Chapter 44 Part 1

Wen Zenian, as a representative of management, had joined this experiential trip. She hadn’t been around last night, but she absolutely had to attend tonight’s farewell banquet.

The banquet was far more formal than the previous evening’s barbecue—though not quite formal enough to require evening gowns—at least the female team members had all donned skirts. For ease of movement, Meng Ning had skipped makeup and chosen a black shirt paired with jeans. She rolled up her sleeves just a bit and tied her long, straight black hair back behind her head as usual.

While waiting for Qi Xiao to finish doing her makeup, Meng Ning had idly speculated: Wen Zenian had worn a white suit yesterday, switched to a light gray one that afternoon—would she appear in a sleek black suit for tonight’s more formal occasion?

Black was a color that suited Wen Zenian perfectly, accentuating her striking features like a richly colored oil painting from the Renaissance.

But just as Meng Ning had guessed wrong about what coffee Wen Zenian had most wanted that morning, her prediction missed the mark again.

It wasn’t as if they were characters in some cheesy romance novel, complete with all those “uncanny” coincidences.

When Wen Zenian appeared at the entrance to the banquet hall, Meng Ning’s gaze followed everyone else’s. To her surprise, Wen Zenian had switched back to white.

Of course, white suited Wen Zenian too—not pristine and flawless, but the white of someone weathered by countless storms. What might have been a flat, single-note color on anyone else took on layers of aged elegance when she wore it, drawing the eye to imagine the vibrant hues that had blended into such a shade over the years.

Her slim-fit trousers for easy movement had been traded for wide-leg ones, making her waist look even slimmer and her legs endlessly long, with the pointed toe of a high heel just peeking out beneath the hem.

She took her seat at the head of the main table with natural poise, first inquiring casually to those on either side about their thoughts on the evening’s menu.

She didn’t smile, nor was she cold—merely possessed of a natural sense of distance.

The stark contrast tempted the mind to linger on memories of her furrowed brow and breathless gasps.

But Meng Ning fell into a different trap. White suit, she thought.

Sometimes “liking” someone wasn’t the cute, straightforward thing it seemed; it bred needless complications out of thin air.

She mused that Wen Zenian’s all-white ensemble tonight actually clashed with her own black shirt. If she stood at Wen Zenian’s side, she’d probably look like an ugly rest note slapped onto a beautiful score.

The thought struck her as utterly ridiculous.

In a public setting like this, what chance did she even have of standing beside Wen Zenian?

Once Wen Zenian had finished her inquiries, she rose to her feet. The banquet hall fell silent in an instant. Following tradition, she lifted a slender-stemmed crystal wineglass and lightly tapped it with an antique silver spoon adorned with floral engravings, drawing everyone’s attention.

The ornate silver spoon, the clear crystal glass, and her pale, slender fingers together formed a perfectly matched set of artistry.

Her toast was concise, nothing long-winded. Thanks to her habit of emphasizing key words, it held the listeners’ ears captive even without dramatic inflection.

Ju Mengya watched her deliver the toast. “We won’t get to see her much longer. What a shame.”

That day in Qi Xiao’s room, when Ju Mengya had brought it up, Qi Xiao had disagreed, while Meng Ning had been her ally. So now, she leaned in and whispered, “Right, Meng Ning?”

Meng Ning curved her lips into a smile. “Exactly.”

Qi Xiao shot her a glance from the corner of her eye and glared.

What an act.

Tonight’s banquet featured Chinese cuisine. Qi Xiao picked a quail egg from the cold appetizer plate and dropped it into the small bowl in front of Meng Ning. “Don’t chew it. Swallow it whole. Best if it gets stuck in your throat.”

Meng Ning: ?

In her mind, Qi Xiao added: Choke on it.

After her toast, Wen Zenian sat back down. Her posture remained impeccably straight and elegant, but Meng Ning knew that face too well. She could tell that Wen Zenian was genuinely exhausted these past few days—hints of weariness showed in the slight downward tilt of her eyes, lending a rare touch of allure to someone usually so tightly wound.

Meng Ning quickly looked away again.

Most five-star hotels loved their fusions: even with Chinese food, several round tables were arranged to enclose a central dance floor. The cellist was paired with a guitarist, their music soothing yet relaxed.

This had to be Wen Zenian’s doing. She was meticulous, impressively so.

The lifeguards usually bypassed the hotel’s main building, where the nightlife pulsed with music and revelry—a natural barrier. Tonight, though, it was their turf, formal enough without being oppressive.

Young people weren’t fond of baijiu or huangjiu, so the wine tonight was red—smooth as velvet on the tongue. It prompted Meng Ning to glance at the bottle’s label.

Qi Xiao noticed Meng Ning’s distraction all evening and murmured, “What are you thinking about?”

Meng Ning shook her head. “Nothing. Just zoning out.”

At that moment, Ju Mengya and the others were chatting. “How about a drinking game? Winner gets to ask Gwyneth for a dance.”

The legendary figure from corporate HQ had descended on the C Hotel, and now she was leaving—yet no one seemed any closer to her.

With a few glasses of red wine under their belts, the group’s boldness surged. “Sure! But what if she turns you down?”

“Then there’s nothing for it. Worth a shot, right?”

Ju Mengya grinned, grabbing the wine bottle to pour for everyone. When she reached Meng Ning, Qi Xiao reached out to block her. “Meng Ning’s stomach isn’t feeling great. She’s sitting this one out.”

