Chapter 51 Part 1

The room was exactly as it had been before Wen Zenian left.

The terrace doors stood wide open, and the first rays of morning sunlight spilled inside. The shadows of the ornate vintage railings stretched across the floor like pages from a fairy tale.

The soft white curtains fluttered lightly in the breeze, as if moonlight had slipped into the daylight.

This was the C Hotel. Here, day and night could coexist, the seasons knew no boundaries, and every lavish beauty piled upon itself until it coalesced into perfect, effortless simplicity.

As Meng Ning squinted and gazed across the space, she half-expected to see that slender, elegant figure still seated on the white sofa.

She was the core of every beautiful dream. The endlessly spinning top in the world of Inception. A presence like the eye of a storm.

But no. The room was empty.

Meng Ning walked around the space, finding it barren everywhere she looked. Only then did she realize just how vast—and how empty—this Administrative Suite truly was.

Why had Wen Zenian called her here?

Meng Ning searched once more, confirming there was nothing else in the room.

Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, she hurried to the liquor cabinet.

There it was.

All the other bottles had been cleared away, leaving only the one she had given Meng Ning. The label bore Meng Ning’s name in Chinese characters, along with an envelope.

Just like the envelopes that came with each Sci-fi Story—crisp white, stamped with a cursive “C,” and no signature.

Meng Ning opened it to find a small greeting card inside. Unfolding it revealed a single line in Wen Zenian’s handwriting:

“Life won’t even give you a chance to count to three.”

This time, the signature wasn’t “G.” It was—”Wen Min.”

Meng Ning closed the card, her first reaction a laugh.

She realized that if this was all just a pastime revenge plot, rather than Wen Zenian actually liking her, it would make things so much easier to bear.

She headed downstairs and returned the room key to her colleague at the front desk.

The colleague asked, “Did you get the thing Gwyneth left for you?”

Meng Ning tugged at the corner of her mouth and held up the bottle in her hand.

The colleague smiled too. “She’s so polite.”

“Isn’t she just,” Meng Ning heard her own voice reply. “I’m almost flattered.”

She stowed the wine back at the dorm first, then made her way to the hotel’s helipad.

The last time, she had seen Wen Zenian standing by the helicopter, the rotor blades whipping her flame-like evening gown into a blaze as she turned back. There had been no smile on her face, just those slender white fingers hooking a wind-tossed strand of hair behind her ear.

Just now, Chen Luzi had mentioned that yesterday, she had taken a helicopter to the nearby airport before boarding the company’s private jet to Paris with her team.

Around this same time of day.

Meng Ning stood there, picturing how Wen Zenian must have looked boarding yesterday.

For some reason, the image in her mind was vivid. Wen Zenian could light up a night in a flame-red evening gown, or bring the daylight to a poised hush in a sleek black suit.

She imagined Wen Zenian leaving in the black suit. Broad shoulders tapering sharply to a waist slim enough to span with two hands, paired with slim-legged trousers and tall, thin high heels.

Someone like Wen Zenian would wear high heels even on a long flight.

The scratch on her cheek probably hadn’t healed yet—a striking mark across her side face, faintly red. She wore a pair of small diamond earrings, her expression unsmiling. As she boarded, her fingers would habitually brush the stray hairs by her ear. She hadn’t looked back.

Not once.

Everyone who left the C Hotel by speedboat turned back wistfully, reluctant to go. But Wen Zenian had boarded the helicopter without hesitation, not even allowing herself the short distance it took to glance over her shoulder.

Meng Ning’s lips curved faintly as she left the helipad.

She boarded the speedboat off the island, and by chance, it was the same Xiao Zhang from yesterday’s shift at the helm.

He looked surprised to see her. “Weren’t you off duty and headed out yesterday?”

“Yeah.” Meng Ning smiled. “Came back to take care of something.”

Everyone naturally assumed it was work-related. “All sorted?”

Meng Ning nodded. “All sorted.”

In the city, she switched to the subway and returned to the rental apartment. Song Xiao had already gone to work, and Qi Xiao, hungover from last night, still wasn’t up.

By the time Qi Xiao stumbled out of her room with her hair like a bird’s nest, Meng Ning was setting out cups of soy milk on the coffee table. “I heard you stirring.”

She settled onto the sofa first.

Qi Xiao finished washing up and came over, pausing in surprise at the sight of her.

Their living room had a small window letting in the morning light, and Meng Ning’s refined features were perfect for going bare-faced. Her beauty was a quiet one—perhaps because of her long lashes—that lent a hint of melancholy when she spoke or smiled.

Had Wen Zenian truly never liked her?

Qi Xiao scratched her head and sat beside Meng Ning. She started to sigh but held it back. “Ning, sorry about last night. I had too much to drink—did I say something I shouldn’t have?”

Meng Ning shook her head. “Nope.”

They ate their soy milk and youtiao naturally.

Qi Xiao bit her lower lip, thinking that Wen Zenian was leaving today—how could this girl stay so calm?

She didn’t know Wen Zenian had already gone.

Just as she didn’t know what kind of night the Meng Ning now sitting here, as if she’d never left, had endured.

Some things, Meng Ning thought, were like that black shirt she’d worn to the banquet, the one drenched in wine that had kept her from seeking out Wen Zenian for a dance.

Wen Zenian’s early departure meant she’d never know if, had she found her last night, Wen Zenian would have smiled restrainedly about an autumn sweater—or said more.

