Chapter 59 Part 2

She was smoking, one arm crossed over her chest, the other angled with a slim white cigarette between her fingers. She turned at the sound of Qi Xiao, giving a slight chin tilt in greeting.

The night breeze stirred, sending two petals spinning: one stuck to her cheek, the other landing on her shoulder.

Actually, Wen Zenian wasn’t the type Qi Xiao liked, but some people had nothing to do with like or dislike. The moment she appeared, you wanted to jump up, curse a blue streak, and blurt out, “She’s so beautiful.”

Wen Zenian brushed the petals from her face and said softly, “Hi.” Qi Xiao walked closer and asked, “Why aren’t you going in?”

“I arrived a bit early.” Wen Zenian’s tone was flat. “Let her have a little more fun.”

Qi Xiao couldn’t handle it again.

Why would someone so busy she could hardly catch her breath show up early? And why stand under this tree smoking?

She even asked Qi Xiao, “Is she happy tonight?”

“I don’t know.” Qi Xiao felt a twinge of frenzy and repeated herself. “I don’t know. Why don’t you go in and check?”

Qi Xiao could only keep watching and guessing at Meng Ning’s mood, never quite sure.

Wen Zenian hesitated for a moment.

Qi Xiao’s heart clenched. She realized she’d said something terribly wrong. How could Wen Zenian go inside? She was afraid of seeing Meng Ning unhappy—even in this lively, relaxed atmosphere. But she was equally afraid of seeing Meng Ning happy, because there was no place for her here.

Qi Xiao said, “Maybe I should call her…”

Maybe it would be better to call Meng Ning out instead.

But Wen Zenian stubbed out her cigarette and curved her lips slightly. “Come on, let’s go in and see.”

Qi Xiao made a “please, after you” gesture, suddenly feeling it was rude to walk ahead of her boss.

Wen Zenian arched an eyebrow lightly and headed into the bar.

Truth be told, it wasn’t workplace etiquette holding Qi Xiao back. She was breaking down all over again. Trailing behind Wen Zenian, she bit her lower lip and whimpered silently to herself.

In the past, when Meng Ning had accompanied Wen Zenian in weaving a dream, Qi Xiao had thought Meng Ning was a moth to a flame. Now, watching Wen Zenian’s back as she walked into the bar, Qi Xiao realized she was doing the exact same thing.

Wen Zenian, utterly clear-headed, strode into that impossible dilemma. She would witness the painful scene firsthand, searing it straight into her heart.

Meng Ning’s joy, Meng Ning’s sorrow—all of it, she would bear.

The group in the booth stared at Wen Zenian, momentarily stunned.

Qi Xiao poked her head out from behind Wen Zenian and introduced her vaguely. “My friend.”

Clinging to the last dregs of an extrovert’s nerve, someone joked, “Qi Xiao, how is it all your friends are knockout beauties, one after another?”

But Wen Zenian’s expression remained impassive. She didn’t smile.

Damn, that aura was two meters high. Even the bold extrovert clammed up.

Meng Ning froze when she spotted Wen Zenian. She’d assumed Wen Zenian would just call her out, not come inside herself.

She started to stand, but Wen Zenian’s gaze swept evenly over the group, lingering on no one—not even her—for an extra second. Meng Ning sat back down.

Wen Zenian clearly had no intention of showing they knew each other.

Sensing the awkward vibe, Qi Xiao didn’t seat Wen Zenian next to Meng Ning. Instead, she directed her to a spot beside someone else. “There’s an empty seat right here.”

Smart choice. They were seated diagonally across from each other, so when Meng Ning leaned forward to grab the pistachios on the table, she could sneak a glance at Wen Zenian out of the corner of her eye.

That’s exactly what Meng Ning did, acting like she just couldn’t get enough of the pistachios.

Then she realized Wen Zenian wasn’t looking at her. Not even once.

Why would Wen Zenian need to look again?

That half-second when her gaze had swept the group had been enough. It had paused on Meng Ning, just as it always had.

Wen Zenian had gotten into the habit young. Back then, Meng Ning basked in the spotlight while she endured the cold shoulders. Afraid a lingering stare would draw mockery, she’d only allow herself to look during crowds—quickly, calmly sweeping her eyes over the group for that fleeting half-second glimpse of Meng Ning.

So yes, she’d seen everything.

Meng Ning talked a lot and laughed plenty, but the cheerful act didn’t pierce her; after all, Meng Ning put on the same show in front of her and Qi Xiao.

What truly stung was what came after. Once she’d finished talking, after the laughter faded, Meng Ning would purse her lips ever so slightly and let out the tiniest breath before pasting the smile back on.

Maybe the spotlights were too dim here. Maybe the crowd kept distracting Qi Xiao. Either way, Meng Ning would occasionally flick her gaze toward Qi Xiao, confirming she hadn’t noticed the little exhale.

It was like unfurling a colorful parachute of laughter and chatter. While everyone’s attention snagged on the vibrant canopy, she could steal a moment underneath to breathe.

Alone, Meng Ning couldn’t manage it. The quiet was too oppressive, and she was the sole target. Sadness and grief would find her no matter what.

