Chapter 67

Meng Ning had guessed that Wen Zenian would be waiting downstairs from her apartment.

Wen Zenian had come downtown for business that day and sent her a WeChat message. Meng Ning had replied that she was out handling something, but when Wen Zenian asked what it was, she hadn’t responded again.

“Where should we talk?” Wen Zenian asked.

“Have you had dinner?” Meng Ning countered. “There’s a great rice noodle spot nearby.”

“I’m not eating that,” Wen Zenian said. “I want the food you cook.”

“It’s so late already. Buying groceries and cooking now would take forever.”

“It’s fine. I’m not that hungry.”

Meng Ning muttered under her breath, “You’re really high maintenance.”

Wen Zenian curved her lips upward. “And this is what you call taking care of me?”

“I’ve been looking after you in every way.”

A genuine smile flickered across Wen Zenian’s face. With the hand not holding her cigarette, she lightly touched Meng Ning’s waist before letting go. “Haven’t I been taking care of you? Hmm, Miss Meng?”

Meng Ning took her hand instead.

Wen Zenian froze for a second, but Meng Ning looped her arm through Wen Zenian’s. “Come on. Walk with me to buy groceries.”

It was the first time Meng Ning had ever linked arms with her like this.

The woman’s soft warmth pressed gently against her arm, echoing the hazy evening sky like mist blending with the sunset.

“You need to put out that cigarette,” Meng Ning reminded her.

“Hm?”

“Baby bok choy gets wilted enough at night. If you walk into the stall puffing on one, the vendor auntie won’t give us a good price while I haggle.”

Wen Zenian shot her a sidelong glance. “One cigarette has that much power?”

Meng Ning grinned. “It’s mostly this outfit. With you smoking too, you scream big boss. It’ll make bargaining tough for me.”

Wen Zenian quirked her lips, letting Meng Ning guide her toward a trash can.

Before Wen Zenian could stub it out, Meng Ning said, “Don’t waste it. Give me a puff.”

The smile tugging at Wen Zenian’s mouth deepened. “Making me stand here waiting, are you?”

Meng Ning hadn’t drunk much or smoked since starting her mood-stabilizing meds.

“Then say something sweet,” Wen Zenian teased.

Meng Ning paused, then leaned close to her ear and murmured softly, “President Wen.”

Wen Zenian suddenly flashed back to that night—straddling Meng Ning’s lap, rising and falling, while Meng Ning called her “President Wen” in exactly that tone: a touch obedient, almost reverent.

Yet her hands had roamed freely, shamelessly.

When Meng Ning pulled back, she caught sight of President Wen’s ear tips faintly pink in the sunset glow.

Her voice remained even: “Just one puff.”

“Mm-hmm.” Obedient Meng Ning looked every bit the part.

Wen Zenian halted a few steps from the trash can and held the cigarette to Meng Ning’s lips.

Meng Ning glanced down.

It was one of those slim ladies’ cigarettes, pure white from end to end, marked with an earthy lipstick stain on the filter—the subtle texture of lip lines making it all the more seductive.

Meng Ning parted her lips and took a light drag.

Minty coolness flooded her lungs, chased by the harsh bite of tobacco. She hadn’t smoked much lately and nearly coughed.

Smoking was like drowning: choking, burning all the way down.

Loving someone felt the same way.

“Hey, that’s enough,” Wen Zenian murmured near her ear.

Meng Ning pretended reluctance as Wen Zenian smiled and withdrew the cigarette. She walked to the trash can, stubbed it out, and tossed it away.

When she returned, Meng Ning naturally slipped her arm through hers again.

Together they entered the market. Little meat or produce remained at this hour. Meng Ning grumbled softly about why Wen Zenian insisted on cooking at home, but Wen Zenian simply replied, “I like it.”

I like you. So I like your cooking too.

Meng Ning went quiet.

Wen Zenian had little experience with markets growing up.

