint whimper, or the mew of an obedient kitten.

Wen Zenian’s soul was ensnared, forever lost.

Afterward, Meng Ning always handled her own cleanup.

Wen Zenian had slipped back into her evening gown and waited outside the bathroom. When Meng Ning emerged, she said, “I should go.”

The sky was on the verge of full light. The C Hotel, dormant through the night, would soon stir with activity. She needed to seize this last chance to slip back to her room, grab a couple of changes of clothes, catch the earliest speedboat off the island, and rendezvous with Qi Xiao at the Old House Rental.

This night, when desires had erupted like fireworks, was finally drawing to a close.

But Wen Zenian said, “Don’t go.”

It was a direct command.

Meng Ning’s eyes flickered open wider. Wen Zenian’s tone was casual: “Aren’t you off duty today? Stay here.”

“Stay here?” Meng Ning echoed. “Doing what?”

“Spending time with me.” Wen Zenian stated it as plain fact, her words carrying an effortless conviction.

She continued, “Stay for your two days off, and I’ll let you take that story page with you.”

Meng Ning hesitated, stunned. Wen Zenian had already headed toward the bathroom. “I’ll take a quick shower and head to work. You can sleep first. Don’t worry—no one will come in to clean today.”

Meng Ning noted how proud Wen Zenian truly was. After a brief rinse, she emerged with her hair neatly pinned up and her makeup flawless.

She wouldn’t let anyone see her bare-faced.

Meng Ning sat on the sofa, watching her. Wen Zenian made no effort to hide; perhaps time was too short. She flung open the wardrobe door, selected a fresh uniform, and changed with her back to Meng Ning.

In their peculiar arrangement, undressing was always easier than dressing. Undressing came wrapped in heavy desire, while dressing brought sobriety—and with it, shyness.

Wen Zenian didn’t seem to dwell on it. Meng Ning found herself gazing at her back as she donned the uniform, and it didn’t feel strange at all.

Physical closeness truly brought a loosening of the mind, it seemed.