Chapter 4

Qi Xiao had seen photos of Wen Zenian before.

But Wen Zenian was an intensely private person, and few professional photos of her circulated. The one image anyone could easily find online probably came from the corporate website—a tiny headshot much like a passport photo that turned blurry upon magnification.

At that moment, Qi Xiao stared fixedly at the stage. When Wen Zenian ascended gracefully, made her way to the center, and turned to face the audience, Qi Xiao clenched her fist and muttered a curse under her breath. “Damn it!”

She turned to Meng Ning. “Do you think she’s had plastic surgery?” Then she immediately contradicted herself. “Nah, no way. That face is way too naturally gorgeous!”

Meng Ning’s gaze drifted toward the stage at first indifferently, but it gradually sharpened the moment Wen Zenian swept her eyes in their direction.

Qi Xiao picked up on the shift. “What’s the matter? Finally found someone whose beauty can actually stun you?”

Meng Ning blanked out for half a second before forcing a smile. Only then did she realize her hand had unconsciously balled into a fist. Afraid Qi Xiao might notice anything more telling, she abruptly relaxed her grip. But the squeeze had been too forceful; her nails had already dug faint blood marks into her palm.

They traced perfectly along one of her palm lines, as if the mark had always been etched there.

Meng Ning lowered her head to examine the small wound, her mind racing. Why her, of all people?!

Up on the stage, the host presented the name box to Wen Zenian. “Please, Gwyneth, draw the colleague who’ll play the game with you.”

Wen Zenian reached in and drew one at random.

The host unfolded the slip. “Cara Mong.”

Meng Ning’s shoulders stiffened.

Beside her, Qi Xiao let out a low growl. “Your luck is ridiculous!”

Even then, Meng Ning kept her head bowed.

Qi Xiao prodded her. “What are you doing? She’s waiting for you up there.”

Meng Ning murmured, “I’m nervous.”

Qi Xiao burst out laughing. “Do you have some kind of beauty phobia or what? You’re a stunner yourself. Do you jump in fright every time you look in the mirror?”

She dissolved into uncontrollable laughter at her own quip. Perhaps buoyed by the slightly eased tension, Meng Ning finally raised her head.

The venue glittered with brilliant lights. Wen Zenian’s face shifted hues with the changing beams, at times engulfed in stark white glare. Meng Ning rose to her feet at last and made her way toward the stage.

Deep down, she clung to a fragile hope: Maybe it wasn’t that person. Maybe she’d been mistaken.

Yet Wen Zenian’s radiant aura pulled her onward like a moth hurtling toward flame. Between games, the live band filled the air with cello and harp, their melodies intertwining into something sacred, like a choir’s hymn.

Meng Ning took her place on stage. Wen Zenian regarded her and said, “I really didn’t see this coming.”

From this close, Meng Ning peered into Wen Zenian’s eyes and instinctively fluttered her own shut for an instant. She wasn’t an optimist; she should have known better. Moths to flame never met any other end.

She should have known.

The woman now standing beside her on stage was exactly who she had feared.

The host then presented the game project box. This time, it was Meng Ning’s turn to draw.

The strings played such a gentle melody, but her heart thundered out of sync, like drumbeats pounding against her spine. Her chest felt cavernously empty, reverberating with dull thuds.

Even subtropical winter brought no chill, and the blazing stage spotlights coated her forehead in a thin sheen of sweat.

The host unfolded her slip. “Now this is interesting.”

He signaled a game assistant, who delivered a balloon. “You two embrace and clamp this balloon between you. Carry it from one end of the stage to the other, and you’ve passed.”

The balloon was inflated to bursting, its surface so slick that even a mosquito couldn’t gain purchase. A loose hold would send it slipping free; too tight a squeeze, and it would pop with a bang, thrusting the players into an unexpected clinch.

Without a second thought, Meng Ning declined. “I forfeit.”

The crowd below erupted in hoots and jeers.

The host grinned. “This annual gala isn’t child’s play. Forfeit, and you drink three cups of absinthe.”

That very penalty had kept everyone playing so far—no one had voluntarily bowed out.

Meng Ning nodded resolutely. “Fine. I’ll drink.”

The audience’s uproar shifted tone. Someone willingly facing the absinthe turned into a fresh spectacle for the game segment.

Three cups of absinthe arrived. Brewed by the hotel’s head chef using ancient methods with genuine wormwood, anise, fennel, and some mystery herbs, the liquid gleamed with an uncanny emerald translucence that hinted at its potency.

Tasters agreed: it lived up to Oscar Wilde’s infamous quip—you could taste the cruelty of the world in every sip.

The host played the crowd masterfully. “Still time to change your mind.”

From her seat below, Qi Xiao waved frantically, urging Meng Ning to glance at Wen Zenian. Meng Ning shot a look toward the stage’s edge. There stood Wen Zenian in her form-fitting evening gown, unsmiling yet devoid of impatience. Catching Meng Ning’s eye, she dipped her chin ever so slightly.

The gesture said she was game.

But as Meng Ning turned back, she lifted the first cup straight to her lips and drained it.

