Chapter 56

The car pulled up to the amusement park, and Meng Ning finally understood why Wen Zenian had taken her time. She held the tickets—and the fast passes.

As the city’s only large-scale comprehensive amusement park, Meng Ning had heard from Qi Xiao that fast passes here were notoriously hard to snag.

But Wen Zenian was so capable, after all.

The two headed inside together. Meng Ning glanced at Wen Zenian. “Actually, I think…”

“Hm?” Wen Zenian pulled out her phone to reply to a work message, unconsciously drawing out the sound in a soft, lingering hum.

She must have caught herself, because her expression sobered a touch.

Meng Ning cleared her throat. “You’re in a suit and high heels. Playing here probably won’t be convenient for you.”

“Who said anything about me playing?” Wen Zenian replied steadily. “I’ll watch you.”

Right ahead loomed the Extreme Lightwheel, screams erupting in waves.

A sinking feeling stirred in Meng Ning’s chest. “You… want me to ride what?”

Wen Zenian tilted her head slightly. “The Extreme Lightwheel or the Carousel—which scares you more?”

Meng Ning froze for a second, Qi Xiao’s words echoing in her ears: “How could you possibly outplay her?”

She weighed her options quickly in her mind. Would Wen Zenian send her on the scarier ride, or the milder one?

Wen Zenian surely harbored plenty of resentment over her earlier foolish impulse to vanish.

She’d bet on it. “Extreme Lightwheel.”

Sure enough, Wen Zenian lifted her chin with that proud little tilt.

Meng Ning felt confident she’d guessed right—Wen Zenian would make her tackle the scarier one.

But Wen Zenian said, “No problem. We’ll do both.”

Meng Ning: …

She’d slipped up, forgetting the “all of the above” option.

Wen Zenian led the way toward the Extreme Lightwheel entrance. Meng Ning asked, “What if I puke?”

Wen Zenian replied, “Buy some water. Rinse your mouth.”

Meng Ning: …

She wasn’t asking for cleanup tips—she wanted to know if puking could be avoided entirely.

Wen Zenian said evenly, without a ripple of emotion, “Then go on.”

No using the massive line as an excuse, either, since Wen Zenian had the fast pass.

Meng Ning made her way to the entrance, glancing back every few steps. Wen Zenian waved her off stone-faced, in that elegantly restrained way—just a subtle flick of her fingers before pulling her hand back.

Meng Ning climbed aboard the Extreme Lightwheel. A staff member checked her safety harness.

Her heart rate stayed steady.

For a long stretch, her senses had gone numb; these thrills didn’t faze her. She was just putting on a show of fear for Wen Zenian. And from that look Wen Zenian had given her earlier, Meng Ning suspected she knew it was an act—but played along regardless.

Their aim, after all, was to loosen her up a little, bring her back to life.

The amusement park was a crude fix, but neither had better ideas.

The Extreme Lightwheel’s startup countdown chimed.

Oh my God! Meng Ning screamed silently.

She’d been careless, convincing herself she felt nothing. The wind almost whipped off her wig.

Her hospital stay hadn’t been that long, but it felt ages since she’d run or swum—ages since that sensation of dissolving into the wind, into the water, of ceasing to be. And with her gone, so too the jumble of regrets, tangles, and stray thoughts.

Screams exploded from those around her. She couldn’t join in, but she clamped her eyes shut.

No one could read her face in this gale anyway.

At last, she could let the corners of her mouth sag and catch her breath.

When she staggered off the ride and back to Wen Zenian, she said, “I really do feel a bit queasy.”

A real smile curved Wen Zenian’s lips.

Then, carrying that smile, she delivered the verdict coolly and without mercy: “Now go ride the Carousel.”

The body’s influence on the mind ran deeper than most people realized.

Better than holing up at home, Meng Ning decided—a stroll through crowds helped some.

Hands clasped behind her back, she trailed Wen Zenian. “How about I get you a gift instead? Skip the Carousel.” It was too frothy and pink, clashing with her cool vibe.

To her surprise, Wen Zenian agreed easily. “Fine.”

Meng Ning blinked. “Wait here then.” She pointed to a bench along the path.

The words left her mouth before she realized—Wen Zenian wouldn’t let her wander off alone.

But Wen Zenian just glanced over. “Okay.”

She clicked over in her high heels and settled on the bench.

Meng Ning said, “I’ll be right back.”

She spun away fast, steps quickening.

Because suddenly, she wanted to cry.

Wen Zenian still nursed that grudge from the night she hadn’t let her count to three. Yet right when reason screamed not to trust her, Wen Zenian’s heart had trusted again.

Wen Zenian was such a fool.

Meng Ning hurried through the throng, head down.

A fool who left her frozen, unsure how to shoulder that faith.

