Chapter 57

Wen Zenian spoke so bluntly that Meng Ning froze.

Wen Zenian slipped the last small mouthful of noodles into her mouth with her chopsticks, then elegantly dabbed the corner of her lips with a napkin. “I’m full.”

She rose and headed toward the master bedroom.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she said, “Why are you staring at me?”

“Oh, nothing.” Meng Ning ducked her head to gather the bowls and chopsticks. She’d meant to ask, “Am I really no good?” but the words morphed on her tongue into, “Should I do the dishes?”

Wen Zenian halted instead. She turned, one hand resting on the edge of the table. “Are you still writing novels?”

The tone carried an undercurrent: “Are you still fantasizing about me?”

Meng Ning’s lips twitched faintly before she replied, “No, I stopped.”

She probably didn’t have much talent for it anyway. And whether she admitted it or not, the fantasies in her stories had always starred Wen Zenian. With their current relationship, those daydreams were pure torment.

Maybe skipping the writing would help her think less about Wen Zenian’s slender white neck, her straight collarbones, or the graceful curve of her hips hugged by that pencil skirt.

Wen Zenian arched a brow and walked away.

Meng Ning sighed, stood, and carried the dishes to the kitchen.

She’d quit writing novels, so the grand total she’d repaid Wen Zenian so far was twelve bucks.

As the saying goes, the mouth that eats grows soft, and the hand that takes grows weak. Spot on. After all, who could blame a player like her—one who’d handed off all her gear and was set to quit the game—when she got yanked back in unexpectedly, every piece of pay-to-win equipment courtesy of Wen Zenian?

As she washed the dishes, she mulled over their conversation.

It felt like they could joke about anything now, like it was all in the past.

That word—”past”—eased her mind a touch rationally, even as it stirred a hint of bewilderment inside.

Wen Zenian stayed in her room after that. Once Meng Ning finished the dishes, she curled up cross-legged on the sofa with a novel.

The house was enormous—so vast she couldn’t hear Wen Zenian showering, blow-drying her hair, or padding around in slippers.

She set the book face-down on the sofa cushion, propped her chin on one hand, and zoned out.

What was in the past, exactly?

Even unseen and unheard, her body sensed Wen Zenian’s aura instinctively. Her body knew better than her rational mind that they shared this space—it relaxed a fraction more than usual, yet tensed a fraction tighter too.

Meng Ning figured it was karmic justice.

In her teens, the person she’d showered with the most tenderness was the same one she’d hurt the most cruelly.

Now, the one her instincts craved most was the one her reason urged her to flee.

Meng Ning went to shower.

Fresh from the bathroom, she paused in the hallway, palm flat against her bedroom door without pushing it open. Her gaze drifted to the tightly shut master bedroom door at the far end.

Soft footsteps approached.

Meng Ning shoved the door open and darted inside, back pressed to the wood as her heart hammered. She listened intently; the hallway fell silent. Wen Zenian hadn’t emerged.

Meng Ning’s lips curved in a smile.

As if Wen Zenian would come out.

Clearly, Wen Zenian was dodging her too.

The next morning, Meng Ning woke to utter quiet in the house.

She stepped into the hall and spotted the master bedroom door ajar at the end—Wen Zenian had already left.

Ever since Meng Ning had last remarked on the closed door, implying it blocked her access, Wen Zenian always left it open when departing.

Meng Ning headed to the bathroom and, out of habit, checked the camera mounted above the mirror.

She froze. It was gone.

After scanning the house, she confirmed every camera had been removed.

Her phone showed no message from Wen Zenian explaining it.

Wen Zenian must have had them taken down while Meng Ning slept soundly under the meds, slipping out before she woke.

It marked a milestone: after passing her psychological assessment, no more living under surveillance.

It meant she could leave the house if she chose.

Meng Ning set her phone aside, paused, then did one thing.

She entered Wen Zenian’s bedroom. It felt familiar now from daily cleaning. But today lingered her fresh scent on the bedding.

They shared shampoo and body wash, yet Wen Zenian’s unique fragrance seeped through, subtle and alluring.

God, Meng Ning, you’re such a creep!

She kicked off her slippers, clambered onto the bed, and nestled sideways on the pillow, berating herself inwardly: Total pervert!

But damn, being a pervert was thrilling. Heh.

Her lips twitched upward by reflex, then she caught herself. Cameras were gone—who was she grinning for?

The smile sagged, heavy with confusion.

Eyes closing, her lashes grazed the pillow as she inhaled softly, curling her limbs tighter.

From a god’s-eye view, she’d look like a fetus tucked safe in the womb, cradled in Wen Zenian’s scent.

Qi Xiao jabbed the doorbell with gusto, and Meng Ning opened promptly. “May I ask… who are you?”