Half a beat later, the crowd exploded. “Damn, that’s badass!” “Two more to go!”

Bitterness peaked into profound astringency, numbing the root of Meng Ning’s tongue. Still, she didn’t hesitate, grabbing the second cup and downing it to another wave of cheers.

By the third, the light tap of high heels approached. Meng Ning’s head swam a little. First, she registered a fair hand pressing her wrist—even the pale pink nails seemed to glow softly.

Then came the voice, low and close to her ear. “I’ll cover one for you.”

The host faltered. “Gwyneth, rules are rules: the one who forfeits takes the punishment.”

Wen Zenian shrugged one shoulder. Her features were quintessentially Eastern, elegantly intense in classic style. Only now did traces of Western influence appear. “Come on, a little team spirit never hurt.”

Meng Ning’s alcohol tolerance wasn’t the strongest, and the absinthe’s bitter aftertaste slowed her reactions.

Wen Zenian plucked the cup from her grasp, her fingertip grazing Meng Ning’s skin. In the next instant, she arched her neck into a graceful line and tossed back the entire contents with the same crisp efficiency.

The audience paused, stunned, before applause broke out amid murmurs. “Is this stuff not as brutal as they say?”

It was.

From the corner of her eye, Meng Ning stole a glance at Wen Zenian. A faint shimmer welled in her gaze.

She had seen that expression in those eyes once before.

Many, many years ago.

Meng Ning had never once drawn a prize at an annual gala; her luck must have run dry ages ago. This year proved no different. Hands empty, she trudged back to the dorms with Qi Xiao.

Qi Xiao griped, “Least you got picked to play onstage with Wen Zenian.”

Meng Ning said nothing.

Qi Xiao eyed her. “You drunk or something?”

Meng Ning pressed her temples. “A little.”

Qi Xiao shoved open the dorm door and fished a can of cola from the mini-fridge. “Here, drink this. I’m hitting the shower first.”

Meng Ning settled by the window and cracked open the can.

She always sat here gazing out, so one chair stayed perpetually angled just so. Moonlight and ocean waves struck her as kindred—both layered in pale silver, capable of cradling the world or devouring it whole.

Bubbles danced across her tongue, but they did nothing to cut the lingering astringency.

Wen Zenian’s scent carried that same faint bite.

After her shower, Qi Xiao flicked off the lights. Meng Ning closed her eyes. The last whisper echoing in her mind was Wen Zenian’s breath against her ear: “Dream of me tonight.”

The intonation felt like an incantation.

And dream of her she did.

Just like the evening’s real scene: Wen Zenian poised at the terrace railing, Meng Ning lingering at the banquet hall entrance.

But the dream diverged. Moonlight coalesced into solid waves, surging toward Wen Zenian. She remained serene, wineglass in hand, until the tide engulfed her. She vanished, leaving only shards of the shattered glass tumbling shoreward in the foam toward Meng Ning.

A sharp sting lanced Meng Ning’s cheek. She jolted awake.

In sleep, she’d slid off her pillow. Her phone screen bore a crack from a prior drop she’d never fixed. Now her cheek rested against it—perhaps a glass fragment had pricked her, the pain piercing. The phone went briefly silent, then shrilled with urgent beeps.

Qi Xiao flipped over irritably. Meng Ning scrambled up first. “Qi Xiao, rise and shine. Morning training.”

Qi Xiao mumbled groggily, “Five more minutes…”

Meng Ning headed to the bathroom first. Its lights bathed everything in bright, warm yellow. She leaned close to the vanity mirror and inspected her cheek. No sign of embedded glass.

She brushed her teeth, splashed her face with a handful of water, gathered her long hair into a ponytail, and secured it at her nape.

When she emerged, Qi Xiao had finally dragged herself upright. The two hurried to the beach. No speedboats disrupted practice today. Meng Ning crossed the finish line first. The team captain checked his stopwatch. She’d beaten the target by a full two minutes and fifty seconds.

The captain informed her, “First place today comes with an extra assignment.”

“What?”

He flashed a cryptic smile. “Look behind you.”

Meng Ning hesitated, then turned. The beach stretched empty under a hazy gray dawn; the sun hadn’t yet crested.

In that instant, some intuition made her glance upward.

Atop a sea rock sculpted by millennia of waves stood Wen Zenian alone. She wore an ink-blue pantsuit that nipped in at a slender waist. True to regulations, sheer stockings sheathed her legs, paired with standard six-centimeter stilettos and her long hair coiled into a neat updo, just as with last night’s gown.

No one dared jest with Wen Zenian, but the wind delighted in teasing her, repeatedly flicking a stray lock at her temple.

Thus, she repeated the gesture from their first encounter last night—tucking the strand behind her ear. Her fingertip traced the exquisite line of her neck as she turned her head, her posture laced with perfectly measured arrogance.

She didn’t smile. Meng Ning realized she no longer did.

Instead, she raised one hand toward Meng Ning, waggling her fingertips once, then twice.

The motions were minuscule. Then she lowered her hand and offered nothing more. Behind her, the first rays of sunrise swarmed, vying to envelop her.

She sought no light. The light came to her.