Chapter 43 Part 2

Wen Zenian didn’t appear much; her Paris trip was probably locked in, leaving her swamped with work.

Meng Ning saw her again that second afternoon. The island had a small temple—modest in size but rich in history. Guests at the five-star hotel always made a point to visit.

The C Hotel group headed that way too.

Ancient trees towered overhead, sandalwood incense curling through the air. The moment one stepped inside, a profound sense of solemnity enveloped them. From afar, they could see the majestic Buddha statue in the main hall. Teammates whispered among themselves, “I hear the wishes granted here are quite miraculous.”

Everyone lit incense, whether devout or not, and bowed with sincerity.

Meng Ning waited alone outside the hall when she ran into Wen Zenian, who arrived a little late.

Wen Zenian had strikingly beautiful features, but clad in a light gray pantsuit and high heels, her face devoid of expression, she fit seamlessly with the temple’s ancient timber and vermilion walls. Nearby stood a banyan tree so massive it took two people to encircle its trunk, reputedly a century old. As she walked over, a breeze rustled its canopy with a soft hush.

It was like a divine sign.

Meng Ning avoided her gaze, leaning back against the white marble balustrade as she watched her teammates take turns paying respects in the main hall. Wen Zenian didn’t go to light incense; instead, she came to a stop beside Meng Ning.

No matter the setting, Wen Zenian always embodied the impeccable professionalism of a hotel manager, her posture ramrod straight, forming elegant, crisp lines. By contrast, Meng Ning’s slouched stance suddenly felt sloppy, prompting her to straighten up without thinking.

The banyan tree’s branches swayed again nearby, sunlight sifting down through the leaves amid the faint rustle, sounding for all the world like falling rain.

In the temple’s reverent hush, Wen Zenian kept her voice low. “Aren’t you going in to pay respects?”

Meng Ning shook her head.

Wen Zenian’s eyes flicked over, settling on the Buddha beads encircling Meng Ning’s wrist. “Not a Buddhist, then?”

It was only then that Meng Ning stole a quick glance at her, following the path of that gaze.

The subtle, tangled expression from last night’s embrace had vanished like dew evaporating in the sun. Wen Zenian’s lovely face had regained its customary calm poise.

Meng Ning let out a quiet breath of relief, her eyes drifting down to the fine cracks between the stone slabs, where a tender green sprout pushed up from a thin line of soil.

Wen Zenian was not one for smiles, but Meng Ning was. With a grin, she replied, “It’s exactly because I believe that I can’t just bow willy-nilly. There are proprieties to observe.”

Wen Zenian gave a small nod, holding that sparingly beautiful posture, her chin dipping ever so slightly in subtle acknowledgment.

Still uneasy from last night’s hug, Meng Ning seized the initiative. “Aren’t you going to pray? They say this place works wonders—for career success, romance…”

Wen Zenian cut in. “I don’t believe in Buddha.”

Meng Ning blinked. “…Oh.”

Sunlight filtered through the canopy overhead, taking on an eerie emerald hue in their eyes, laced with chill. Meng Ning stole glances at Wen Zenian’s profile, catching fleeting hints of the look hidden beneath those thick lashes.

The Wen Zenian of today wielded power like a force of nature, but only in moments like this could one glimpse echoes of her past.

In those hard years, how many times had she curled up on her narrow wooden bed under threadbare quilts?

Amid the damp chill of southern winters, shivering as a girl, how often had she whispered prayers to gods and Buddhas alike?

Had a single one ever answered?

And so here she stood now, in her impeccably tailored suit, a trace of cool impatience in her voice as she declared, “I don’t believe in Buddha.”

It wasn’t hard to picture: taken in by her aunt, long estranged from the family, she surely hadn’t been welcomed with open arms. Meng Ning could only imagine the careful steps she’d taken to claw her way to solid ground.

That was why her stance now was so upright, so defiant. Meng Ning sensed she placed her faith in no one—not gods, not people—but herself alone.

The chill around Wen Zenian flickered and faded.

Her voice softened back to its refined grace. “Shall we take a stroll?” Since neither of them was inclined to pray.

Meng Ning snapped back to the present. “Oh, yeah, sure.”

They walked out of the temple side by side.

Wen Zenian navigated high heels with expert ease, silent even amid the temple’s austere quiet. But once they stepped onto the stone path shaded by ancient trees, her stilettos clicked sharply against the stones, each tap striking like a needle to the heart.

At first, awkward about the previous night, Meng Ning had forced small talk back in the temple.

Yet a dream weaver needed no overt gestures or words to steer emotions. Now, strolling shoulder to shoulder along the woodland trail, the familiar tea notes of Wen Zenian’s perfume blended with the lingering temple incense, wrapping around them in tranquil hush—even the birds seemed at peace on their perches.

Hands clasped behind her back, Meng Ning found the silence rather pleasant.

Time had etched fine cracks into the weathered stone slabs, sunlight piercing the banyans and pines to cast mottled patterns. Head slightly bowed, Meng Ning marveled at Wen Zenian’s fixation on heels; even on a rugged mountain path, she showed no fear of turning an ankle.