Qi Xiao blanked.

Oh crap—this stale gag, and Meng Ning pulled it twice?

Staring at her, Qi Xiao puffed her cheeks and fished for her phone.

Meng Ning let out a soft laugh.

“Are you for real?” Qi Xiao fumed. “Playing this old trope twice? Authors get roasted for padding like that—watery filler!”

Meng Ning’s smile widened. “You fell for it both times, though.”

Qi Xiao shot her a glare. “Aren’t you coming in?”

“What’s the point?” Qi Xiao waved expansively. “You can go out now, yeah? Let’s hit downstairs for a wander.”

Meng Ning bit her lip.

Then murmured, “Sure. Give me a minute.”

She reemerged soon in a crisp shirt and jeans, pristine in the spring morning light, almost otherworldly.

Qi Xiao eyed her head to toe. “I thought you never tanned at the beach, but nah, you did. Pale again after holing up.”

Down the elevator they went. Qi Xiao prodded, “You scoped the downstairs yet?”

“Nope.”

“Scared of what? Modern world—folks are hustling or chilling; nobody spares you a glance.” Her bluntness suited Meng Ning fine.

“Not scared of stares,” Meng Ning said. “Scared of broke.”

Qi Xiao paused, then cracked up. “How’s the novel?”

Shook her head. “Rejected. Quit.”

“You gotta chase trends! ABO stuff—you know, extra bits…”

“Zip it.”

Meng Ning puzzled why Qi Xiao kept grafting organs onto Wen Zenian.

They looped the complex exterior. Meng Ning hadn’t wandered before, but she’d pored over Wen Zenian’s neighborhood shop pamphlet from day one—the organic market delivering veggies daily.

These stores felt alien yet intimate. She pointed them out: flower shop, boutique tailor, luxury cleaners, more flowers.

High-end hood shops gleamed pristine, white birch doors with French-script glass evoking Champs-Élysées.

“Just tossing it out there,” Meng Ning told Qi Xiao. “Never been to Champs-Élysées myself.”

Qi Xiao smirked, tugging her to the flower shop. “C’mon, flowers to toast your progress!”

Two minutes later: “Nah, flowers? Plant junk. Lame.”

Meng Ning’s laugh rang out.

Qi Xiao yelped, “Whoa, prices here are brutal. High-end adjacent, huh? So, staycation length?”

Meng Ning smiled.

Qi Xiao clutched her chest. “Quit eyeing me like that. Sharp cold features, killer lashes—feels like you’re smitten.”

“Because,” Meng Ning said, “you’re gutsy. She won’t even ask my plans; you dive right in.”

“Outsider perks—popcorn muncher.” Qi Xiao shrugged. “Plans?”

“Not moving yet,” Meng Ning said quietly.

Qi Xiao eyed her.

“See,” Meng Ning reasoned, “can’t work. Back at the rental? Rent, bills, chow—I’d sponge off you and Song Xiao. Pressure. Owe her tons already; three debtors or one? Same diff. Debt avalanche, haha.”

“Don’t hijack my extrovert vibe, Meng Ning.” Qi Xiao pouted, voice dropping. “I get why you’re staying.”

They strolled slow. Meng Ning eyed a tiny purple three-petaled bloom in the lawn grass.

Name? Crap—knew it once. Brain sea-soaked?

Adrift, she bantered with Wen Zenian, Qi Xiao, even herself.

Lost in it, Qi Xiao whispered, “You want redemption.”

Meng Ning sometimes wondered if Qi Xiao penned this tale, script in hand, all-knowing.

Wen Zenian harbored liking, yes—and resentment.

Twined, it spawned control.

Once untouchable, bolting before Wen Zenian’s three-count. Now? Housed by her grace, cameras accepted, utter dependence.

Pity? Yes. Vengeful thrill? Indeed.

Like their lovemaking: Wen Zenian dictating, ruthless.

Body’s raw truth, heart’s naked core.

Qi Xiao gone, Meng Ning deep-cleaned the place. Messaged Wen Zenian: Cancel daily organic delivery?

Long silence.

Pre-shower: “Sure.”

Wen Zenian axed the sub, eyed the family card ledger daily.

Three days—no charges from Meng Ning.

Wen Zenian curved her lips into a smile and tossed her phone aside.

That day, she had come to the city center to discuss another deal and had drunk quite a bit during dinner. The driver took her back to the neighborhood, and she dozed off in the back seat.

“Gwyneth.” The driver’s voice was soft as he called to her.

She opened her eyes.

The driver politely reminded her, “We’ve arrived.”

She sat in the back row, dazed for a couple of seconds.

She remembered that one time she had gotten drunk and taken a cab back to Meng Ning’s place with her. Meng Ning had let her sleep, keeping the meter running while they waited curbside for a good long while.

