Chapter 34 Part 1

Qi Xiao spoke carelessly, but Meng Ning took it to heart.

She and Wen Zenian certainly weren’t in love. How could two people who knew so little about each other possibly fall in love? They were merely bedmates with a touch more tenderness, a dash more infatuation, and a hint more possessiveness—enough to paint this dreamlike interlude in rosier hues.

Meng Ning immediately refuted Qi Xiao. “Don’t talk nonsense. Ours is a purely physical relationship.”

Qi Xiao laughed until her shoulders shook. “Purely physical? How pure can it be? It’s physical already!”

Two days later, Meng Ning headed to Wen Zenian’s room to find her.

Good, she thought to herself.

Wen Zenian sat primly on the sofa, reviewing documents as usual. Papers lay scattered across the low table beside her, next to a tall crystal wineglass that held only a shallow remnant of white wine.

She was still dressed in her daytime uniform. The metal waist chain cinched her impossibly slender waist, while sheer silk stockings sheathed her long, graceful legs.

Meng Ning walked over. Wen Zenian looked up and let out a breath. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Meng Ning’s shoulders tensed.

Wen Zenian waved the documents in her hand. “All this is driving me crazy.”

Meng Ning’s shoulders relaxed again.

So she was just worn out from work. She needed something pleasing to soothe her eyes, a fleeting moment of pleasure.

Meng Ning asked, “Shall I tell you a story?”

The time before last, Meng Ning had groped Wen Zenian freely, savoring the subtle shifts in her body while insisting she keep narrating the story without pause. Last time, Wen Zenian had gotten her revenge. With their skin pressed together, she had embraced Meng Ning from behind, her fingers wandering mischievously, all while whispering the tale into her ear to split her attention.

This time, Wen Zenian assumed Meng Ning had come for payback and promptly waved the white flag. “I’m not playing. It’s too agonizing.”

“It won’t be,” Meng Ning promised. “I won’t touch any of your sensitive spots.”

Wen Zenian eyed her dubiously. “Do I need to shower first?”

“No need. Just tell the story first.”

Wen Zenian retreated to her bedroom and returned with the envelope for tonight. She settled back on the sofa, pulled out the letter, and glanced at Meng Ning.

Whenever Meng Ning came to visit, she would start off perched on the opposite end of the L-shaped sofa, keeping a polite distance—like an innocent college student new to the world.

But as soon as Wen Zenian lowered her gaze to skim the story and began reading aloud, Meng Ning rose and slid over to sit beside her.

Wen Zenian always maintained perfect posture whenever she wore a pencil skirt, smoothing the hem with one hand before sitting. Her uniforms were custom-tailored, hugging her lithe and upright figure just right: accentuating her slender waist, elegant hip curve, and long, lean legs.

As she sat, the suit fabric of the pencil skirt gathered in soft, attractive pleats at her thighs.

Meng Ning stole a glance but honored her promise, keeping her hands to herself and leaving Wen Zenian’s suit buttons neatly fastened. Only when Wen Zenian’s voice began to soften, as if she trusted the promise, did Meng Ning gently place one hand on her knee.

Wen Zenian’s breathing hitched subtly, a faint metallic edge scraping into her voice.

Meng Ning was both the aggressor and the recipient. If she weren’t so attuned to Wen Zenian’s breaths and tones, she might have missed that fleeting distortion—and the ache of satisfaction it sent throbbing through her heart.

Everyone was vain at heart. She loved knowing that the mere warmth of her palm against that knee could elicit such a response.

Wen Zenian continued reading, her gaze flicking sidelong to Meng Ning.

That face was so deceptively innocent. Her lashes were long but not thick, lending an air of pure sincerity. Under the room’s soft lighting and the moonlight spilling in from the terrace, her features looked impossibly clean, her dark eyes clear as a shallow brook.

She appeared so well-behaved, yet her palm rubbed gently at Wen Zenian’s knee.

The only tells of her inner turmoil were her slightly lowered lashes and the occasional catch in her breath.

And so Wen Zenian realized that Meng Ning was fixated on her knees.

Meng Ning suspected her decadent little obsession had first stirred back in the staff cafeteria, when Wen Zenian had appeared and nudged her leg with her knee under the table.

Now, sitting beside her, actually stroking that delicate knee with her palm confirmed it: she craved this beyond measure.

The slightly textured silk stocking evoked the softness of Wen Zenian’s skin beneath.

She switched to tracing circles with her fingertips, listening as Wen Zenian’s breaths shifted in rhythm with her touch.

Meng Ning leaned close to her ear. “I like you in stockings.”

“But take them off now, okay?”

The sci-fi story evoked the vastness of the cosmos and humanity’s insignificance within it—perhaps only desire could withstand the void’s capricious emptiness.

The long-pile carpet was cleaned daily, soft and pristine beneath Meng Ning as she knelt with her legs tucked neatly together. She wanted to kiss Wen Zenian’s knee.

She adored Wen Zenian’s slender neck, her soft earlobes. And her knees.

She’d noticed they all shared something in common.

They were the body’s fragile spots. A light touch sent blood rushing there, blooming in vivid red.

Wen Zenian’s knee was like that now: skin so thin it revealed the graceful lines of bone beneath. Meng Ning’s kisses left it glistening, like a branch of kapok flowers knocked askew.

It was a mesmerizing hue, caught between crimson and pink—like the flush on a classical beauty’s cheeks after a few cups of light wine.

Meng Ning looked up.