She slipped into a souvenir shop, drowning in the tide of cheer.

She selected a Yellow Little Bear Keychain—big head, tiny body, endearingly mismatched. The price tag nearly gave her a heart attack, choking back a flood of tears.

Not now. Plenty of time to cry later—like when paying Wen Zenian back.

Keychain in hand, she headed back to the bench.

From a distance, she slowed.

Wen Zenian cut a stark figure in her suit amid the amusement park bustle. Weekend crowds surged, and passersby stared, just as expected. But Meng Ning had misjudged: it wasn’t the outfit drawing eyes, but Wen Zenian’s face. She’d draw them in a burlap sack too.

Wen Zenian ignored the looks. As a kid, she’d cared—kept her head down. Grown now, nothing pierced her shell.

What could hurt Wen Zenian anymore?

Meng Ning knew the answer.

Wen Zenian sat lost in thought on the bench, fingers idly twisting a diamond earring. Her gaze drifted over the crowd and landed on Meng Ning approaching slow from afar.

In that moment, her eyes stalled.

Her face smoothed quickly, crowds milling between them, but Meng Ning saw.

Her own heart twisted sharply.

That vast, endless sea from that night had terrified more than just her.

The saved feared. The savior feared too.

In Wen Zenian’s stalled gaze flashed raw fear, gone in a blink.

Meng Ning tweaked her smile and walked on.

She sat beside her—not too near, not distant. Roughly four fists’ space.

Perhaps both wondered if she’d caught that look, but they played it normal.

Wen Zenian asked, “What gift?”

Meng Ning handed over the keychain.

Wen Zenian glanced at the tag. “Expensive.”

Not by her standards, of course—but Meng Ning’s: all of twelve bucks surrendered to her.

Meng Ning feigned a wince. “Tell me about it.”

Wen Zenian’s mouth quirked faintly.

A soft breeze stirred; clouds lazed by. Amused, Wen Zenian let slip a small laugh.

Meng Ning said abruptly, “Let’s take a picture.”

Truth was, she’d come for Wen Zenian’s sake more than her own—the park held greater meaning there.

She could grin wider in the shot, ease Wen Zenian’s worries.

But Wen Zenian said, “No.”

Flat, expressionless.

Meng Ning’s heart clenched anew. Confirmed: Wen Zenian was scared. Too scared for farewell rituals, even unintended.

Meng Ning smiled. “Cheapskate.”

Wen Zenian pocketed the keychain. “We can skip the Carousel—but the haunted house is non-negotiable.”

Meng Ning: …

Wen Zenian rose. “Come on.”

Fast passes got them in quick. Wen Zenian said, “You first.”

Meng Ning tsked. “Seriously?”

The park felt worlds from Wen Zenian’s life—no Swiss Alps, no yacht raves till dawn, no endless rooftop pools. Yet the sharpest mind had picked this clumsy stand-in for Meng Ning’s brand of unwind.

Meng Ning mock-grumbled before yielding. “Fine, I’ll lead.”

Like her surprise scare on the Lightwheel. Jump scares might jolt Wen Zenian too.

But it fell short of scary.

The staff ghosts rang too fake; pop-outs verged on comical. Only the dark…

Evoked that boundless Black Sea night.

Meng Ning drifted for a second.

Then Wen Zenian tugged her sleeve from behind.

No way—was this getting to her?

About to turn, Wen Zenian whispered, “Don’t look back.”

Her hand slid down Meng Ning’s shirtsleeve, seeking.

Found her hand.

Fingers laced tight.

Meng Ning paused, then pressed forward, squeezing back fiercely.

Wen Zenian’s palm felt damp, warm, yielding.

Maybe Wen Zenian flinched a bit. Or fretted for Meng Ning.

More likely, like her, she’d glimpsed that sea.

That night, Wen Zenian plunged from the helicopter rope ladder into the waves, buoying Meng Ning up. Their final embrace.

Meng Ning had craved her arms since—for solace.

Wen Zenian hers too.

But how now?

What were they?

The dream husk shed, jammed with knotted history, muddled feelings, burdensome idiocy—no room for a tender, wistful hug.

Then, in this laughable haunted house shrouded in dark, Wen Zenian took her hand.

Unable to embrace, at least they could hold hands. Once they emerged from the darkness into the sunlight, she could tease Wen Zenian for being scared timid by the haunted house, and Wen Zenian could fire back that she’d only been worried about her fear.

They could bicker, sharing a silent understanding.

Up to now, Meng Ning had been smiling for far too long.

At that moment, she held Wen Zenian’s hand, listening to the soft sound of her breathing from behind. Moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes. Then she boldly allowed herself this once, letting silent tears trail down her cheeks.

She must have cried in her sleep before, sometimes waking to find her pillow slightly damp.