Her eyes drifted down to those heels, then to Wen Zenian’s pale instep, where flecks of light danced like ink strokes on scented stationery, scripting verses of ethereal beauty.

Wen Zenian’s poise proved masterful; she neither twisted an ankle nor snapped a heel, as Meng Ning had half-expected.

But the laced high heels she wore that day had their laces come loose amid the uneven stones.

Meng Ning, who had been sneaking peeks, spotted it first.

On instinct, she dropped into a squat—but before her hand could move, realization hit: Damn it.

Even in this illusory dream, their connection surpassed mere flings, laced with extra tenderness and artifice. But such attentiveness clashed with her usual cool detachment.

Would Wen Zenian catch on?

Yet when she froze there on her haunches, Wen Zenian parted her lips. “What are you waiting for? Aren’t you going to tie it?”

Squatting beside her, Meng Ning couldn’t see her face, but the tone sounded perfectly casual.

She reached out and grasped Wen Zenian’s slender ankle.

True beauty was always fragile—like Wen Zenian’s neck or knees or this delicate ankle. Sun-kissed, her skin seemed almost translucent, liable to shatter at the slightest pressure.

Gently, Meng Ning refastened the thin lace, her fingertips quivering faintly as Wen Zenian’s gaze burned into her back, hot as the sunbeams flickering through the branches.

“Meng Ning.”

The voice held no form, no warmth, but her ears flushed anyway.

“Stand up.”

Wen Zenian’s tone always had a way of ensnaring the spirit. Meng Ning rose, her wrist caught in Wen Zenian’s grip as she was turned to face her. Dappled light from the dense woods enfolded them, while the ancient path beneath whispered tales of centuries past.

Meng Ning dreaded some overly sentimental words.

Instead, Wen Zenian asked, “Do you know why I brought you out here for a walk?”

“Uh?” Meng Ning’s mind went blank.

“Because,” Wen Zenian said, her afternoon pallor blooming into a smile, the tiny diamond earring in her lobe catching the light in a blinding sparkle amid the sternly silent pines and banyans— she alone flowered vivid and defiant, “some things just don’t suit a Buddhist sanctuary.”

With those words, soft lips met hers.

Behind them, the temple’s ancient bell tolled deeply, scattering the resting birds into flight. Yet in the shelter of the shadows, their kiss unfolded in perfect calm, underscored by the fading echoes and frantic wingbeats.

Meng Ning’s hands settled on Wen Zenian’s narrow waist— so slim her fingers nearly touched at the small of her back. The suit fabric felt taut and faintly coarse under her palms, evoking unyielding authority, yet her waist yielded so softly, as if melting between her hands.

Meng Ning cracked her eyelids open for a peek.

Sure enough, some of Wen Zenian’s techniques weren’t meant for holy ground. She was a virtuoso of kisses, her tongue coaxing past lips and teeth to twine and envelop, binding like a spell, dissolving like mist. Deep in the throes, her lashes quivered gently with the breeze-tossed light.

Meng Ning shut her eyes once more, her fingertips tracing lazy circles over the dip of Wen Zenian’s lower back.

Evidently, she’d been the only one hung up on last night’s embrace; Wen Zenian hadn’t given it a second thought.

Meng Ning cherished their present dynamic.

Laden with allure and flickers of tenderness. Brimming with desire that shoved longing aside.

Wen Zenian thrived on victory, had clawed her way from life’s barren wilds on that conviction alone. This dream with Meng Ning was her contest against her younger self, vengeance for old regrets and frustrations.

She held herself in check, rooted in place rather than closing the distance. A mere crook of her finger beckoned, awaiting Meng Ning’s helpless craving.

She craved Meng Ning’s surrender, her own clean escape.

Meng Ning’s indelible memory, her own swift forgetting.

Meng Ning granted her that much.

They returned to the temple, where the teammates had finished praying and moved on to inscribing wish plaques. Meng Ning drifted naturally to Qi Xiao’s side. “What’re you writing? Mind if I peek?”

“Go ahead, look all you want.” Qi Xiao finished her last stroke and waved the wooden plaque in front of her.

It read: “Promotion and raise. P.S.: Ideally without lifting a finger.”

“Tacky,” Meng Ning teased. “You’ve lost your pure-hearted artist vibe.”

Qi Xiao burst out laughing. “Please, don’t tell me you haven’t heard the new motto: Toy with my heart all you want—just not my wallet!”

Last night’s beachside confessions wouldn’t be aired in the light of day. They both played it off as if nothing had happened, burying the crash of shattered heartstrings under giggles.

Wen Zenian, meanwhile, gravitated toward an ancient cypress nearby.

She pored over the informational plaque, then tilted her head back to trace the gnarled branches. Her hands— pale and long-fingered, the ones Meng Ning had just caressed—clasped neatly behind her suited back.

So what if they’d trickled back separately?

No one would link them.

Only after Qi Xiao hung her plaque on the designated tree did she give Meng Ning a pointed once-over, feigning reluctance. “Meng Ning, and here I thought you were the honest one last night.”

“Your lips are swollen.”