Chapter 65 Part 1

Meng Ning welcomed Wen Zenian inside and fetched her a pair of slippers.

Neither of them turned on the living room lights. They tiptoed back to Meng Ning’s bedroom.

Wen Zenian glanced at the wall. The movie Paris Night Traveler was still playing, though Meng Ning had turned the volume all the way down, turning it into something like a silent film.

Meng Ning pressed her hands behind her back against the door. When she saw Wen Zenian’s gaze sweep over, she suddenly tensed up. “I can’t tonight.”

Wen Zenian asked, “How badly does your back hurt?”

Meng Ning couldn’t exactly say that she’d spent the afternoon lounging on a free massage chair outside the supermarket. A young woman like her lying there amid a bunch of old men had drawn plenty of stares—Qi Xiao had spotted her from a distance.

And besides, that massage chair hadn’t been any good anyway.

She said vaguely, “It hurts pretty bad.”

Wen Zenian set down her bag. “Lie down on the bed.”

Meng Ning shot her a wary glance.

Wen Zenian crossed her arms. “What am I in your eyes, exactly?”

You’re fantasizing about all sorts of things during meetings at the office. Meng Ning didn’t say it aloud, but she grumbled it in her head.

Wen Zenian asked, “Aren’t you the top?”

Meng Ning paused, then blinked. Right! She wasn’t some pushover.

So she lay down on the bed.

Wen Zenian sat on the edge of the mattress, creating a soft, inviting dip.

She rolled up the hem of Meng Ning’s pajamas and pushed it higher, exposing a slender stretch of waist. “Where does it hurt?”

She pressed the heel of her palms there. “Here?”

Meng Ning let out a comfortable hum, then added, “A little more toward the center.”

“Here?”

After a few tries, Meng Ning couldn’t take it anymore. “Next time, you try it yourself. Then you’ll know exactly where it hurts.”

Wen Zenian chuckled softly. “Look at you, so tough.”

Meng Ning buried her face in the pillow and said nothing.

Truth be told, whenever she was with Wen Zenian, she wasn’t trying to be cheeky or flirtatious on purpose.

She was just nervous.

With her face pressed into the pillow, she couldn’t see, but she knew this scene was overly cozy. A faint crack ran along the wall, where the Paris movie flickered on, its light and shadows quietly tracing over half of Wen Zenian’s figure.

She had casually draped her suit jacket over Meng Ning’s bed, her shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal pale wrists.

Her palms felt like moonlight—not overly warm, just the perfect temperate coolness—as they gently kneaded Meng Ning’s lower back.

Suddenly, Meng Ning felt like crying again.

The moment she’d said she missed her, Wen Zenian had hung up and come straight up from downstairs.

How long had Wen Zenian been sitting alone in her car before that?

When had she driven over? Why hadn’t she said anything when she arrived? Was she worried about putting too much pressure on her?

A warm, bittersweet ache dulled her heart.

Meng Ning hesitated before speaking up. “About the Paris job…”

Wen Zenian cut her off softly. “I’m massaging you like this, and you still think it’s no big deal if I go to Paris?”

“That’s not it.” Meng Ning explained, “It’s just…”

“Once you pass the next psychological assessment, we can talk about it then, okay?”

Meng Ning smiled. “Sure.”

Wen Zenian’s hands slid up two inches, nearly brushing the edge of Meng Ning’s bra.

Meng Ning tensed. “What are you doing?”

Wen Zenian pinched her side lightly, then withdrew her hands. “Does your back feel better?”

Meng Ning considered carefully. “A little better, but not all the way.”

Meaning: Don’t get any ideas.

Wen Zenian gave her lower back a light pat, then stood and moved to the chair.

Meng Ning started to sit up, but Wen Zenian stopped her. “Stay put. It’s late—go to sleep.”

So Meng Ning stayed down, curling onto her side with her legs slightly bent, facing Wen Zenian. “What about you? Want to take a shower? I can show you where.”

“I’ll head out in a bit.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow.”

“You’re too…”

“Meng Ning.”

“Yeah?”

“Do I really have to spell it out? If I stay and sleep here, I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold back.”

Meng Ning fell silent, gazing at her from her side-lying position.

Wen Zenian pulled a cigarette from her pocket. She didn’t light it—didn’t plan to smoke in the enclosed room—but held it between her fingers out of habit, as if it helped her relax.

She twirled it lightly and asked Meng Ning, “Can you sleep?”

Someone with poor sleep quality like her had even napped that afternoon thanks to all this.

Meng Ning replied, “Not sure.”

“Try it.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll watch the movie.” Wen Zenian seemed a bit tired too, abandoning her usual elegant posture. She propped one elbow back on the chair’s armrest, staring at the projection on the wall.

Meng Ning’s eyelids gradually drooped.

In that half-awake haze, a sudden sensation of falling jolted her awake. She shivered and opened her eyes to see Wen Zenian still sitting there, unchanged.

How much time had passed? Five minutes? Ten?

Her eyelids grew heavy.

She’d thought she wouldn’t sleep well tonight, but in that moment, she drifted off into a deep slumber.

When the movie’s credits began to roll, Wen Zenian stood, turned off the projector, and quietly picked up her suit jacket from the bed. She grabbed her bag from the nightstand.

She lingered for one last look at Meng Ning.

What tugged at the heart most when Meng Ning slept wasn’t her pale face, or her fluttering lashes, or even the occasional uncontrollable twitch of her shoulders.

It was her posture.