But while awake, this was the first time.

It was fine, wasn’t it? She wasn’t wearing makeup anyway. By the time they crossed this darkness and stepped back into the sunlight, the tear tracks on her face would have long since dried.

Wen Zenian seemed to grip her fingers just a little tighter.

Emerging from the haunted house didn’t go as Meng Ning had imagined.

There was no teasing, no retort. Just before the exit, they released each other’s hands at the exact same moment, then silently pretended as if it had never happened.

They hadn’t played for long. By noon, Wen Zenian drove her back to the residential complex’s underground garage in the Maybach.

While waiting for the elevator, Meng Ning asked, “What do you want for lunch? I can…”

Wen Zenian said, “I’m heading back to the island.”

Meng Ning paused. “Ah, okay.” She forced a laugh. “You’re always so busy.”

A small part of her didn’t want Wen Zenian to leave. But if Wen Zenian stayed, she knew she’d feel extremely uncomfortable.

They stepped into the elevator together. Wen Zenian said, “I’ll go upstairs, grab my bag, and head out.”

“Okay, sure.”

Wen Zenian gazed at their reflections in the metal doors. “You can do the psychological assessment tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Meng Ning remained perfectly calm, as if she could take it or leave it, accepting everything with equanimity.

A pang twisted in Wen Zenian’s chest.

She’d planned to tell Meng Ning about it once they got home, but for some reason, she felt that if they waited that long, she might lose her nerve.

Meng Ning was brave enough to face the results; she wasn’t.

She told Meng Ning, “No need to go to the hospital. I’ve arranged for the doctor to come here.”

“Okay, sure.”

It seemed “okay, sure” was all Meng Ning had left to say. Wen Zenian was always so thoughtful—what more could she add?

Wen Zenian hesitated, then said it anyway: “I won’t be there, so don’t be nervous.”

Meng Ning replied with the same words: “Okay, sure.”

Wen Zenian said nothing more. She went home, grabbed her bag, and left.

The next morning, Meng Ning rose at her usual time.

She’d grown proficient with both Western and Chinese cooking by now. That morning, she warmed a glass of milk, fried an egg, toasted a slice of bread, and paired it with a fresh salad.

Talk about perfectly balanced nutrition.

Even so, every time she glanced at the price tags on that organic milk and organic lettuce, she still flinched.

After breakfast, she washed the cup and plate, then sat on the sofa flipping through a wuxia novel until the doorbell rang.

Meng Ning went to open the door, offering a faint smile. “Doctor Han.”

Doctor Han had conducted her discharge psychological assessment.

Doctor Han nodded with a smile. “Meng Ning, it’s been a while.”

Meng Ning ushered her in. “Please come in. What would you like to drink?”

“Just water, thanks.”

Meng Ning invited her to sit on the sofa, flashed another smile, and went to pour the water.

Doctor Han had a vivid impression of Meng Ning. It was rare these days to see a girl so strikingly beautiful in such a pure, unadorned way. Meng Ning set the glass of water on the coffee table—the crystal tumbler was spotless, without a single fingerprint. Held in her slender, elegant fingers, it looked almost translucent.

Meng Ning sat on the sofa’s corner section next to Doctor Han.

Doctor Han opened her folder. “No need to be nervous. We’ll just chat casually.”

Meng Ning nodded calmly. “Alright.”

Doctor Han could tell she truly wasn’t nervous. What Meng Ning exuded was a profound acceptance, as if this was simply how things were. She’d been abruptly pulled back into this game without warning, and no matter what the next level held, she had no choice but to keep playing.

In her serene acceptance of it all, Doctor Han knew she wouldn’t do anything foolish.

Once they finished talking, Doctor Han closed her folder. “I can give you a little preview—the results are good.”

Meng Ning’s lips curved slightly.

Doctor Han asked, “Any lingering doubts in your mind? Feel free to talk about anything. I’m not taking notes.”

Meng Ning pressed her lips together, then smiled. “None.”

“You do.” Doctor Han stated it plainly. “But you’re not ready to discuss it with me now, and that’s fine. We’ll meet a few more times.”

The report confirming Meng Ning had passed her psychological assessment reached Wen Zenian. It meant Meng Ning could now go out freely, collect her medication weekly, and—after the next assessment—return to regular work.

Wen Zenian didn’t rush home. Two days later, while in the city for business, she stopped by.

Meng Ning wasn’t in the living room. Hearing sounds from the kitchen, Wen Zenian headed that way.

Meng Ning stood at the Chinese stove. Wen Zenian walked over and asked, “What are you making?”

“Scallion oil. For noodles later.”

Wen Zenian leaned in slightly to smell.

“Hey!” Before Meng Ning could stop her, a drop of oil splattered up, landing on Wen Zenian’s neck.

