She turned around with a smile. “All done.”
Wen Zenian nodded faintly. “Thank you.”
Meng Ning breathed a sigh of relief. Good—Wen Zenian wouldn’t treat these tiny things like a big deal.
Wen Zenian said, “Then I’ll go change.”
Meng Ning let out a soft “mm,” walked over to the window to draw the curtains for her, and then leaned back against the wall with her hands clasped behind her.
She didn’t bother turning on the lights. The afternoon sunlight streamed in too clearly, and once the curtains were pulled, the room plunged into a hazy gray, reminiscent of twilight.
Wen Zenian didn’t shy away. She stood by the bedside and slipped off her casual T-shirt.
Meng Ning started to look away, but it felt too contrived. After all, the bedsheets had been changed last night—yeah, way too contrived.
She didn’t stare deliberately, just let her gaze drift aimlessly through the dimness.
It had to be because Wen Zenian was so pale that the black lace encircling her slender back made her skin gleam even whiter, like a vast snowy expanse drawing every eye. Meng Ning avoided the graceful curves of her figure and fixed instead on the faint outline of her spine visible beneath.
That shape was familiar. Every time Wen Zenian showed her no mercy, Meng Ning’s slender fingers would climb across that same expanse of back, drawing out those faint sounds—half sob, half sigh of pleasure.
But now, gazing at it…
Somehow, it felt like a story, full of rises and falls.
She wanted to read Wen Zenian. With her fingers, or her eyes—it didn’t matter.
Wen Zenian pulled on the crisp button-down shirt. Its stiff tailoring only accentuated her softness. As she fastened the buttons, she shot Meng Ning a sidelong glance, as if trying to guess what nonsense was running through her mind.
Meng Ning ducked her head and chuckled.
It made Wen Zenian think she was being lustful—which seemed a touch better than having Wen Zenian uncover those odd thoughts of hers.
Wen Zenian’s movements as she stepped into her slacks were graceful as a mermaid’s, transforming the room into a silent sea all their own—a dim haven amid the bright afternoon light. Then she shrugged on her suit jacket and walked over.
“What are you doing?” Meng Ning asked with a laugh.
“Kissing you,” Wen Zenian said bluntly. Her soft lips pressed forward.
The kiss left Meng Ning dazed, as if they were locked together beneath the sea, shimmering waves rippling across their hands and faces. The ocean cradled eternity, origins, and promises that seemed unbreakable.
What did it matter if Wen Zenian kissed her like this? Wen Zenian only thought her lustful anyway. She wasn’t losing out—getting handsy let her keep up her persona. But Wen Zenian was more forceful than expected. She drew Meng Ning’s waist in lightly and pinned her slender wrists behind her back.
“Why are you squirming?” Wen Zenian scolded, though it came out like a murmured endearment. Her voice, husky and low, only deepened Meng Ning’s haze.
“Open the curtains,” she pleaded, desperate to break the surface before she drowned.
Wen Zenian probably feared losing control herself. She didn’t linger, just nipped lightly at Meng Ning’s tongue tip. One hand still held her wrists captive behind her as she reached past to yank the curtains open.
Sunlight flooded in. The dark sea receded in an instant, laying bare every hidden intention.
Meng Ning averted her eyes. Wen Zenian gently tilted up her chin. “Did I bite too hard?”
She shook her head. Wen Zenian gave a faint sigh. “I just can’t help biting you. What am I going to do?”
Fortunately, Wen Zenian held back—always limiting her bites to places no one else would see.
Then she changed tack. “Though you like biting me even more. You’re not the one losing out.”
Meng Ning: …
It was true. And she wasn’t as restrained as Wen Zenian. Sober, she’d kiss Wen Zenian’s knee; lost in the moment, she’d sink her teeth into her neck. In a sulky huff, she’d think: She has that great concealer, doesn’t she?
Wen Zenian released her hands. Meng Ning tugged self-consciously at her shirt collar. “It’s broad daylight out there.”
Wen Zenian laughed, amused. “Who was it that wanted to get handsy just now?”
Her usually impeccable updo had come slightly unraveled while changing. She asked Meng Ning, “Can you do an updo?”
“No.”
Wen Zenian gently tugged loose the pins securing it.
Meng Ning let out a deliberately plaintive “ow.” “I can only manage simple styles like this one. Yours is too complicated—I really can’t.”
“Then I’ll teach you.”
Wen Zenian sat down at the desk and turned the room’s single mirror toward them. Meng Ning stood behind her, peering down into the glass. Fragments of their bodies crowded into its small round frame.
Disordered, like a painting thrown together wrong.
Wen Zenian cradled the bun with one hand while plucking out the slender clips one by one with the other.
Meng Ning remembered there were seven. In Buddhist lore, seven was a number of fate.
Once all the clips were out, Wen Zenian smoothed her hair and said, “What are you daydreaming about? Come help.”
Meng Ning played stubborn. “I told you I can’t.”
“I’ll teach you.”
Wen Zenian held the bun in place. “Hand me a clip.”
Meng Ning did. Wen Zenian took her wrist, her thumb brushing lightly over the pulse point as she guided her hand into the misty cascade of hair. “Right there. Secure it.”