To the others, it was a wine-fueled challenge.

To Meng Ning, it was torture.

Qi Xiao hadn’t missed it: Meng Ning only looked at Wen Zenian when everyone else did. Once attention shifted to food or chatter, so did her gaze.

With nowhere else to land, it fixed on the quail egg Qi Xiao had just served her.

Qi Xiao’s heart soured like the wine-marinated appetizers, turning puckered and tart.

She pitied her own kind—unable to fathom why some affections demanded such restraint, even in the eyes.

Meng Ning understood her meaning perfectly but tugged her elbow with a smile. “My stomach feels much better now.”

Qi Xiao gripped her wineglass tighter, refusing to let go.

What was this? Why did everyone insist on rubbing salt in their own wounds? So heroic?

Amid the weaving music and lively banter, the banquet hall buzzed pleasantly. Meng Ning’s lips moved faintly as she leaned close to Qi Xiao and whispered, “First chance to dance with her.”

Qi Xiao’s heart twinged sharply again.

Why did Meng Ning say “first time” with the tone of “last time”?

Why did life cloak so many endings in the guise of beginnings?

Qi Xiao silently released Meng Ning’s glass, watching Ju Mengya fill it with a smile.

Truth be told, Qi Xiao had never seen Meng Ning persist at anything.

When they ate together, she was indifferent to the menu.

When they watched movies, the choice didn’t matter to her.

Qi Xiao had known her for over two years now. At first, she’d thought her aloof; later, easygoing. On reflection, that easygoing nature masked profound indifference.

But tonight, she downed every glass Ju Mengya poured.

Someone joked, “Meng Ning, you that eager to ask Gwyneth to dance?”

Meng Ning swirled her glass. “This wine’s too good to waste.”

Qi Xiao sat beside her in prolonged silence until Ju Mengya set down the bottle and waved her hand. “Meng Ning, since when do you hold your liquor like this? I never knew.”

Everyone treated it like a game, much like morning drills—not that she outdid them in skill, but her total commitment often left her the winner.

“Meng Ning, give it a go. See if Gwyneth turns you down.”

No one really saw victory as a “prize,” anyway—Wen Zenian exuded distance at a glance.

Meng Ning had no idea if Wen Zenian would refuse her.

All their intimacies had been like that underwater kiss—hidden from sight.

She stood, swaying slightly. Qi Xiao steadied her with a hand. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

Her mind was unusually clear, though the skin from her eye corner to her temple burned hot.

She wasn’t even sure of her own tolerance.

There had been a stretch in her life when she’d drunk heavily every day. Some nights, two beers sent her heaving into oblivion; others, a jin of baijiu barely touched her, leaving her clear-eyed till dawn.

Wen Zenian’s table was far across the room; reaching it meant crossing the entire dance floor.

The cello and old guitar blended in a resonant hum that vibrated through the heart.

As Wen Zenian had once said of her childhood self, Meng Ning had been outgoing and exuberant—speeches and performances aplenty. But truly, it had been years since she’d done anything so bold.

Others might peg her as naturally reserved, but Wen Zenian clearly noted the change without ever prying. Would she be surprised if Meng Ning approached like this tonight?

Yet if cello and guitar could harmonize, what did it matter if white suit and black shirt clashed?

She was greedy, she knew—a truth she’d grasped young.

She didn’t need Wen Zenian to remember her. But beyond Qi Xiao, she hoped maybe two or three others, years from now, hearing a similar melody, might suddenly recall two mismatched figures once sharing a dance.

She never took photos with Wen Zenian.

She hadn’t even saved her phone number.

She only wanted her affection to leave the tiniest trace—the smallest trace.

Her head wasn’t spinning, but the heat from her eye corner to temple intensified, her lash roots scorching, so much that she didn’t notice someone approaching with a wineglass until they bumped into her.

“Sorry!” the person apologized hastily.

She froze for a second, then her tense shoulders eased as she smiled. “No problem.”

Glancing down at her black shirt, now spotted with red wine stains.

She turned and headed out of the banquet hall to the restroom, wetting a paper towel to dab at it.

She wasn’t angry—not even annoyed.

Perhaps she already knew life rarely granted wishes. Perhaps heaven itself signaled that her black shirt didn’t match Wen Zenian’s white suit.

She paused, the stubborn stains unyielding. She didn’t bother anymore, just brushed off the ugly lint from the paper.

Perhaps her calm stemmed from something else.

Even without the spill, as she crossed the dance floor—past the band, past the growing stares realizing her intent, past Wen Zenian’s gaze flickering with surprise and confusion…

Would she have made it all the way?

She was greedy. But she was also a coward.

Someone like Qi Xiao would confess regardless, even knowing it fruitless. But she couldn’t—she dared not let Wen Zenian notice. She wanted it a dream to wake from and forget.

Even if Wen Zenian remembered her a little more, she couldn’t bear that weight.

The banquet broke up, but Meng Ning lingered until midnight before heading to Wen Zenian’s room.

Amid her increasingly tangled emotions, their lovemaking had become the simplest thing of all.

She went to the bathroom to clean up. When she turned her back to Wen Zenian to get dressed, she caught sight of a Paris C Hotel brochure on the bedside table out of the corner of her eye.

Wen Zenian had been so commanding—almost stern—while she’d had her way with her. But afterward, she seemed soft and fragile, as if she’d truly exhausted herself.