Wen Zenian’s cheeks bore the same tint, giving her a drunken glow.

Wen Zenian was probably a little angry.

Meng Ning always teased her to the brink but stubbornly refused to remove her Buddha beads. Wen Zenian had her lie on a bath towel while she knelt before her.

In that moment, Wen Zenian held nothing back.

Those elegantly thin lips, usually so refined, had no qualms about reminding her: “Meng Ning, remember? I said I like hearing your voice.”

The sci-fi story was finished, leaving nothing to distract Meng Ning tonight. Yet something else tugged at her thoughts, drifting in silken threads—

Wen Zenian kneeling on the sofa—had the flush on her knee deepened?

Meng Ning lost focus, and Wen Zenian’s irritation grew.

Some rewards began to feel like punishments. Or perhaps certain punishments had always been rewards in disguise.

Later, as she cleaned up in the bathroom, Meng Ning reflected on why she’d teased Wen Zenian so relentlessly tonight.

She realized it was her possessiveness at work.

Emerging from the bathroom, the next words out of her mouth were: “In public from now on, we should tone it down a bit.”

Deep down, she was reluctant to draw that line of reason between their wanton dreamscape.

Wen Zenian asked, “How have I not been toning it down?”

“It’s not just you—it’s us.” Meng Ning was always quick to self-reflect. “Qi Xiao could already tell we were making eyes at each other.”

Wen Zenian let out a short laugh.

Meng Ning wondered which part of her words had lifted Wen Zenian’s mood. Was it “making eyes at each other”?

But Wen Zenian clarified: “I like hearing you say ‘us.'”

Meng Ning paused.

There was another reason for her boldness tonight. She always felt their connection was fixed in balance: more desire meant less tenderness, and vice versa.

Wen Zenian said, “Qi Xiao probably won’t mention it to anyone else.”

Meng Ning nodded. “I’m worried that if even Qi Xiao noticed, someone more observant might pick up on it—and that wouldn’t look good for you.”

Wen Zenian asked, “You’re worried about me? Not about how it affects you?”

Meng Ning grinned easily at that. “I’m about to quit anyway. What’s there to fear?”

“Quit to go traveling, and then what? Come back from your trip and leave the hotel industry altogether?”

“Who knows.” Meng Ning’s smile grew even more carefree. “Probably not. I’ve had enough here—I might go as far as possible, fall for some Nordic country, snag a work visa, and never come back.”

Wen Zenian’s expression cooled. “Mm. No lingering attachments at all. Weren’t you always like that with me before?”

Meng Ning froze, but Wen Zenian had already changed the subject. “Got it. Thanks for thinking about the fallout for me. I’ll tone it down.”

The way she said “tone it down” sounded off, alerting Meng Ning that she was upset.

Meng Ning hesitated, tempted to cross over, grip Wen Zenian’s shoulders, and comfort her.

But Qi Xiao’s teasing words echoed in her ears: “Just like dating.”

They could harbor feelings beyond desire, but anything resembling love was off-limits.

Too much emotion was always dangerous.

It bred hesitation, schemes. In the end, you wouldn’t even recognize yourself.

So Meng Ning curled her fingers back and pretended not to notice. “Then I’ll head out first.”

The next morning, after early training, Meng Ning and Qi Xiao went to the staff cafeteria for breakfast.

That day, they sat with Meng Ning facing the serving counter from afar and Qi Xiao with her back to it. Despite her favorite waffles on offer, Qi Xiao kept twisting around for glances—one bite, one look back.

Meng Ning tapped her knuckles lightly on the table. “What are you staring at? Careful not to choke.”

Qi Xiao winked at her. “What do you think I’m looking at?”

Thanks to their seating, Meng Ning spotted Wen Zenian entering the cafeteria first.

She wore her usual business suit, outlining her straight shoulders and slim waist—a stark contrast to last night, when she had arched her back slightly as Meng Ning peeled off her stockings.

Qi Xiao noticed her only when she was at the counter.

She hissed under her breath in quick bursts: “Here she comes, here she comes, here she comes.” Somehow she’d mastered lip-reading—or at least mimed it silently to avoid drawing eyes. People would go to great lengths, pick up all sorts of skills, for a front-row seat to the gossip.

Meng Ning buried herself in slicing her waffle, the knife scraping faint sounds against her plate. She reminded herself to dwell on Wen Zenian’s knee, still faintly red beneath her stockings, but her mind kept drifting to the tone in Wen Zenian’s voice last night when she’d said “tone it down.”

She hadn’t gone over to squeeze her shoulder. She’d just left, pretending ignorance.

Now she couldn’t help observing Wen Zenian’s expression from afar.

Qi Xiao whispered, “Why hasn’t she come over yet? I’ve been prepped forever.”

She flashed a toothy grin, feigning casual nonchalance and zero gossip-fueled nerves, ready to say to Wen Zenian: “Morning, Gwyneth.”

But Meng Ning said, “She won’t come over.”

“Huh?”

Qi Xiao twisted to check and saw Wen Zenian sitting with the Italian general manager.

“Oh.” No front-row gossip for Qi Xiao. The tension eased, though disappointment lingered. “Probably work stuff to discuss.”

It was hardly suspicious for Qi Xiao to sneak peeks at Wen Zenian—everyone was drawn to beauty, and countless staff stole glances at her in the cafeteria.

Meng Ning glanced over too.

Was it really just work talk, as Qi Xiao said?

She wasn’t sure. Wen Zenian’s expression didn’t look serious; if anything, it was relaxed.