She’d bounced between two uncles’ homes, then her grandparents’. Truly neglectful families didn’t send kids shopping—the aunts kept hawkish eyes on every penny, convinced she’d pocket a few cents.

In Britain? Even less. It was transactional: they needed a star pupil, she needed…

To survive.

Truth be told, the old market’s stench wasn’t appealing, especially after a full day of fermenting. Yet everyone inside moved with easy leisure, the kind that came after hard work—ready to retreat to snug homes where family gathered under warm lights.

The sun dipped lower, twilight deepening.

Meng Ning reached over and undid the buttons on Wen Zenian’s suit jacket, one by one.

Wen Zenian wondered what she was after, but Meng Ning’s pale hand simply withdrew after.

Just like that, jacket open, the walk felt freer.

Wen Zenian smiled faintly and moved to loosen her shirt collar.

“No.” Meng Ning patted the back of her hand. “Shirt stays buttoned.”

“It’s late,” she added. “Two dishes okay?”

“No,” Wen Zenian said. “Three.”

“You!” Meng Ning wrinkled her nose.

Wen Zenian laughed. “Fine.” She relented. “Two it is.”

From every angle, it was an achingly peaceful moment: Meng Ning’s arm in hers as they meandered the near-empty market. A familiar vendor called, “Hey, little sis—eggs? Discounted now!” Others swept their stalls as Meng Ning asked, “Chicken or beef?”

The old market was half-covered by a tin roof curving overhead, steel beams crisscrossing neatly. As they walked, the orange sunset flickered in and out of view.

Wen Zenian parted her lips.

She steadied her breath before answering, “Beef.”

The mood was serene, yet her heart raced like that night of lovemaking with Meng Ning.

Not raw lust. But in the rush of profound joy, a sharp, stinging ache bloomed.

Too perfect—the heart convinced itself it couldn’t last.

Meng Ning evoked that in her. So did strolling the market arm in arm.

Meng Ning finished shopping unhurriedly, then led her out, arm linked once more.

Upstairs, the narrow stairwell forced single file.

Home, Meng Ning slipped into slippers while instructing, “Too late for much—you assist. Otherwise, dinner’s after nine.”

“Gladly,” Wen Zenian agreed.

Meng Ning eyed her.

“What?”

“Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘Do you know my hourly rate? How dare you make me wash veggies?'” Meng Ning chuckled. “That’s straight out of Mary Sue novels.”

“You’ve read those?”

“Yep,” Meng Ning nodded. “Qi Xiao recommended them.”

“My time with you is wasted anyway, hourly rate be damned. One veggie wash more or less…”

“Exactly—not dropping that iconic line robs the admin manager scrubbing veggies of its thrill.”

Wen Zenian considered. “Never tallied my hourly. Want last year’s salary instead?” She whispered a figure in Meng Ning’s ear.

Meng Ning blinked. “Ten thousand?”

Wen Zenian clarified, “Millions.”

“Fuck,” Meng Ning growled.

Wen Zenian tugged her earlobe.

“Hey!” Meng Ning protested. “You curse plenty too. English doesn’t fool me—you’re filthier than I am.”

Wen Zenian wagged a finger. “Doesn’t suit that face of yours.”

Meng Ning had seen Wen Zenian wear jade before. Those hands resembled jade too—submerged in wash water, they gleamed translucent and smooth.

With assistance, Meng Ning cooked swiftly. She plated the dishes just as Song Xiao dragged in from work, exhaustion and burnout etched on her face.

“Perfect timing,” Meng Ning called. “Wash up and eat.”

Wen Zenian carried two bowls of rice from the kitchen, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and nodded to Song Xiao.

Song Xiao faltered. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Join us,” Wen Zenian offered. “I’ll grab another bowl.”

The three settled at the table. Wen Zenian mused: Fate’s turning points always masquerade as ordinary.

Like driving Meng Ning out of her place, Qi Xiao humming some silly “good puppy” children’s tune in the back.

