In every sense, they were growing ever more familiar.
Wen Zenian said, “There’s food in the minibar. The bedside ordering system delivers room service without even talking to the front desk, so…” She crossed quickly and pressed a hand to Meng Ning’s shoulder. “I’ll be back tonight.”
With that, she hurried out.
Meng Ning sank onto the sofa and let the sea breeze wash over her for a moment. Suddenly, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion crashed down.
She hadn’t realized that without her sleeping pills, she could feel this profoundly sleepy.
She took a quick shower, reminding herself not to doze off and risk a fall. If someone rescued her naked and unconscious from the executive manager’s suite, the headlines would scream something lurid like “Beach Lifeguard Found Passed Out Nude in Manager’s Room—Industry Nepotism Run Amok?” She chuckled at her own runaway imagination, then made her way to the king-sized bed and flung herself onto it.
When she woke, it was already two in the afternoon.
It had been a long time since Meng Ning had slept so deeply or for so long.
She got out of bed, not particularly hungry, and rummaged through the minibar for a chocolate bar to serve as her brunch. The wine from last night had been top-shelf stuff, and her hangover headache was much milder than expected.
How had she ended up staying in Wen Zenian’s room like this?
Meng Ning reflected on it for a moment, but she was still swayed by the reasoning she’d clung to earlier—Wen Zenian’s tone had been so certain, and people who seemed independent but were actually fragile deep down instinctively craved someone to tell them what to do.
That way, they wouldn’t have to think for themselves.
That way, they wouldn’t have to take responsibility.
Besides, people were greedy by nature. Who wouldn’t want a dreamlike night to linger a little longer instead of vanishing with the dawn?
Meng Ning sat on the edge of the sofa and finished the chocolate bar.
Then she did something deliberate: she fetched a towel, wrung it out, and meticulously wiped down the desk where Wen Zenian had sat with her last night, where they’d tangled together in intimacy.
She didn’t know if any trace of Wen Zenian’s scent lingered there. Maybe there never had been any, or maybe it had already dissipated.
But she didn’t want to leave even the slightest mark.
There it was again. She clearly recognized in her heart that her “possessiveness” toward Wen Zenian was rearing its head once more, just like last night when the bluesy music started and she couldn’t stop herself from walking over to Wen Zenian, asking, “While we’re on C Sea Island, can you promise there won’t be anyone else?”
These were the flaws everyone shared, the ones no one could overcome.
Meng Ning felt sneaky about it. When she realized she couldn’t fight her possessiveness, she’d weakly surrendered to it.
Time passed easily enough.
She noticed something: whether it was the yacht last night or Wen Zenian’s Administrative Suite now, neither had a clock in sight.
As if they were designed to make people forget about time altogether.
She zoned out, pulling books from the room’s bookshelf—poetry or essays only, no more long novels. She flipped on the TV for documentaries; movies were fine too, but no more TV series.
Once Wen Zenian finished optimizing C Sea Island and left, she’d leave too.
She’d learned her lesson from that sci-fi novel last time—the unfinished ending had left her hanging, and now Wen Zenian was using it as bait to tempt her. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
She kept mentally preparing herself for Wen Zenian’s departure, treating herself as someone who could leave at any moment.
She was afraid of starting another long novel or series she couldn’t finish, so she simply denied herself the chance to begin.
Even her wild abandon last night—hadn’t that been underpinned by the thought that they’d soon part ways anyway?
After watching a bit of the documentary on garden birds, waterfowl, seabirds, and the traditional birds of Wales in Britain, she felt sleepy again.
Maybe it was the exhaustion from last night and this morning; whenever drowsiness hit, it felt like she was about to pass out.
She flung herself back onto the huge bed. When she opened her eyes again, the light outside the window had faded to dusk.
She wasn’t facing the window; she sensed the dimness drifting through the room. Only a low-wattage bedside lamp was on, not bright enough to banish the shadows, just softening them. And in the direction she faced, Wen Zenian was leaning against the headboard, sitting there.
She was working on her tablet, still in her formal business attire—a pencil skirt with soft, elegant folds, her long, slender legs in sheer stockings crossed gracefully.
She didn’t look at Meng Ning, yet she knew: “Awake?”
Meng Ning blanked out for a second, as if they’d already shared countless such days together and would share countless more in the future.
The thought sent a pang of unease through her heart, like that rainy night during her period when she’d gone to Wen Zenian—they hadn’t done anything extra, just lain on the sofa, kissing quietly.
It was too tender, too much like being in love.
She sat up in bed. “You’re off work?”
“Mm.”
“You’re seriously impressive. You pulled an all-nighter partying last night, went straight to work this morning, and you’re still at it.” Meng Ning wanted to shatter the cozy atmosphere with a joke. “Aren’t you worried about burning out?”
“Burning out? From what—the drinking and dancing last night, or the storytelling this morning?”
Ugh, Meng Ning knew she’d never be able to hear “storytelling” without flinching again.
She faltered, and Wen Zenian laughed.
Meng Ning got out of bed and started straightening the covers.