Arms tucked to her chest, legs drawn up—like an infant curled in its mother’s womb. Whether Meng Ning realized it or not, that was the truth.

Deep down, Meng Ning understood all the rational points about Shi Yang. Her persistent guilt likely stemmed from never truly grieving her mother’s passing on an emotional level.

Wen Zenian gently closed the bedroom door behind her, slipped on her heels, and left.

A car waited downstairs to pick her up. She slid into the back seat. “Let’s go.”

The city blurred into a slideshow of night shadows, whipping past with the wind.

Wen Zenian stared out the window without expression, thinking that she probably wasn’t the only one with issues in her heart.

Her hasty departure wasn’t just because of the excuses she’d given Meng Ning—those were real enough.

But the real reason went unspoken.

Just before Meng Ning had opened the door, Wen Zenian had waited in the hallway for a few minutes. In that quiet moment, she’d wondered if Meng Ning hadn’t seen her WeChat message—or if she’d pretended not to.

For a second, she hadn’t dared call to check.

Then Meng Ning had come to the door. The old security door muffled nothing. Her footsteps started hurried, then slowed as she neared.

The instant the door swung open, Meng Ning’s face went blank for a split second before blooming into a serene smile.

Wen Zenian felt petty.

That smile wasn’t fake, not like the forced cheer during the day. But she fixated on that fleeting blankness before it.

The more she cared, the more she nitpicked.

She kept second-guessing whether Meng Ning truly accepted her deep down, or if some part of her—still unable to face the past—wanted to run at the sight of her.

When someone you cherished so deeply harbored a part of themselves that fled from you…

Wen Zenian’s lips curved in a self-mocking smile.

It was the first time she’d thought how nice it would be if she didn’t like Meng Ning quite so much.

If her feelings were a bit less intense, she wouldn’t have noticed that momentary blankness on Meng Ning’s face—only the peaceful smile that followed.

Then she could have spent a joyful night with her.

Just holding each other, sleeping entwined, exchanging good mornings. She’d leave in the dawn light.

Not like this.

Wen Zenian gazed into the thick night outside, rubbing her temples.

Wen Zenian resolved not to pull these surprise visits anymore.

The next time she was in the city on business, she messaged Meng Ning ahead of time. Meng Ning asked when she’d be home and said she’d come over.

But the banquet ran late. Even shrugging on her suit jacket and rushing out, by the time the driver dropped her off, she was ten minutes behind schedule.

The complex still had Meng Ning’s info on file from before—she hadn’t bothered canceling it with property management when she moved.

So as Wen Zenian climbed the stairs in her suit, she spotted Meng Ning waiting at the door. Her backpack, originally slung behind her, was now pulled around front as she leaned against the wall, staring blankly at the storage cabinet ahead, her gaze unfocused.

Wen Zenian caught her breath and stepped out of the elevator.

With one unit per elevator, it couldn’t be anyone else startling her, so Meng Ning spoke first. “Back already?” Only then did she turn with a smile.

Wen Zenian approached, gave her cheek a light pinch, and unlocked the door with her fingerprint.

She didn’t mention how Meng Ning hadn’t added her fingerprint back after the last overnight stay.

Meng Ning followed her in, tugging the suit jacket back onto Wen Zenian’s shoulders as it slipped. She glanced at her snow-white arm. “You’re wearing just this tonight?”

Wen Zenian glanced back at her and led the way inside.

Meng Ning continued, “I’m not being uptight or anything. Anyone else in this evening gown would look fine. But on you? You’re too pale.”

Her arms were pale. Her collarbones were pale. Every time she wore a black off-the-shoulder style like this, it was like crisp, cold snow against stark contrast—revealing just enough to tease without showing clearly, evoking the layered mist of a traditional Chinese garden.

The less distinct it was, the more one wanted to look.

Bad thought. Very bad.

As she spoke, Meng Ning grabbed her own slippers and changed into them, her eyes flicking quickly to the entryway table.

The electronic lock manual had been put away.

She said nothing, backpack still on as she headed inside. She set it down on the sofa and straightened her shirt.

Wen Zenian followed, chewing over her words. Everyone else was fine, but not her—like she was special.

Wen Zenian almost replied, “Don’t try to butter me up.”

But she swallowed it. Why would Meng Ning butter her up? She’d quietly re-added the fingerprint without a word, and Meng Ning hadn’t mentioned it either. They were both playing dumb, knowing full well.

What reason did Meng Ning have to butter her up?

She shrugged off her suit jacket, tossed herself onto the sofa, and leaned back, eyes closed to rest.

Meng Ning sat beside her and toyed with the small jade earrings dangling from her earlobes. “First time I’ve seen you wear jade.”

“Mm.” It was a soft acknowledgment. “The banquet tonight had a Chinese theme.”

Meng Ning asked, “Tired?”

“A little.”

Business fatigue was the kind you could vent with curses. Being with Meng Ning, though—that drained the soul.

For no reason, she recalled the text embroidered on tonight’s Chinese screen: “Deep affection shortens life; extremes bring disgrace.”

In traditional Chinese culture, it always exalted the modest gentleman, gentle as jade.

Everything in moderation.

No matter how restrained Wen Zenian appeared on the surface, deep down she had committed a grave taboo. Her infatuation with Meng Ning had begun in her adolescence, nurtured by resentment until it blossomed from a mere seed of time into an emotion she herself could scarcely define—a profound, bone-deep longing.

“Do you want to lie on my legs for a bit?” Meng Ning asked.

Only then did Wen Zenian lift her eyelids, glancing at Meng Ning.