Chapter 46 Part 1

Meng Ning found the whole situation a bit absurd.

With her life experience, was she really the type to put stock in birthday wishes? Counting that previous silent one, if she spoke up now, it would be the third time.

That felt too earnest, too solemn.

The movie kept playing on the projection, but she suddenly lost her grasp on the plot. The Eiffel Tower, windows bathed in morning light, and enigmatic postmodern sculptures along the riverbank slid past her eyes like a slideshow.

Wen Zenian didn’t bring it up again. She didn’t press.

When Meng Ning finally couldn’t resist glancing her way, she saw Wen Zenian slowly dismantling her updo. Her gaze still flicked toward the projection, her expression faintly distracted yet rational. The remnants of alcohol and sleep lingered only in a subtle sheen in her eyes—and maybe, too, in the faint flush at their corners.

As if someone had delicately dabbed rouge there.

Wen Zenian’s thin lips parted slightly. “Come here.”

Only after speaking did she turn fully toward Meng Ning, as though reluctantly tearing herself away from the film’s storyline.

Yet she didn’t ask Meng Ning to hit pause.

Meng Ning walked over and stood by the bedside. Wen Zenian said, “Sit.”

She cradled her bun with one hand. Meng Ning glanced at the nightstand, where six small clips already lay. Wen Zenian’s right hand had dropped, and she looked at her. “Will you help me?”

Shifting shadows and light played across her face, transforming her into part of the film.

On impulse, Meng Ning said, “Say something in French.”

Wen Zenian lifted the corner of her mouth in one of those fleeting smiles. Her expression always stayed calm and rational, her thin lips conveying intelligence and aloofness. But now they parted slowly. “Vous pouvez m’aider?”

Her lowered voice was perfect for French.

Meng Ning slipped her hand into Wen Zenian’s hair. She hadn’t had many chances to touch it like this. During their intimate moments, Wen Zenian sometimes undid her bun, sometimes not—she was usually the one in control, stroking Meng Ning’s loose black locks and murmuring, “Shh, it’s okay.”

Wen Zenian wasn’t the patient type. But when Meng Ning trembled like a fledgling without a nest, Wen Zenian would stroke her hair again and again, whispering, “Shh, it’s okay.”

Meng Ning delved deeper into the intricate updo, searching bit by bit for the seventh clip. Wen Zenian’s thick, slightly wavy hair made it feel like a treasure hunt; the strands seemed alive, tangling with her fingers, reluctant to let go.

When she finally felt that small, hard object, she even fluttered her eyes shut for a moment.

The instant she pulled it free, Wen Zenian let her left hand drop. Her thick locks cascaded down in a rush. Wen Zenian was the most suited and least suited person in the world for an updo—restraining all her allure by day, waiting for the right one to unravel it.

“Sit on my lap,” she told Meng Ning.

Meng Ning wore thin athletic pants. She straddled Wen Zenian’s outstretched legs, knees parting on either side. She could almost imagine the texture of those white dress pants, smooth as cream.

Wen Zenian brushed her long hair, letting it fall more softly over her shoulders. Her shirt collar was just as yielding—not as crisp as usual after their brief nap. It had slipped to the left, revealing a long stretch of straight collarbone.

At its end sat a pale brown mole, like the first evening star on the horizon.

She was flawlessly dreamlike, even her mole placed just right—a touch of half-concealed allure.

Wen Zenian straightened up. Just as Meng Ning thought she might lean in for a kiss, her hands circled to the back of Meng Ning’s head instead. She undid her hair tie and set it with the pile of clips.

Then she reached out to tousle it, just as she had her own.

Her lips curved gently upward, but her eyes held no mirth—only intense focus on Meng Ning. That gaze was more captivating than any smile, carrying a depth of concentration you could feel.

But her next move was always unpredictable. She leaned back against the headboard, soft and relaxed. “Want to hear more French?”

Meng Ning stayed put. Wen Zenian leaned forward, unzipped the bag on the nightstand, and pulled out her phone.

She flashed Meng Ning a smile as she dialed.

The movie’s volume was low, and they sat so close that Meng Ning could hear the ringing tone. Then Wen Zenian pronounced a French name with a curled tongue—”Cloris,” presumably—her eyes fixed on Meng Ning as the fluent French flowed effortlessly from her lips.

Meng Ning knew from the tone that it was work talk.

What time was it in Paris? Was this a good time for business?

She had no idea.

Wen Zenian’s expression sharpened appropriately for work, but her gaze never left Meng Ning. Meng Ning’s eyes traced her fluttering thick lashes, her refined nose, her slender lips.

Then down to the limp collar, exposing that straight collarbone and the pale brown mole.

The movie played on beside them, Wen Zenian’s French occasionally drowning in the film’s dialogue. Meng Ning’s position blocked a sliver of projected light, somewhat blinding. She squinted at Wen Zenian on the call. Her face became part of the movie too, so Wen Zenian’s glances held a storyteller’s curiosity.