But here, amid the throng where no one clocked her subtle tells, even she felt relief.

Then, mid one of those tiny breaths, her shoulders went rigid.

As if she’d suddenly remembered: Wen Zenian was here. Sitting right across diagonally.

She darted a quick glance over, checking if Wen Zenian had noticed. No matter where she sat, Wen Zenian’s posture was always elegant—her long legs in tailored slacks pressed neatly together, like one of those graceful ancient bridges.

In truth, Wen Zenian wasn’t looking at her at all. Her eyes were fixed on the bartender shaking the cocktail shaker.

But Meng Ning swallowed that unfinished breath.

Caught. The tiny window to exhale, gone.

Wen Zenian curved her lips faintly, her palm braced against the booth’s edge, fingertips curling inward with force.

A self-mocking smile.

In that instant, she thought desperately, I should just go.

What was the point of sitting here? She had mountains of work, yet she’d ditched it all to rush over and shove them both into this mess.

She glanced at the whiskey bottle on the table, grabbed a clean glass, and poured herself a drink without a word to anyone.

Even her pouring was graceful—the line from her spine to her hips forming perfect, enticing curves. Plenty of eyes lingered on her silhouette.

She was used to the stares by now. As a kid, they’d been laced with scorn. Grown up, they carried envy. Much difference? Both made it impossible to fully be herself.

And now, she’d become the one making Meng Ning unable to relax and be herself.

She set the bottle down and reached for the glass when a hand extended toward her.

The palm lay open, revealing the lines she’d once traced gently, two shelled pistachios nestled in the creases.

Her gaze traveled upward: a light gray T-shirt collar, a fair neck, a delicate chin. Finally, Meng Ning’s eyes—clear black and white, gently curved, unchanged all these years.

That gaze had saved her as a child. It had wounded her too.

Now, it set her heart racing even as it ached.

Smiling, Meng Ning asked, “Want some?”

The music blared, the crappy speakers screeching now and then. Everyone chatted and laughed. No one piped up with, “Hey, do you two know each other?”

No one pried into their history.

She got it now—why Meng Ning had fled into this noisy chaos. Under its cover, they could pretend, just for a while, to forget their tangled past.

She took the pistachios from Meng Ning’s palm, her fingertips trembling faintly as they brushed those lines once more.

She shouldn’t. She wasn’t some all-powerful dream weaver anymore. Now she was just a minor player in this hopeless dreamscape—lost, helpless. Her quivering fingers betrayed her.

Meng Ning curved her lips at her again, then turned away fast.

The pistachios hit her mouth. The whiskey was cheap, its bitter aftertaste chasing away the faint sweetness lingering on her tongue root.

Someone piped up. “Had enough break? Ready to keep playing Truth or Dare?”

Wen Zenian curved her lips again.

Tonight, her smiles outnumbered her usual lifetime total. All laced with sarcasm.

When did people need a game to voice their truths?

Had Meng Ning played before? What truths had she spilled? Wen Zenian flicked her gaze toward Meng Ning from the corner of her eye. Even amid the garish lights, Meng Ning looked pristine, smiling along with the group.

Wen Zenian’s smile deepened.

Fine. If Meng Ning wanted to play, she’d play too.

Qi Xiao had been monitoring Wen Zenian’s expression. Seeing no objection, she chimed in. “Sure, let’s do it.”

Wen Zenian noticed Meng Ning had uncanny luck—hardly ever picked. As if the heavens knew she wanted no part of truths.

A few rounds in, though, Wen Zenian got tagged. In her flat tone, she chose, “Truth.”

Everyone exchanged glances.

Damn, two-meter-aura beauty in full elite mode—what question to hit her with?

Finally, one extrovert summoned her courage. “Haha, well, the moon’s awfully round tonight. Got anyone you like?”

Pfft.

Meng Ning snorted inwardly.

What the hell? So she wasn’t the only one going rigid around Wen Zenian.

But their nerves weren’t the same. Others bantered to coax out truths. Hers hid them.

Someone immediately elbowed the reckless extrovert. Question asked, sure—but what kind of pure, grade-school crush nonsense was that?

These days, though, that was how it went.

Hookups were easier than kisses. Kisses easier than hugs. Dating easier than admitting a crush.

Wen Zenian rarely smiled, so tonight’s barrage of self-mocking ones was something else. She merely tugged the corner of her mouth.

She looked like she could command the winds and summon rain, bend the world to her will. Yet her heart? That she couldn’t control.

It steeped in liquor called the past—brewed from the river waters edging that small town at fourteen, aged through the years into an inky, endless tide. Her heart had become a wrinkled plum, all sweetness and bitterness folded deep inside.

She longed to squeeze it, wring it out. But what she crushed was herself.

Across from her, Meng Ning said softly, “If you don’t want to answer, just drink.”

Her voice was a whisper, swallowed by the pounding music, the speaker’s screech, the overlapping chatter.

But Wen Zenian lifted her eyes to meet hers.

Meng Ning’s hands pressed against the booth’s edge. Her knuckles twitched twice. She ducked her head.