How long had she slept that time? Even now, she had no idea.

She exhaled slowly. Hearing the driver ask, “Not feeling well?”

“No.” She opened the car door and got out. “Thanks for bringing me back. You can head off now.”

Everyone around her treated her with utmost respect, but there was never any real concern in it.

She took the elevator upstairs and unlocked the door with her fingerprint.

With a beep, she braced herself for an endless stretch of darkness waiting inside. In her mind, Meng Ning should have already moved out, back to the rental shared with Qi Xiao and the others. She would have borrowed some living expenses from them too.

Instead, the apartment glowed with warm yellow light. She kicked off her high heels and stepped inside.

The first thing she saw was Meng Ning’s back.

The genuine leather sofa had a low backrest, and Meng Ning was sitting there, about a third of her silhouette visible. She must have been reading a novel, her neck curved gracefully, the nape beneath her updo smooth and clean, without a lot of stray, fuzzy hairs. Because of her posture, only half of the black mandala tattoo was visible, accentuating her snow-white skin.

By now, Wen Zenian understood why Meng Ning always wore those Buddha beads on her wrist. And why she had gotten that black mandala tattoo.

The C Hotel, closest to paradise, couldn’t save her.

Neither could the faith meant to deliver one from all suffering.

She had struggled fiercely, tried her hardest, and only when exhaustion overwhelmed her did she once think of giving up.

Wen Zenian walked over. Meng Ning heard the sound and turned her head, smiling at her. “Hi.”

When Meng Ning wasn’t forcing cheerfulness, her smile was very quiet.

Wen Zenian sat down beside her. The sofa was soft, and Meng Ning must have felt her sink into it. She reached over and took the wuxia novel from Meng Ning’s fingers. First, she flipped it to glance at the title on the cover, then back to read a couple of lines from the text.

Meng Ning was very compliant and didn’t resist her taking the book.

Wen Zenian’s gaze lingered on the blocks of printed text. “You think I’m drunk, don’t you?”

Meng Ning smiled.

In truth, Wen Zenian was drunk. She needed a bit more alcohol to face this pitch-black, empty apartment.

The Black Sea that night had nearly swallowed Meng Ning whole, terrifying her—and terrifying Wen Zenian too. It made her realize she had never truly emerged from the darkness of her own past.

That darkness could engulf her just as easily.

She asked, “Why haven’t you moved out?”

Meng Ning countered, “Do you want me to?”

Wen Zenian tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve known since we were kids that you’re pretty sly. You were always the one sneaking smokes and drinks. And now, too—you toss your own unresolved issues right into my lap.”

Meng Ning pressed her lips together.

She stood and walked to the kitchen. Wen Zenian glanced at her retreating back, set the novel facedown on the sofa, closed her eyes, leaned against the backrest, and exhaled deeply.

Her head throbbed.

A soft clink made her open her eyes. Meng Ning placed a cup of honey water on the coffee table. Steam curled faintly from the cup. Meng Ning tucked one leg under her and sat at a bit of a distance, looking at her. “Honey water. Want some?”

She shook her head, and Meng Ning didn’t press.

She closed her eyes again. “What have you been eating the past three days? You haven’t used the card.”

“I don’t eat much on my own. It’s too wasteful to have groceries delivered every day. The last time I used the card, I walked a bit farther to a small supermarket and bought some things that would keep for three days. Perfect.”

Wen Zenian gave a lazy hum of acknowledgment.

Meng Ning watched her, her index finger idly tracing half a circle on the sofa before she spoke. “It’s not that I tossed the problem to you without thinking it through. I did think it through. I can stay and not move out.”

Wen Zenian’s thick lashes fluttered slightly. She seemed about to open her eyes but ultimately didn’t.

With her eyes still closed, leaning against the sofa, she asked, “Why?”

“Because I’m broke.” Meng Ning smiled. “Nowhere to go either. Might as well cling to your thigh.”

“What do you mean by that?” Wen Zenian finally opened her eyes. “You want me to keep you?”

Meng Ning froze for a moment.

Clearly, she hadn’t thought of defining their relationship with that term. After a pause, she asked, “Do you want to?”

Wen Zenian laughed.

It wasn’t a joyful laugh—there was no mirth in her eyes, no little crinkles at the bridge of her nose, just her lips curving upward. “What are you playing at, Meng Ning?”

Meng Ning simply watched her quietly.

Wen Zenian stood and stepped in front of her, reaching out to gently stroke Meng Ning’s cheek.

Meng Ning didn’t dodge, but she didn’t look up either.

“Look at me,” she said.

Only then did Meng Ning tilt her face upward, her lashes fluttering lightly.