Her hair was coarse; fresh from the updo, it bore creases that gradually straightened as it hung over her shoulders. Wen Zenian held her earpiece to her ear with her right hand. Her pale left fingers reached up, twisting two loops around Meng Ning’s hair ends before releasing them.

The straightened strands regained a subtle curve.

The film shifted from night to day; the light brightened, turning the room into an endless white night. Meng Ning squinted and made her boldest move yet—

While Wen Zenian was on the phone, she tugged open her shirt collar, fingertips grazing that collarbone she’d stared at all night.

The projected light didn’t pierce Wen Zenian, but now she was the one squinting.

Her hand withdrew from Meng Ning’s hair but didn’t stop her. It simply dropped limply to the edge of her pants, palm half-curled.

Her expression remained rational, not a flaw in her thin lips’ precise line. Her voice stayed quick, clear, and habitually low.

Only Meng Ning caught the way she dragged out the end of her words with a lingering note.

That was for her.

She ended the call and set the phone on the nightstand. Reaching out, she smoothed Meng Ning’s long hair over her shoulders, her tone like a stern teacher admonishing a student—yet too low and tender, laced with the cool mint of her lady’s cigarette. “Meng Ning, don’t wish me happiness.”

“Make me happy.”

The difference between a god and a dream weaver: one commands the heart, the other seduces it.

She issues no orders, merely plants ideas in your subconscious and weaves a beautiful dream around them.

Like Meng Ning now, knees straddling Wen Zenian’s lap, a beam of projector light stabbing one side of her face. Wen Zenian wasn’t rushed. After smoothing her hair, she adjusted her own shirt collar and leaned against the headboard, gazing at her calmly.

No use—it still hung loose over her shoulder. The folds had shifted slightly, drawing the eye even more insistently to that straight collarbone, locking finally on the pale brown mole.

Meng Ning swallowed hard.

After the call, only the French movie dialogue filled the room. Meng Ning understood what that phone call meant: Wen Zenian was hinting at her departure.

“Departure” was reason enough for indulgence.

Just as Meng Ning knew she herself would leave, which emboldened her to tumble into this dream with Wen Zenian.

Wen Zenian’s shirt was some impossibly silky fabric, like thick honey sliding down, pooling at the buttons.

Wen Zenian studied her.

One side of her face bathed in harsh light, tiny motes dancing around her lashes; the other shrouded in deep shadow, lashes half-lowered, as if concealing some desire.

Head bowed, Meng Ning couldn’t see Wen Zenian’s face—only her slender fingers, deftly undoing the button at the center of her gaze.

Flawless white curves emerged, wrapped in lace so exquisite it tempted one to cherish the box over the pearl.

Wen Zenian straightened her shirt placket. “Meng Ning, I won’t ask you anything.”

Of course.

Wen Zenian wasn’t truly interested in her—no desire to pry into her life and crack open her thick, stubborn shell. So she asked nothing personal, save whether Meng Ning would remember her.

To Wen Zenian, it was more like vengeful amusement, watching her change for her sake.

Meng Ning drew a deep breath.

Perhaps it really was their final moment before parting.

Perhaps Wen Zenian’s seduction had truly reached this point.

Perhaps she finally believed Wen Zenian had no curiosity about her life.

Dizzy with it all, she made her boldest move: slowly slipping off the Buddha beads.

They might never see each other again anyway.

If Wen Zenian noticed, so be it. She’d said herself she wouldn’t ask questions.

Eyes downcast, fingers trembling, Meng Ning set the beads beside the seven clips on the nightstand.

Wen Zenian drew her hand over slowly, interlacing their fingers, soft pads pressing against hers. Her low voice wove its spell. “Such a good girl.”

No questions—just a repeat: “Meng Ning, make me happy.”

Meng Ning didn’t move. She curved her lips in that poised, composed smile. “Aren’t you?”

She eased Meng Ning onto the pillows, switching places so she straddled Meng Ning’s lap, knees apart. Her pants remained impeccably tailored; only her shirt had one more button undone.

She stayed utterly composed, even brushing back her wavy locks cascading over her shoulders.

Perhaps it was that very poise that provoked Meng Ning.

Humans had their flaws, after all—hence the perfect makeup and exquisite clothes to mask a heart pounding with raw desire. Among those desires, greed was one; the urge to destroy, another.

Who didn’t crave to drag a goddess down to earth? Who didn’t yearn to pluck the high flower from its pedestal?

Meng Ning sat up slowly, leaning against the headboard where Wen Zenian had been. One arm wrapped around her lower back, fingertips brushing fine fabric—a reminder of how lofty, how proudly self-possessed the woman in her arms was.

She pulled Wen Zenian’s waist closer, adjusting their positions.

Wen Zenian thought Meng Ning was truly something—her face stayed serene and quiet even now, tinged with a hint of shyness.

Her gaze swept across Wen Zenian’s face before dropping, fixating on the button of her slacks.

Tortoiseshell in color, edged with dark metal, even that single button exuded exceptional elegance. With an air of innocence, Meng Ning reached out and brushed her fingers over it, feeling its cool surface against her skin.