Chapter 46 Part 2

Sometimes Wen Zenian truly felt that Meng Ning was still like a sheltered college student, one who had never ventured beyond the pristine confines of her ivory tower.

But her next action was far from innocent—and at that moment, the serene expression on Meng Ning’s face remained utterly unchanged. She even remembered fishing that small blue box out of Wen Zenian’s bag.

Then she buried her face against Wen Zenian’s chest and took a deep breath first.

As if to conceal some subtle motion of her hands.

Wen Zenian held her by the shoulders, her head nestled against the side of Meng Ning’s face. Only then did Meng Ning realize just how soft Wen Zenian’s body was, boneless and pliant, as if it might melt away in her arms at any instant.

She loved this position. She loved the way Wen Zenian’s lips brushed near her ear, letting her catch the faint, husky undertones in her breath.

Meng Ning tilted her head up to kiss Wen Zenian’s chin. “Breathe. Remember to breathe.”

Those were words Wen Zenian had murmured to her countless times before. Now Meng Ning returned them.

She parted Wen Zenian’s cascading long hair to study her face. The poised composure of a master strategist finally showed its first cracks. Wen Zenian’s skin was so fair and delicate that the rush of blood beneath it was visible, tinting her nearly translucent complexion.

In the depths of their most intimate connection, it became a subtle battle of wills—neither willing to yield first.

When the moment truly arrived, Wen Zenian’s usually soft lips grew tight. She let out a sigh. “Meng Ning.”

But Meng Ning adored the way she said her name in that tone.

“My slacks,” Wen Zenian said.

Her words hung in that tantalizing limbo.

Meng Ning’s expression stayed calm, but her free hand smoothed back Wen Zenian’s thick, tumbling locks. She kissed her chin again and said steadily, “No taking them off.”

Meng Ning loved seeing Wen Zenian in a button-down shirt and slacks.

Not worn in prim perfection, but just like this.

Seriousness contrasting her current vulnerability. Restraint amplifying her present abandon.

The shirt and slacks still clung to her body, evoking memories of her everyday poise: striding through the elegant lobby of a five-star hotel in high heels, conversing calmly and gracefully with every staff member, her waves and smiles so measured, as if reluctant to squander even a fraction more beauty on the world.

But now, a fierce blush bloomed across her face, her hand braced on Meng Ning’s shoulder.

Meng Ning gazed at her swan-like neck.

Beautiful and fragile, she thought, liable to snap at any moment—which was why her breaths came out so alluring, so perilously close to drowning.

When Meng Ning tried to get out of bed, Wen Zenian locked her arms around Meng Ning’s shoulders. “Don’t move.”

She rested against Meng Ning’s shoulder, looking exhausted, her long hair draping down into the collar of Meng Ning’s T-shirt. With each breath, the strands teased and tickled.

Until she finally straightened, caught her breath, slid off the bed, and—with her back to Meng Ning—pulled her slacks back on.

Her legs seemed unsteady; she leaned against the nearby wall before beginning to fasten her shirt buttons one by one.

Meng Ning sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up slightly, head bowed, a picture of bewilderment and unease. From Wen Zenian’s vantage, she had a clear view of the black mandala tattoo on the nape of her neck.

Wen Zenian’s lips were still faintly swollen from Meng Ning’s attentions, her voice soft as she spoke in idle tones. “Do you really believe in Buddhism?”

Even as she watched Meng Ning wipe her hands clean and wordlessly wind the Buddha beads back around her wrist.

Truth be told, the instant Meng Ning removed those beads, any claim to faith fell apart.

Wouldn’t a true believer know the words: “Our bodies, from hair to skin, are gifts from our parents—we dare not harm them”?

Wen Zenian didn’t ask about the serpentine scar snaking across her wrist; it didn’t look like something inflicted on purpose by human hands. Nor did she pry into Meng Ning’s past. She merely asked airily, “Aside from the devout, who else wears Buddha beads all the time?”

Only then did Meng Ning let out a chuckle, her tone as amiable as ever. Wen Zenian didn’t even need to see her face to picture the easy curve of her smile. “Liars who talk nothing but bullshit.”

The kind peddling fake antiques, premium teas, or porcelain knockoffs.

She kept the second half to herself, murmuring it only in her mind: “And souls steeped in despair.”

Wen Zenian laughed too, as if amused. “What about you? Are you one of those bullshit artists?”

“I…” Meng Ning’s lips quirked upward. “Maybe. It’s easier if people think I’m one of the good ones—saves me a ton of hassle.”

She glanced back. Wen Zenian had finished buttoning her shirt perfectly, the hem tucked neatly into her slacks. “Don’t you want a shower? Qi Xiao and Song Xiao are out cold. They won’t come wandering.”

Wen Zenian pushed away from the wall, straightened, gathered her long hair, and rummaged in her bag for a cigarette. She glanced at Meng Ning. “Mind if I smoke?”

Meng Ning nodded.

She arched a brow. “No lighter.”

“Ah.” Meng Ning scrambled out of bed. “Right.”

She dug out her own lighter and sparked the flame for her. Wen Zenian had worked up a sweat earlier; the perfume on her skin had mellowed, but her natural scent intensified, mingling with her hair to tease Meng Ning’s nose.

