Jiang Wanju felt this man was truly wicked to the core. His voice was calm and unhurried, spoken just loud enough for only the two of them to hear.
She had been resting her cheek on one hand, but upon hearing his voice, she lowered her hand and looked around. Seeing that no one was paying them any attention, she responded in a soft voice.
She felt a bit warm and unconsciously took a bite of something refreshing, only to hear Chen Zhouren ask, “Do you have any plans this afternoon?”
Jiang Wanju shook her head.
Chen Zhouren suggested, “How about we pick out some clothes? Consider it my apology.”
His tone was gentle and soft, and the words he chose made it hard for Jiang Wanju to refuse.
No one could easily say no to something like, “Let me take you shopping—use the card as you like.” Jiang Wanju gladly accepted the invitation. They went to Prince’s Building in Central, and Chen Zhouren fulfilled his role quite perfectly. If Jiang Wanju didn’t express a preference, he never made any stereotypical remarks like “women should wear XXX.” He simply smiled as he watched her browse through the season’s new arrivals. Only when she asked for his opinion did he offer thoughtful suggestions.
When she couldn’t decide between two different skirt suits, Chen Zhouren smiled and said, “Why not get both?”
Jiang Wanju turned to look at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I did say I’d get you as many as you want as an apology,” Chen Zhouren replied. “Take your time picking.”
He was truly generous. Unlike other men who usually went straight to find a seat after entering a store, Chen Zhouren stood naturally by Jiang Wanju’s side, chatting casually with the sales associate. Jiang Wanju wasn’t sure what exactly was said, but soon they were ushered into another room with soft sofas and a coffee table. Jiang Wanju didn’t need to get up—someone would bring her clothes, one item after another, all brand new, for her to browse until she was satisfied.
The whole shopping trip took an hour and a half. Chen Zhouren made a call and had his assistant come to collect the clothes and shoes. There were so many shopping bags that the assistant nearly couldn’t carry them all. A few bags with white camellias on them were carried by the shop staff themselves and personally escorted to the car.
Then Chen Zhouren turned to Jiang Wanju and asked, “Do you need to buy any undergarments?”
Jiang Wanju’s cotton panties from yesterday could no longer be worn—they were full of Chen Zhouren’s scent. She had no idea how things got that messy, maybe even her own scent had mixed in, faintly and hazily pink.
Earlier that morning, before heading out, Jiang Wanju had balled up the garments and tossed them casually into the trash.
She turned her face slightly to look at Chen Zhouren, who said, “This is part of the apology too.”
Jiang Wanju asked, “Are you always this generous with every woman?”
The question was slightly provocative.
Chen Zhouren smiled indulgently.
Jiang Wanju asked, “Then how would you ask?”
“I’d ask, ‘Are you this generous with everyone?’”
Following his lead, Jiang Wanju asked, “So, Mr. Chen, what’s your answer? Are you this generous with everyone?”
“Of course not,” Chen Zhouren replied, a faint dimple appearing on his cheek. “No matter which way you phrase it, my answer is still the same.”
Jiang Wanju pressed her hand lightly over her chest and let out a soft hum. She then heard Chen Zhouren lower his voice: “Also, don’t call me Mr. Chen—it sounds old and stiff. I don’t like it.”
He naturally took Jiang Wanju’s hand in his, engulfing it like a big fish swallowing a little fish, holding her firmly in his palm. “The way you addressed me last night was nice. ‘Sir’… or ‘Zhouren-ge.’ Which one do you prefer?”
In her heart, Jiang Wanju preferred “Sir,” but it was clear Chen Zhouren favored the latter. Perhaps it was a common quirk for men his age, or maybe he was just accustomed to playing the role of an older brother. Although he had never mentioned his family, Jiang Wanju had sensed at a previous banquet with Bai Qing that Chen Zhouren was the anchor figure among his siblings.