Wen Zenian stayed composed and stepped back.

Meng Ning grew flustered. “Don’t you have any common sense?”

Wen Zenian glanced at her. Few people dared speak to her in that tone these days.

She explained leisurely, “I didn’t realize you’d just put cold oil in the pan.”

“But I didn’t expect you to… Never mind.”

Meng Ning quickly turned off the heat, washed her hands, grabbed ice from the fridge, wrapped it, and handed it over. “Ice it first to cool it down.”

Then she slipped on her slippers and hurried off to fetch the first-aid kit.

In that instant, Wen Zenian almost felt as if they’d been living together like this for a very long time.

She composed herself and went to wait on the living room sofa.

Meng Ning rushed back with the first-aid kit and sat across from her. “Take off the ice.”

Wen Zenian moved it aside. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

Meng Ning said, “Sister…”

Wen Zenian made a small sound of protest.

Meng Ning: …

She continued, “I mean, it’s from hot oil. It might scar.”

“It’s tiny. It won’t scar, and if it does, I can get it fixed with cosmetic treatment.”

“You’ve always got a solution.”

Around Wen Zenian, Meng Ning was sometimes unusually quiet, other times unusually chatty—silent when relaxed, talkative when tense.

Wen Zenian had barely gotten home when Meng Ning heard her. When Wen Zenian entered the kitchen, her body had instinctively craved closeness. But now she controlled it better, not letting Wen Zenian notice.

Wen Zenian removed the ice, and Meng Ning examined her neck, realizing she’d overreacted a bit.

Not much oil had splashed; it wouldn’t scar. Still, she decided to treat it. She dipped a cotton swab, leaned in close, and carefully applied the ointment.

Her breath was very near.

She saw Wen Zenian’s throat bob with a swallow.

From an angle Wen Zenian couldn’t see, Meng Ning’s lips pressed together slightly. Her gaze lingered on the slender neck.

Wen Zenian was always so flawless, so perfect. Yet a tiny blemish like this made her seem vibrantly alive. Meng Ning wondered if it was some perverse quirk of hers—she always found herself staring at such minor, harmless marks on Wen Zenian’s skin.

Perhaps sensing her stare, Wen Zenian’s throat bobbed again.

Meng Ning tried to steady her breathing, not giving away more hints.

Wen Zenian was controlling her own breathing too.

She couldn’t understand why Meng Ning always seemed—and smelled—so pristinely clean. She didn’t tan on the beach, and even after frying scallion oil, no scent clung to her. Always fresh and fair, as if nothing could stick to her, slipping away like water.

Wen Zenian called out, “Meng Ning.”

Meng Ning’s hand paused with the cotton swab.

Wen Zenian asked, “Are you done?”

Meng Ning replied, “Almost. I’ll put a bandage on so it doesn’t rub.”

Wen Zenian paused, then said, “Alright.”

After applying the bandage, Wen Zenian subtly shifted back.

Meng Ning understood the meaning behind that call of her name—it was a restrained reminder not to get too close.

Their mutual affection was a fact. The instinctive pull between their bodies was another.

Meng Ning put away the first-aid kit and retreated as well.

The confusion she hadn’t shared with Doctor Han was precisely this: she didn’t know how to face Wen Zenian. She didn’t even know how to broach the subject.

Their feelings for each other were tangled with too many complex emotions and heavy pasts.

They could easily embrace, kiss, even go further here, treating it as mutual comfort.

But then what?

So Wen Zenian had held her hand once, with restraint—nothing more.

And when Meng Ning leaned in too close while applying the ointment, she’d called her name again, all restraint.

Meng Ning stood, gripping the kit. “Have you eaten?”

Wen Zenian had, but she said, “No.”

“Then I’ll finish the scallion oil.” Meng Ning headed off. “Noodles it is.”

Wen Zenian said, “Sounds good.”

Meng Ning stowed the kit first. Passing the living room, she stole a quick glance at Wen Zenian on the sofa.

In her suit, Wen Zenian looked stunning and commanding. Her neck was pale and slender; up close while applying the ointment, Meng Ning had seen how thin the skin was, faint purple veins visible beneath—reminding her that such beauty was, in truth, exceedingly fragile.

They sat at the dining table eating noodles. For some reason, Meng Ning thought that plain bandage on Wen Zenian’s neck looked like some kind of adornment. Did she really have a thing for injuries?

Wen Zenian asked without looking up, “Why do you keep staring at me?”

She tilted her chin, lifting her delicate eyelids. “What do you want to do to me?”

By putting it out there half-jokingly, the atmosphere lightened.

Meng Ning played along. “Rob you blind or rob your beauty, miss—pick one.”

“You?” Wen Zenian elegantly picked up some noodles with her chopsticks and shook her head lightly. “Your skills aren’t up to it.”