Wen Zenian sauntered to the window, drew back the curtains, and shoved it open halfway.

Cool night air rushed in, laced with the first hints of spring.

She propped half her body against the frame, one arm crossed over her chest, the other angled lazily with a slim white cigarette pinched between her fingers. She twisted to eye the movie flickering on the wall.

Nearly over, it seemed. Meng Ning followed her gaze. The disjointed plot left her disoriented, as if the world had spun forward a thousand years while her back was turned.

The scene itself felt dreamlike. Low murmurs of French dialogue filled the room, but with the window open, the grit of an old domestic neighborhood bled into Paris’s bohemian streets. Before long, the area below would swarm with vendors hawking goods, haggling loudly over the freshness of live geese and oysters.

Wen Zenian drew deeply on her cigarette. Meng Ning had kissed away every trace of her earthy lipstick, leaving her bare lips flushed and vibrant. Without makeup, her face held even greater allure, free of that aloof distance. “No shower. I’ve got to head back to the island.”

“Ah.” Meng Ning blinked blankly. “Right.”

Wen Zenian tugged the corner of her mouth in a miserly, offhand smile.

She stubbed out the cigarette and approached, pausing by Meng Ning—seated sideways on the bed’s edge, watching the film. She gathered the little clips and twisted her hair back into its neat bun, slung her bag over her shoulder, pressed a hand to Meng Ning’s shoulder, and leaned in. “I’m heading off-island tonight for something other than investors.”

“Got a meeting with them on the island tomorrow morning. Need to get back now.”

“Goodnight, Meng Ning. I bet tonight, you’ll dream of me.”

Dream of her skin, her boneless waist.

Dream of the blush cracking through that flawless mask.

Dream of how, post-tangle, she snapped back to breezy detachment.

With a soft laugh, bag in hand, she departed.

Meng Ning drifted to the window. Wen Zenian’s cigarette smoke still lingered. Peering down, she spotted her slipping into a black suit jacket, the fresh updo sharpening her professional edge. Her stilettos clicked lightly into the night.

She didn’t belong in such mundane surroundings, no matter how you sliced it.

Once her silhouette vanished, Meng Ning grabbed a bath towel and pajamas and headed for the shower.

Only then did she dare slip off her Buddha beads. The pounding water plastered her dark hair to her cheeks.

That slick, yielding texture on her fingers lingered still. Slick and plush, like some bivalve, clinging tight as if hell-bent on trapping you in exquisite agony.

Her mind replayed Wen Zenian’s voice, sweat threading through it: “Meng Ning, it hurts a little.”

Back then, her world had shattered in seismic waves—no room for deeper thought.

It was only afterward, jolted like she’d been shocked, that it hit her: Wen Zenian had been a virgin.

Wen Zenian always seemed so unflappable around her, her touch assured, and she’d dated two women before. Jealous once, Meng Ning had wondered: was it them who’d taught her such finesse?

She hadn’t imagined the alternative: two girlfriends, yet intimacy with no one.

Why?

Water droplets chased down Meng Ning’s sharp jawline to the pale gray tiles.

Why? Meng Ning pondered relentlessly.

Wen Zenian drawing her into a youthful reverie made sense enough. Their lives diverged like night and day; once the dream dissolved, Wen Zenian would reclaim hers—and in a place like Paris, she’d forget Meng Ning soon enough.

She wasn’t inflating the weight of a first time. But if Wen Zenian had never gone there with anyone, it painted her as painfully cautious, ruthlessly logical. Factor in her childhood scars, and the wariness ran soul-deep. So why her? Why Meng Ning?

Just to chase a dream?

It didn’t track.

Meng Ning thought back to fourteen, Wen Zenian’s birthday. Duty cleaning fell to them. Meng Ning swept her broom right up to Wen Zenian, who was bent low over the floor. Their broom tips tangled like playful swords, drawing a soft laugh from Wen Zenian.

“Happy birthday,” Meng Ning blurted.

Wen Zenian kept her head down. “I told you, I don’t do birthdays.”

“True, no birthdays, no gifts from me. But…” Meng Ning grinned. “You gotta hear ‘happy birthday’ at least once, right?”

“No need.” Wen Zenian swept the last scraps of paper and dust into the dustpan. “I don’t buy into that stuff.”

No faith in birthdays, holidays, wishes, or blessings.

Meng Ning murmured a low “oh.” Wen Zenian snatched up broom and dustpan and turned away.

As Meng Ning moved to follow, the girl—who always trudged head-down—rushed back clutching the tools. She lifted her softly rounded face. “Say it again.”

“What?”

The fourteen-year-old Wen Zenian nibbled her lower lip, worked it for a moment, then let go. “That wish you made. Say it again.”

“Happy birthday.” Meng Ning beamed. “Happy birthday to you!”

Wen Zenian nodded, resumed her bowed posture, and walked off.

Many years later—after Meng Ning had plummeted to her own life’s abyss—recalling that moment brought sudden clarity: perhaps she’d once been that despairing girl’s sole faith, her tenderhearted deity.

Her simple blessing had wielded that much power.