Or this: before the talk ahead, sharing dinner with Meng Ning and Song Xiao. Meng Ning, barbecue-stuffed, poked listlessly at her rice while propping her head, listening to Song Xiao rant about her boss.

Utterly mundane.

Mundane enough to lull you into thinking life stretched on unchanged.

But it didn’t.

Song Xiao washed dishes post-meal and vanished to her room.

“Walk downstairs?” Meng Ning asked Wen Zenian. “I’m stuffed.”

Wen Zenian dipped her chin. “Sure.”

They descended. Jacket shed, the night breeze molded Wen Zenian’s soft shirt to her graceful figure.

“I might be gone a while,” Wen Zenian said.

Meng Ning walked beside her, hands clasped behind her back, fingers twisting.

Silence stretched until Meng Ning asked, “Paris?”

“Maybe. Or not.”

Quiet again.

“Meng Ning,” Wen Zenian continued, “I get it. You’ll heal someday—your own life, job, circle. No instant WeChat replies. I can’t trap you under my thumb, citing your issues.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” she admitted. “Can’t you recover? Or do you hold back for me?”

Meng Ning was too sharp.

She’d sensed Wen Zenian’s overwhelming control freak streak from the start—rooted in atonement. Subconsciously, did Meng Ning know Wen Zenian craved her unchanging? A world solely hers, eternal dependence.

“It’s unhealthy possessiveness,” Wen Zenian confessed. “So I’ll step away. Adjust.”

Meng Ning shook her head. “No.”

Wen Zenian turned to her.

They’d reached a towering banyan tree. The old district was rundown: crumbling buildings, snarled wires, dingy stalls leaking wastewater. No bright polish.

Only these trees surpassed the new developments. Unlike mountain flora drinking nature’s vigor, these rooted amid human tales, centuries woven through them.

They understood speech—the canopy rustled softly.

Meng Ning stopped under the banyan tree like this, looking at Wen Zenian and saying, “No.”

She reached out a hand, gently caressing Wen Zenian’s cheek.

Her fingertips brushed back and forth against the skin. She murmured, “Do you think I don’t have it?”

In truth, Meng Ning rarely showed such an expression; she usually wore her disguise too well. Sometimes quiet, sometimes amiable, sometimes upbeat. Only during their moments of lovemaking did that instinctive impulse from her very bones shatter all pretense, revealing that look to Wen Zenian.

It wasn’t fervent—rather, it was calm.

She calmly scrutinized Wen Zenian undulating on her lap, or rather, she was calmly scrutinizing herself.

With utter clarity, in that moment, she faced her possessiveness toward Wen Zenian without reservation.

So her earlier words were incomplete. The full sentence should have been—

“That near-mad possessiveness—do you think I don’t have it?”

What was so special about scorching, blazing fire? It was the fire that burned so calmly that was intoxicating.

In reality, Wen Zenian was half a head taller than Meng Ning in her high heels, and her shirt-and-trousers outfit always looked more mature than Meng Ning’s T-shirt and sweatpants. Yet there under the banyan tree in this ancient city, hidden in the shadows, Meng Ning stroked her cheek, and she tilted her head slightly, nuzzling lightly into Meng Ning’s palm.

Control and being controlled. Dominion and submission. They were two sides of the same coin, switching in an instant—who could say for sure?

Before the relief in Wen Zenian’s heart could surface, Meng Ning gently withdrew her hand.

That warm liquid solidified in her chest, and Wen Zenian said nothing, just gazing at Meng Ning.

“It’s not your problem,” Meng Ning said. “It’s mine. I’m too happy.”

“What?”

“I’m too happy.” Meng Ning’s gaze drifted for a moment before locking onto Wen Zenian’s eyes. “This isn’t right.”

She turned her head and walked toward the secluded spot by the banyan tree.

