Chapter 8

By the time Meng Ning’s B set meal arrived, she had lost all interest in checking out the A and C sets that Qi Xiao and Song Xiao had ordered.

Wen Zenian stood poised at her side, her scent of tea and thyme coming across clear and bright in the night air. In the afternoon, though, it carried a heavier bitterness, as if drawing one into the depths of midnight.

Perhaps in the most beautiful dreams, time and space lost all order—snowflakes could meet roses, noontime sun could kiss a sky full of stars, and the clash of beauties upon beauties would stir endless moments of realization.

Wen Zenian’s slender fingers unfolded a crisp white napkin. She bent one knee slightly to drape it across Meng Ning’s lap, murmured, “Please enjoy,” and then stepped back.

From Meng Ning’s vantage point, she couldn’t spot where Wen Zenian had stationed herself with the day’s service staff. That was the C Hotel’s philosophy through and through: making guests blissfully unaware of the staff’s presence, turning supreme service into something as natural as breathing.

Who ever noticed their own breath? The C Hotel, masters of dream-weaving, aimed for precisely that illusion.

Meng Ning simply felt a gaze upon her, watchful and enveloping. She sliced into her rack of lamb more delicately, the fatty aromas melting rich and savory across her tongue, with a surprising fresh sweetness lingering in the aftertaste.

When the main course plates were cleared, it was Wen Zenian who handled it again. She glanced at the half-eaten carrot left on Meng Ning’s dish but said nothing, her smile unwavering.

Dessert arrived at the perfect moment for digestion: soft bites of coconut cake soaked in passionfruit-mango sauce, topped with airy coconut mousse. It wasn’t cloying at all—like wispy clouds dancing on the tongue, a languid afternoon dream.

After lunch, Wen Zenian vanished.

A guide appeared to remind them, “Feel free to relax at the bar with views and our afternoon tea. But we highly recommend the private beach reserved for C Hotel guests. The sun’s mild today, the temperature inviting—perfect for some activity.”

No one visiting the C Hotel would miss its famed beach.

Meng Ning and Qi Xiao usually changed into swimsuits at the staff lounge. With no long shift on the observation deck today, Meng Ning slipped into her usual sleeveless one-piece for nighttime swims.

She twisted her hair back up and headed to the sand.

Qi Xiao stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her, rubbing her eyes. “What do I do? I can’t stop staring out at the sea.”

A few colleagues without friends or family visiting were on lifeguard duty today, so they could unwind fully.

Meng Ning stood at the water’s edge, gazing into the waves crashing in. Qi Xiao glanced at her. “What are you thinking about?”

“Hm?”

“Every time you stand by the sea like this, staring out, I feel like something’s on your mind.”

“Do I?” Meng Ning’s face was endlessly adaptable—one moment cool and distant, the next flashing a carefree smile like this one.

“Want to swim?” she asked Qi Xiao.

“Of course… hey!”

Before Qi Xiao could finish, Meng Ning bolted toward the waves. They’d worked together for two years, so Qi Xiao knew her well, but she still jumped every time she saw Meng Ning hurl herself into the surf.

So… resolute.

Just like at the annual gala, when she’d downed two huge glasses of absinthe without leaving herself any retreat.

Meng Ning bobbed and dove in the waves.

She’d been a natural swimmer since childhood. The rivers in Crane City looked calm but shifted as unpredictably as the sea. To master them, one had to learn to push and pull with the currents.

After leaving Crane City as an adult, Meng Ning often heard people say folks from there had heavy minds. She figured it came from that endless tug-of-war with the river.

She lost track of time.

Meng Ning always blanked out once she hit the water. Only when exhaustion set in did she stop fighting forward, letting her limbs go limp and drifting with the tide. She heard Qi Xiao calling from the beach: “Meng Ning!”

“Meng Ning!”

She snapped to, blinking. A shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds, dazzling her for half a second. She choked down a mouthful of seawater.

The bitterness at the back of her tongue matched the day she’d saved Wen Zenian—the same burn. Her strength nearly spent, the waves crashing heavy on her shoulders, it all conjured the feel of Wen Zenian’s arms around them that day.

She climbed ashore, waves swirling around her ankles as she walked to the beach.

As a lifeguard, she instinctively glanced toward the control room.

Her gaze locked.

The usually clear glass took on a faint blue tint in the sunlight, mirroring the surging sea like waves themselves. And amid those waves, as if double-exposed, Wen Zenian’s face appeared, peering this way through binoculars.

Wen Zenian was the picture of a hotel manager in uniform, posture impeccably straight. She must have noticed Meng Ning’s stare, but she didn’t lower the binoculars.

From this distance, Meng Ning couldn’t tell if their eyes met through the lenses. She only saw Wen Zenian raise one hand, visible through the vast glass expanse. Leisurely, she waved it once, twice.

Then she lowered it.

It was the poise of someone holding all the strings. If Meng Ning had binoculars of her own, she might have caught that signature smile tugging at Wen Zenian’s lips.

“Meng Ning!”

Qi Xiao ran up.

“I get scared to death watching you swim every time! You went so long, then just floated there—I thought you were drowning.”

“Nah, just tired.” Meng Ning smiled. “How about you?”

“Not bad. It’s been ages since I swam in daylight. Kinda weird still.”

Someone approached Meng Ning. “Hey.”

Meng Ning and Qi Xiao turned together.