Originally, Jiang Wanju’s plan for Hong Kong Island was four days and three nights. After their breakup, all her earlier plans had been crossed out with bright red marks. But it didn’t matter—Chen Zhouren whisked her away for eating, drinking, and fun. Unfortunately, the suite Jiang Wanju had booked ended up barely used.
Chen Zhouren had a deep appreciation for good food. He took Jiang Wanju up to Victoria Peak via cable car, had beers while watching the horse races, admired the Victoria Harbour night view… but the most important part was still the food. He brought her to try Cantonese cuisine, joking that he was influenced by an old childhood friend.
Though he didn’t share much about his private life, Chen Zhouren did take her along to meet a business partner—the actual reason he was in Hong Kong.
Oddly enough, the partner was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed German who spoke fluent Mandarin, making communication effortless. During dinner, the partner’s companion was also present—a petite Chinese woman with a soft, sweet voice and an elegant demeanor.
Interestingly, when Jiang Wanju went to the restroom, she overheard the petite woman murmuring to the tall German man in the hallway:
“Mr. Klaus, you didn’t tell me there’d be work tonight—I need to remind you that evening social events count as overtime. I hope you understand what I mean…”
“I understand, Xiaolong,” the German man said with a smile. “Double pay and a night shift allowance for your stomach. Deal?”
The woman laughed. “Deal, my dear Mr. Klaus.”
Jiang Wanju didn’t hear the rest. She slipped away quietly, thinking the pair was rather amusing.
And Chen Zhouren himself was equally fascinating.
He truly knew how to pick food. There was the classic old fire soup: lotus root and octopus simmered with pork shank until the flavors melded richly. The finest preserved plums needed to be savored slowly; the old fire soup had to be drunk while hot. The stuffed eight-treasure duck—deboned and filled with fragrant lotus seeds, lean pork, salted egg yolk, shiitake mushrooms, chestnuts, lily bulbs, ginkgo nuts, and barley—was deep-fried until crispy and then braised until the meat fell apart tenderly. Get faster updates on g.com.
Since they were in Hong Kong, dessert was a must. In the autumn and winter, when Jiang Wanju’s throat hurt from calling out for two consecutive nights, she was given double-boiled papaya with snow fungus and lotus seeds, with the bitter cores of the lotus seeds carefully removed using a toothpick—a sweet and soothing remedy for the throat.
On the last day, they finally had winter melon soup, nicknamed “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” The winter melon was intricately carved with auspicious patterns and stuffed with shrimp, crab meat, bamboo fungus, dried scallops, fresh lotus seeds, scallops, shredded duck, and more. The soup was delicate and flavorful, the meat tender. Around the edges, ham puree, night-blooming jasmine, and crab meat added beautiful garnishes. It really was like a dream.
But dreams have to end sometime.
On the final night in Hong Kong, Jiang Wanju was still in Chen Zhouren’s suite. She was half-lying on the bed in the LP pajamas he’d chosen for her, flipping through an art book.
Chen Zhouren sat on the other side of the sofa. He had just closed his laptop and was sipping water.
At that moment, her phone rang. Both of them looked at the screen at the same time.
Bai Qing.
Jiang Wanju calmly picked up the phone. She didn’t hide or hesitate and answered.
Chen Zhouren set his glass down, stood, and wordlessly lifted one of Jiang Wanju’s legs.
She thought he was joking and laughed, struggling a bit, but couldn’t break free. Bai Qing’s voice came through the phone, calm as always:
“Wanju, are you coming back tomorrow? I checked the time—I can pick you up.”
Jiang Wanju opened her mouth to reply, but before she could make a sound, she let out an involuntary gasp as an unexpected sensation took her by surprise. She covered her mouth, staying silent.
A flush of pink and purple—an idle caress through the thin fabric.
Jiang Wanju looked up and met Chen Zhouren’s gaze.
He looked down at her, holding her leg, and smiled faintly. Then he mouthed a word:
“Continue.”
He was telling her to keep talking.
And he continued too.