Wen Zenian followed her and discovered that the shadows concealed a set of old, rusted street fitness equipment. The environment was poor, with no streetlights, so it was probably rarely used; the rust had corroded further with the years.

Meng Ning sat down on an incline sit-up bench. Wen Zenian walked over and stood before her. “What are you saying? Meng Ning.”

A distant streetlamp cast a slanted glow; it was the South after all—this season already brought the faint chirping of cicadas.

Meng Ning rested her elbows on her knees, fingers interlaced to prop up her chin, as if lost in a daze for a moment. Then she lifted her face, her eyes slightly reddened.

Wen Zenian didn’t know what extremes Meng Ning had driven herself to, to allow herself to cry in front of her like this. Instinctively, she wanted to step forward and embrace her.

Meng Ning extended one arm, palm upright—a gesture of rejection.

Wen Zenian stayed rooted to the spot.

Meng Ning kept her hand raised, not lowering it until the redness in her eyes had faded a bit. Then she dropped it and forced a self-mocking smile. “Sorry.”

Wen Zenian couldn’t tell if that “sorry” was directed at her or at Meng Ning herself.

Sorry to herself—for pretending to be so upbeat for so long, only to cry at the first sign of trouble.

Wen Zenian called softly, “Meng Ning.”

Her voice fell over Meng Ning’s head like a gentle caress.

Meng Ning lowered her head. “My mom was unhappy her whole life, and then she died. How can I be this happy?”

That sentence was still incomplete. The full version was—

“My mom stayed by my side because of my scheming; she was unhappy her whole life, and then she died. How can I be this happy?”

Wen Zenian wanted to approach, but Meng Ning’s body language screamed rejection. Wen Zenian stood still and bit her lip. “Listen to me.”

“Maybe you thought that way as a child. But you’re an adult now, and you know adults’ thoughts are very complex. Adults aren’t any smarter or braver; we can’t predict our futures. We were all young back then and didn’t know what exactly happened between Aunt Shiyang and Auntie Cen. But no matter what, Aunt Shiyang made her final decision herself—she chose to stay. Meng Ning, you were a child then; Aunt Shiyang was the adult, and she was responsible for her own choices.”

Meng Ning looked up. “Are you saying I’m innocent?”

“You’re not innocent; you had your own schemes,” Wen Zenian said. “But you can’t be responsible for Aunt Shiyang’s choices or her life. Meng Ning, I’m sorry to say this, but sometimes you’re a bit too arrogant. You weren’t the sole deciding factor in Aunt Shiyang’s entire life.”

Meng Ning was stunned.

“But…” Meng Ning’s voice was hoarse. “She died.”

Meng Ning didn’t say “she passed away.” She said “she died,” in that slightly raspy voice that had never fully recovered from choking on seawater—like forcing herself to confront it in the most brutal way possible.

Wen Zenian’s heart clenched painfully.

Right now, Meng Ning sat on the weathered fitness equipment by the market, a distant streetlamp obliquely illuminating half her face. But Wen Zenian vividly envisioned another scene: a funeral, a girl in her early twenties standing alone, no family beside her, the setting sun slanting in just like this, unable to light her face, her thin shadow stretched endlessly long.

She was so thin, having endured alone for so long, head slightly bowed, not crying, just radiating immense bewilderment, her delicate shoulder blades protruding like the wings of a butterfly that could no longer fly.

Wen Zenian thought: If someone had just hugged her back then, would her life have come to this?

So, no matter how Meng Ning hunched her shoulders or radiated rejection through her body language, Wen Zenian stepped forward and pulled her into an inescapable embrace.

At first, Meng Ning struggled. Wen Zenian tightened her arms and said nothing, just holding her.

She quieted.

A small moth fluttered against the streetlamp bulb, the sound distant.

Meng Ning sniffled.

Slowly, she raised her arms and hugged Wen Zenian tightly.

Wen Zenian remained silent, patting her back lightly, again and again. She had finally reached across time to embrace her girl at that eerily empty funeral, where Meng Ning clung to her waist like a lifeline.