The girl smiled politely. “You’re so pretty. Mind if I get a photo with you?”

“Sorry.” Meng Ning refused courteously. “I’m not big on photos.”

The girl smiled again. They chatted briefly, and she wandered off. Qi Xiao asked, “How many is that now?”

No wonder so many wanted a pic with Meng Ning. Her slim yet toned figure was made for swimsuits—especially fresh from the water, sunlight half-filtering through the black fabric. The sleek material against her pale skin evoked a sleek dolphin at play.

And those Buddha beads on her wrist drew eyes. The girl had even asked, “Do you follow Buddhism?”

Meng Ning had smiled easily. “Yeah, I do.”

Now she lifted a hand to wring out her damp bun at the nape, a couple drops trailing down her neck, rolling along her spine before vanishing—as if absorbed by the black mandala tattoo there.

Qi Xiao asked, “Mandala’s got symbolism, right?”

Meng Ning nodded. “Lots of interpretations.”

“Which do you go with?”

“Eternity.”

“That’s a nice one.”

Meng Ning quirked her lips. Qi Xiao was swam out too. In the distance, Song Xiao floated on, hugging a unicorn floatie. “Sit on the beach for a bit?” Qi Xiao asked.

Meng Ning nodded.

The C Hotel’s private stretch of beach was uniquely powdery fine, thanks to its geography. The hotel’s promo described it perfectly: waves lapping at your ankles like the sea itself, then slipping away silky as satin.

Meng Ning sat cross-legged on the sand. She came here daily for work but never with such leisure. Now she gazed at the water, idly scooping sand into her palm, letting it trickle through her fingers in a soft cascade.

It was a mild winter. A hermit crab scuttled across the beach with a faint rustle. Qi Xiao built a sandcastle nearby, humming a tune Meng Ning didn’t recognize.

Meng Ning glanced back instinctively. A loose strand stuck to her damp nape, and behind the control room’s vast transparent glass, Wen Zenian’s figure had vanished.

It struck Meng Ning then: the beach promo line fit Wen Zenian’s smile just as well.

Both were impossible to hold onto.

Dinner was lighter than lunch, the star a semi-sweet Rhine white wine with a touch of acidity for balance, paired with butter-and-parsley escargot.

The service team was unchanged from midday. Wen Zenian, still in uniform, poured Meng Ning’s wine with one hand behind her back, murmuring low, “Please enjoy.”

Her tone was so restrained. Yet the wine slipped in soft and subtle, easy to let one’s guard down into a gentle buzz—head fuzzy, every beam of light feeling like it shone straight on you.

Song Xiao couldn’t hold her liquor. Soon she was giggling foolishly, graduating from “I absolutely won’t eat snails” to devouring several.

Top-tier ingredients preserved their essence while stripping away the textures most folks balked at. That velvety melt on the tongue mingled with the wine’s fruity florals, the cello and harp strings weaving a synesthetic haze.

Until a pleasant tingle numbed her fingertips. She stood, swaying slightly, and left the restaurant.

Concierges handed out keycards. Staff who’d joined past events whispered: “Who got lucky enough to draw the administrative suite this year?”

Meng Ning opened the C Hotel-embossed envelope, pulled out her keycard, and glanced—

As a beach lifeguard, she wasn’t an expert on room layouts, but the floor number screamed administrative suite.

Luck hitting like a final burst before the end.

Qi Xiao asked, “Heading to your room?”

Rooms boasted massive LCD TVs, sweeping ocean views, stocked minibars with sodas and snacks, Egyptian cotton robes for burrowing into enormous goose-down beds.

Maybe that was the “paradise” everyone raved about.

Meng Ning paused. “I think I’ve had too much to drink. Gonna walk it off on the beach first.”

Qi Xiao warned, “No swimming after booze.”

Meng Ning laughed. “Got it.”

She strolled the shoreline; a thin hoodie warded off the breeze. Compared to real life, this place truly felt like a dream where summer never ended—even hermit crabs rarely hibernated here.

Hands in pockets, flip-flops leaving faint prints in the soft sand, Meng Ning thought: I’ve saved a hundred people now.

She glanced back at the hotel’s grand, opulent silhouette, windows glowing here and there.

She shook sand from her shoes, wondering how many sea creatures were still awake like her. At last, she headed inside. The elevator’s metal handrail had a rich vintage gleam. She checked her keycard again.

Ding—the doors opened, and Meng Ning stepped out.

Along the plush, sink-into-me beige carpet, past woven rattan lamps, she realized her keycard was indeed for the administrative suite—at the corridor’s very end.

Beep—card swipe, door unlocked.

Lights were on inside.

The first thing she saw was the expansive terrace, its doors flung wide. Moon-pale sheers fluttered like the thinnest moth wings on the night breeze. Opposite stood a triple-sided wraparound sofa, soft enough to curl up completely in, perfect for sea-gazing or moon-watching. On the central low table sat a bottle of white wine—the same as dinner.

Flanking it, two crystal glasses.

Meng Ning had taken a short stroll just moments earlier. The sea breeze had scattered some of the alcohol-induced haze, but it had done little to rouse her sluggish mind.

Before she could even process what this scene might mean, a low, husky greeting drifted over from the cluster of white sofas. “Hi.”

Meng Ning froze.

Only one person possessed a voice like that—Gwyneth Won.

Wen Zenian.