The strands were so silky—if they slipped into her grasp, they’d flow away like a waterfall.
By the time the first six clips were in place, Wen Zenian lifted her wrist one last time. “Getting the hang of it?”
“Mm.”
For a normal couple, this might have led to a playful quip: “Then you can do mine from now on.”
But Wen Zenian never spoke of the future.
A dream weaver’s honesty could be cruel. They never promised the world after the dream faded.
Meng Ning blinked, her fingertips gliding through the smooth locks as she slotted the final clip home.
Their hands fell away together. The updo was flawless once more.
She gazed at Wen Zenian’s reflection in the mirror.
In the Buddhist scriptures, the Buddha took seven steps at birth, lotuses blooming beneath his feet—the first six through the six realms, the seventh to enlightenment.
She had indeed realized something profound while fastening that seventh clip, a revelation that rang through her soul like thunder. But her lips parted, and what came out was: “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
“Mm,” Wen Zenian replied evenly as she rose from the chair. “Not walking me out?”
Meng Ning shook her head.
Wen Zenian curved her lips in a half-smile. “Then, goodbye.”
She grabbed her bag and left, closing the door gently behind her for Meng Ning.
Meng Ning sank into the chair Wen Zenian had just vacated, still warm with her body heat and faint with her scent. If she stood and peered out the window now, she could watch Wen Zenian step out of the alley and into her waiting car.
But she didn’t. She sat there thinking:
Those hair clips were so fine, so tiny. Perfectly insignificant—like another small, meaningless task she’d done for Wen Zenian.
Wen Zenian didn’t head straight to meet the investor. Instead, she had the car pause at a high-end mall.
She rarely shopped domestically, but as she stepped inside, her polished outfit and refined air drew an eager sales associate. “How can I help you?”
“A suit set, plus a shirt,” she said coolly. “For business. I need to change right away.”
“Understood.” The associate, experienced, quickly fetched a set for her approval.
Wen Zenian didn’t check the price tag. The style and size suited her perfectly; she had the tags removed and headed into the fitting room.
She emerged, scanned to pay, and the associate said attentively, “I’ve packed your old clothes in a dust bag for you.”
“Good. Thank you.”
She left the mall briskly and slid back into the car. “Let’s go.”
At another five-star hotel in the city, she met her colleagues. “Have you compiled those clauses I revised this morning?”
“Yes.” Her assistant handed over a tablet, the praise sincere. “That suit looks great on you.”
“Mm.”
Her high heels clicked crisply over the marble-patterned floor, a rhythm she knew well. This was the life she was most at home in, yet when she murmured that “mm,” she faltered for a split second, her nose stinging.
They said the north was full of willow fluff this time of year—must be some drifting south, too.
Irritating her sinuses.
The group entered the lounge, a business setting artfully disguised as casual. She took her seat with poise, her slender fingers adjusting her lapel—a subtle assertion of authority. From a psychological standpoint, every gesture and microexpression sent its message.
Meng Ning would never know.
How could she possibly show up to meet an investor in yesterday’s suit? Skipping a change on day two would betray her private life and breach business etiquette.
Meng Ning had stood with her back to her, wielding a handheld steamer to press out every crease in the suit and slacks.
In that subtle pause as she lowered her hand—what had Meng Ning been thinking?
“Gwyneth?”
“Sorry.”
She shouldn’t let her mind wander during negotiations. She reined in her thoughts and focused on the discussion.
By coincidence, as she accompanied the investor back to the island on a speedboat, Meng Ning and Qi Xiao’s boat had arrived just ahead.
Meng Ning had already stepped onto the dock and walked a short distance ahead when she apparently heard the noise behind her and glanced back.
Her slim figure, backpack slung over her shoulders, faded into the gray-orange dusk. That afternoon, pulling the curtains in Meng Ning’s bedroom, they’d shared that very light. But now true dusk had fallen, and their roles had reverted: beach lifeguard and administrative manager.
Meng Ning’s small, palm-sized face was indistinct at that distance in the fading light. Wen Zenian sensed a flicker of surprise, but she turned away quickly and continued on with Qi Xiao.
From the side, she looked like she was smiling.
Wen Zenian was mid-conversation with the investor, so she could spare only half her attention for Meng Ning—wondering if that odd expression had been a trick of her imagination.
It wasn’t until they reached the hotel entrance that Wen Zenian suddenly realized:
The suit she was wearing wasn’t the one Meng Ning had ironed for her.
When Wen Zenian returned to her room, the housekeeper was delivering the suit she’d left on the speedboat.
“The usual—send it for dry cleaning?”
Exhausted, Wen Zenian’s mind was sluggish. She nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
The housekeeper smiled politely. “I’ll take it right away. Sorry for the interruption.”
“Wait.”
The housekeeper turned. After a moment’s hesitation, Wen Zenian called her back. “No need for cleaning yet. Just leave it with me—thank you.”
She carried the paper bag into the bedroom. The wardrobe was black rosewood, its rattan accents lending a touch of whimsy to its stately presence.
She fetched a hanger and carefully hung up the suit and slacks, sliding them into the closet. The Administrative Suite was spacious, with ample storage—and this wasn’t her usual wardrobe, so it hung alone in the empty space.