Wen Zenian felt warm tears soaking through her shirt.

The deepest tears weren’t scalding hot—they were warm. They didn’t surge; they flowed quietly, steadily, inscribing sorrow.

Meng Ning’s voice choked. “How can I like you this much?”

Wen Zenian stroked her back, over and over.

“She stayed; she gave up Auntie Cen. She never experienced being with the person she loved her whole life; she was never this happy. Why can I be this happy?” Meng Ning cried, asking, “Why do I get to be this happy?”

Wen Zenian called her name. “Meng Ning.”

Meng Ning said, “I can’t be with you, you know? I’m genuinely so happy from the bottom of my heart—happy enough to wonder if my past unhappiness was all fake. I could maybe be with someone else, but not you. With you, I’m too happy.”

I’ve obtained that supreme happiness I don’t deserve at all.

Wen Zenian: “Meng Ning, your head’s a mess right now. Don’t say some things now.”

“No.” Meng Ning shook her head. “I’ve thought about it—if I were with someone else and they had to go to Paris for work, I’d support them. But last time I failed the assessment, and you said you wanted to paint the house, you wanted to stay—I felt relieved deep down. People shouldn’t like someone too much; they really shouldn’t.”

It makes you lose all your principles, turns you into someone you’re not.

Meng Ning thought: That’s how it was with Shi Yang before. Shi Yang was her whole world; she loved her too much, so she resorted to any means to keep her.

That’s how it was with Wen Zenian now. She liked her too much, so she wanted to keep her at any cost.

Meng Ning’s voice choked repeatedly. “Let me let you go, okay?”

She buried her face deep in Wen Zenian’s embrace.

She’d said it. At least for that instant, she’d overcome her greed and said it.

Wen Zenian held her with one arm, slipping the other hand in to cover her mouth. “Meng Ning, I said your head’s a mess. Some things, we won’t discuss now.”

She pressed gently, then withdrew her hand, letting Meng Ning catch her breath.

They held each other quietly like that for a while. Meng Ning pulled away from Wen Zenian’s embrace, head down, voice hoarse as she asked, “Um, how much was this shirt of yours?”

Soaked with her tears, maybe even a bit of snot.

Wen Zenian curved her lips slightly. “You really going to pay for it?”

Meng Ning: “Ah.”

Wen Zenian said, “I don’t remember which brand it is. Take a look.”

She turned her back to Meng Ning and squatted down, exposing a section of pale nape.

Meng Ning paused, then reached to flip up Wen Zenian’s collar.

What the hell… After bawling her eyes out, here she was flipping Wen Zenian’s shirt collar.

She read off a brand.

Wen Zenian hummed in acknowledgment, stood up, turned back to her, and lightly ruffled her hair. “This shirt was probably bought by my assistant; I don’t know the exact price, but based on the brand…”

She named a figure.

Meng Ning ground her molars. “You’re scamming me, right?”

It was just a shirt! Two pieces of fabric and two sleeves at the end of the day! For that price, might as well just rob her outright!

Wen Zenian said, “You don’t have to pay.”

Wen Zenian always spoke with restraint.

The implication behind those words: All your emotions tonight—I’ll take them on.

Meng Ning stood. “Well then, time to head back, right?”

Wen Zenian: “I need to get back to the island; big meeting early tomorrow.”

“Ah.” Meng Ning nodded. “I’ll walk you.”

“Better if I walk you,” Wen Zenian said, straightening her shirt. “I’ll call the driver now to pick me up; he can drop me off after taking you home. By the time he gets here, it’ll be perfect to see you upstairs.”

They walked together toward the old building.

Meng Ning glanced at the damp patch on Wen Zenian’s shirt.

Impulse is the devil. She should’ve picked a day when Wen Zenian was wearing a cheaper shirt to cry on.

But then she thought: Did Wen Zenian even own any cheap shirts? Heh.