Wen Zenian remembered what she’d seen when she first returned to the room. The king-size down bed was enormous; Meng Ning had only lifted a small corner of the blanket, her slim frame curled up on the edge, like a speck adrift on a vast ocean.
Watching Meng Ning smooth the sheets—ironing out every wrinkle from where she’d slept, folding the corner back with perfect precision—Wen Zenian said, “You’re not exactly the diligent type, but it seems like wherever you stay, you don’t want to leave any trace of yourself behind.”
Meng Ning’s expression gave nothing away—not even a flicker of surprise. She grinned loosely. “What makes you say that?”
Wen Zenian replied, “I saw your room once. It was spotless, like you’d never added a single personal touch.”
“Could it be,” Meng Ning said with a teasing curl of her lips, “because I’m broke? President Wen, maybe consider a raise for the Lifesaving Team.”
“A raise for the whole team? Unlikely. But abusing my position for personal gain to give you one? That I could do.”
“Really?” Meng Ning played along. “How much?”
Wen Zenian said, “Three hundred. Just enough for you to buy me a lighter. Then I’ll dock it from you next month.”
Meng Ning scoffed. “A raise like that, and I’d have to spend it on your lighter?”
“Didn’t I lose my lighter in your room? Aren’t you responsible?”
“You forgot to take it. Adults have to own their actions—they can’t make others clean up their messes.”
Meng Ning wondered if Wen Zenian knew the lighter was in her pocket right now. Maybe she did and just wasn’t saying.
Hearing the refusal, Wen Zenian shook her head slightly. “So cold-hearted.”
Meng Ning grinned wider. “That’s called being rational.”
It was better like this—bantering back and forth with Wen Zenian, diffusing the warmth so it didn’t feel so awkward.
Wen Zenian seemed to have finished working; she set the tablet aside and got off the bed. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“Just a chocolate bar from the minibar.”
Wen Zenian paused.
Meng Ning asked, “What?”
Wen Zenian said, “I was waiting for you to ask how much it cost and offer to pay me back.”
“Oh my god.” Meng Ning exaggerated her shock. “You’re loaded, and you groped me top to bottom this morning. Do I really have to pay for a chocolate bar out of pocket?”
Wen Zenian replied, “You’re an adult. What happened this morning was your choice. Adults own their choices—they can’t make others responsible.”
Damn, she’d thrown Meng Ning’s own words right back at her.
Meng Ning couldn’t outtalk her, so she plopped onto the sofa in the main living area and turned on the TV.
Wen Zenian joined her after a moment. “I barely ate at lunch. I just ordered dinner—want some?”
The service at the C Hotel was world-class; soon a server rang the doorbell.
Because Meng Ning was there, Wen Zenian didn’t let the server inside. She wheeled in the room service cart herself.
The delivery was impossibly fast, making Wen Zenian seem like some dream weaver from a fairy tale, conjuring exquisite dishes with a wave of her hand.
Meng Ning dreaded if Wen Zenian had ordered something over-the-top like red wine foie gras and black truffles.
But she hadn’t. Just two plates of pasta: one creamy with white mushrooms, one burrata pesto.
She didn’t ask which Meng Ning wanted, handing over the pesto.
Meng Ning had a mild allergy to white mushrooms. She wasn’t sure if this was coincidence or if Wen Zenian remembered.
The bird documentary had lulled her into drowsiness earlier; idly clicking through the remote, she spotted The Lover amid a lineup of classic old films—the same one from the yacht last night.
She hit play.
Wen Zenian critiqued her. “Always needing something to watch while eating. Not a great habit.”
Meng Ning shot back, “You drink while working. That’s hardly better.”
“And we both smoke.” Wen Zenian shrugged. “Two-two tie.”
The spotlights cast a soft warm glow, glass screens creating an intimate ambiance, their silhouettes faintly reflected on them. Each with a plate of pasta, they didn’t chat, just focused intently on the TV.
When they finished eating, Meng Ning paused the movie. Wen Zenian wheeled the cart into the hallway, and they each went to brush their teeth. The mouthwash had a peachy flavor with a faint bitter aftertaste.
Back at the sofa, Wen Zenian was already seated primly. Meng Ning joined her and resumed the film.
Casually, Wen Zenian tossed a cushion into Meng Ning’s lap and propped her legs up, twisting her waist slightly, elbow on the sofa back as she watched, one hand idly on her stomach.
Meng Ning glanced sidelong. “Uncomfortable?”
“No, just relaxed after eating.”
It was true—people really couldn’t fight their own physiology. Like how physical closeness sparked an uncontrollable possessiveness, or how a solid carb-heavy meal just made you mellow out.
Even Meng Ning felt less tense.
Wen Zenian had probably seen the movie before; they watched attentively but casually, not agonizing over the plot. As the film’s shadows flickered over the exotic Mekong riverside, Wen Zenian suddenly said, “Do you know why I ordered the white mushroom pasta tonight?”
“Because it means I can’t kiss you.” Wen Zenian gazed at the screen and added softly, “Otherwise, if this keeps up, I’m afraid I’ll burn out and die.”