For her, that was a good thing.

At least she didn’t have to agonize anymore.

Qi Xiao was heading out that afternoon for a murder mystery game. In the meantime, she killed time by assembling a knockoff Lego set.

She happily exiled herself back to her ordinary life. Modest salary, rundown rental, group-deal street food, full-reduction coupons on the Orange App—even her Lego was a bootleg from there.

She reveled in it, but would the person who had once turned her down over such trivialities ever know?

Bootlegs were bootlegs—the slots didn’t fit perfectly. Qi Xiao pounded it twice and hissed as her hand got scratched.

“Ning!” she called out.

Meng Ning was out on the balcony hanging laundry and didn’t hear.

Qi Xiao stepped out of her room and saw Meng Ning’s door ajar, her things packed into woven bags. It made her heart ache.

She remembered once when Song Xiao had cut her hand chopping vegetables, Meng Ning had mentioned keeping Band-Aids in her bedside drawer and quickly fetched one.

“Ning, can I grab a Band-Aid from your room?”

No response from Meng Ning.

Blood welled up from her thumb. Qi Xiao hesitated, then went in.

She had just cracked open the drawer when a sudden push slammed it shut. She whipped around to find Meng Ning standing there.

Qi Xiao froze. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in. I saw your stuff packed and the door open. I cut my hand and remembered you said there were Band-Aids in the bedside drawer. I called for you, but…”

Meng Ning said softly, “I’ll get it for you.”

“Oh, okay.” Qi Xiao said, “Thanks.”

Meng Ning stood there unmoving for a moment. Qi Xiao realized she was waiting for her to leave.

She hurried out, and soon Meng Ning emerged with the Band-Aid. She led Qi Xiao to rinse the cut first, then carefully wrapped her thumb. “Is it too tight?”

“No, this is fine.”

Qi Xiao actually felt a pang inside.

She and Meng Ning had known each other for over two years. At first, she’d thought Meng Ning was aloof; later, she’d found her kind, fun at meals and hangouts, caring even. But just now, stepping into her room, Qi Xiao realized she’d crossed a line.

Were she and Meng Ning even friends? Qi Xiao wasn’t sure. Modern relationships were often like that—colleagues or roommates who seemed close from daily meals and games. But when one quit or moved, it all fell apart fast.

They’d say at parting they’d meet up often, but eventually become strangers whose profile pics never lit up again.

Meng Ning was leaving tomorrow, and she still hadn’t told them where she was traveling or her future plans.

Qi Xiao knew nothing of Meng Ning’s past, just as Meng Ning knew nothing of hers. She only shared the good, sayable parts—never that her university professor mother had a lover, or that her initial entanglement with that person had partly been revenge against her mom.

She stared at the Band-Aid on her thumb, falling silent, until Meng Ning asked, “What’s up?”

She looked up with a smile. “Nothing, just stings a bit.”

“Aren’t you the top?”

“Can’t the top be a little delicate?”

They always bantered and laughed away the strange undercurrents.

After Qi Xiao returned to her room, Meng Ning went back to hers.

She’d been careless, not expecting Qi Xiao to come in. She opened the drawer and eyed the pill bottle hidden at the back. She was meticulous by nature—the label long torn off.

Her strong reaction earlier had been pure guilt, a fear someone might see through her.

Soon after, Qi Xiao left for her murder mystery game. Meng Ning, with her backpack, headed to the shopping district.

Song Xiao’s recent shoe cabinet purchase was missing two screws, and online support was useless; she planned to buy replacements in-store. Qi Xiao had complained about the uneven walls in their old place and wanted a screen for the projector—Meng Ning figured she’d pick one up too.

Beyond that, she wasn’t sure what else she could do.

With those errands done, she was about to board the subway home.

A voice called from behind: “Hey.”

She didn’t register it was for her at first. Then: “Hey,” again, accompanied by a tap on her shoulder.

She turned—and froze.

It was Cen Meigui.

She hadn’t seen the middle-aged barista and mixologist, still brimming with allure, since she’d stopped her afternoon off-day visits to the “3rd” café.

Today, Cen Meigui’s wavy long hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a cotton-linen plaid shirt with wide-leg jeans, a rubber band on her wrist for tying back her hair on the fly.

Casual style, bare face save for a vivid lipstick. She didn’t need to accentuate her charm; it flowed naturally from her every strand and the tilt of her eyes.

Cen Meigui said, “I don’t know your name, so I couldn’t call it out.”

Meng Ning smiled. “Cara.”

Cen Meigui’s lips quirked faintly. “You young people all love English names, huh?”

You could tell she wasn’t one for smiling—the curve was subtle, gone in a flash.

She looked at Meng Ning and said, “You haven’t come for coffee since after the Spring Festival. I thought you’d left this place. Today I spotted someone who looked just like you and chased after her—sure enough, it was you.”

Meng Ning replied, “Oh, I’ve been a bit busy lately.”

It had only been a little over a month since the Spring Festival.

Yet looking back now, it felt like ages had passed.

“What a coincidence, running into you like this,” Cen Meigui said. “Are you busy today? Let me buy you a coffee.”

Meng Ning hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “No, let me treat you.”

Cen Meigui’s lips curved in a smile as she led her into a café by the roadside. “I come here all the time when I’m shopping around. The coffee’s nothing to write home about, but the atmosphere’s nice.”