Truthfully, Wen Zenian’s heart ached right then, but bolstered by a touch of alcohol, she pressed on. She leaned down over Meng Ning, cradling the back of her head in one palm. Her black suit jacket brushed against Meng Ning’s loungewear.

That loungewear was something she’d had her assistant carefully select. Her instructions had been: “Not expensive, but good material. Very soft.”

Her assistant had looked a touch troubled at the time.

Now, Meng Ning’s soft loungewear brushed lightly against her. And so did the softness in Meng Ning’s eyes.

It made her a little uncomfortable. Years ago, she’d seen Meng Ning’s eyes bright and sly; later, quiet and melancholic; after that, feigning high spirits.

Now she realized what got to her most was this softness in Meng Ning’s gaze, as if she accepted everything with calm resignation.

Really?

With her other hand, she lightly traced Meng Ning’s eyebrow, her fingertip brushing a bit of eyelid that felt hot. She murmured lowly, “I’m going to kiss you.”

Meng Ning’s lashes fluttered again.

Her straight nose drew another inch closer, nearly touching Meng Ning’s. Their breaths mingled. She could feel Meng Ning sweating in her arms—in fact, she was sweating too, the dampness spreading across her blouse and suit.

She could also sense Meng Ning’s fingers beside her, curling tensely, pressing lightly against her thigh.

Every time she saw Meng Ning, holding back was torture.

Their bodies knew each other well. After the ordeal in the mental world, every nearness screamed for comfort from the other.

She couldn’t stand seeing a stray lock of Meng Ning’s hair slip into the collar of her loungewear.

Couldn’t stand seeing her tuck one leg under her on the sofa, exposing a slender ankle.

Just as Meng Ning couldn’t stand seeing her hair loose over her shoulders after blow-drying.

Or her lipstick half-worn off from eating noodles, as if she’d just been kissed.

She paused, steadying her breathing slowly before leaning in closer.

Meng Ning’s fingers curled tighter, pressing harder against her thigh—a gesture of resistance.

Finally, Meng Ning turned her head away and murmured, “I’m sorry.”

Wen Zenian evened out her breathing, propped one hand on the sofa, and straightened up. Her head spun a little. Meng Ning sat up quickly to steady her. She gently pushed Meng Ning’s hand away, sat up straight, and picked up the honey water from the coffee table.

Meng Ning said, “It’s probably cold now.”

She shook her head to indicate it was fine and drank it all down.

Then she stood. “I’m going to take a shower.” Without looking back, she headed to the master bedroom.

She usually soaked in a bath, but after drinking tonight, a shower was wiser. When she stripped off her underwear, the mess between her legs was embarrassing.

Her body did crave Meng Ning.

A single close encounter after so much restraint was enough to trigger such a fierce response.

But Meng Ning’s last-second refusal brought her relief.

If they’d gone through with it under these circumstances, it would mean abandoning the tangled emotions between them entirely.

Whether as a kept woman or just a bedmate without strings, it would signify they’d deemed the relationship hopeless.

Meng Ning staying by her side would only be for atonement, letting Wen Zenian take whatever she wanted.

Wen Zenian couldn’t pretend to be noble. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t fantasized about it—back when her heartbreak and resentment toward Meng Ning peaked, she had indeed imagined trapping her in this apartment, under all the cameras.

She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t derived any illicit pleasure from that thought.

But when Meng Ning proposed it herself, her first reaction was surprise, her second heartache.

Too greedy.

Still unwilling to let go of that unattainable affection by compromising like this.

The next morning when Meng Ning got up, the apartment was as quiet as ever.

She stepped out of her room and glanced at the master bedroom door at the end of the hall—it was open—so she assumed Wen Zenian had already left.

Unexpectedly, when she reached the living room, there was Wen Zenian’s beautiful face, sitting on the sofa reviewing some documents.

Seeing her, Wen Zenian looked up slightly, her expression as usual without a smile, but her tone even. “What do you want for breakfast?”

Meng Ning dug her nails into her palm.

Why, even at this point, did she still harbor greed?

She craved Wen Zenian’s body.

But she craved her embrace more. Or even just holding her hand, like in the haunted house at the amusement park that day.

She turned and hurried to the kitchen. “Toast and fried eggs. I’ll fry some bacon too. But will that pencil skirt of yours still button? Haha.”

What was she doing? Wasn’t this supposed to be her upbeat, chatty mode? Why did her nose keep stinging?

Too greedy after all, Meng Ning.

After preparing a simple breakfast, she called Wen Zenian over to eat.

Wen Zenian sat across the dining table from her and quirked the corner of her mouth.

“What’s so funny?” Meng Ning couldn’t stand the silence between them when she was tense.

“I’m laughing at how naturally we’re sitting here eating breakfast together.” Wen Zenian took a sip of coffee and lifted her deep, profound eyes. “Like we’re about to start dating.”