Chen Zhouren walked over just as Jiang Wanju had unlocked the door with her room card. She stepped inside, and he said, “You should’ve told me.”
“You’re not the police, Mr. Chen,” Jiang Wanju tossed her bag onto the sofa casually. She raised her hand to smooth back her hair, her tone calm. “I’m really tired. Make yourself at home.”
She didn’t care about Chen Zhouren’s gaze. She took off her clothes and shoes, then walked into the bathroom. The sound of running water echoed as she showered. She truly was exhausted. Her feet ached. After a quick rinse, she emerged wrapped in a bathrobe. Chen Zhouren was still sitting on the sofa in the suite. Jiang Wanju ignored him and went straight into the bedroom, flopping onto the bed and falling asleep immediately.
Chen Zhouren wouldn’t do anything to her.
In the early morning, Jiang Wanju was awakened by the enticing smell of breakfast. Chen Zhouren had already prepared it. After a quick wash, she sat down on the sofa and began to eat slowly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chen Zhouren opening a bottle of wine and pouring it into a clear glass.
He said, “Shall we talk?”
The freshly toasted bread had been cut into small squares and spread with jams made of plum, strawberry, and grapefruit. The Middle Eastern-style tomato-poached eggs were sprinkled with cumin. Chen Zhouren placed a ceramic plate with soft-boiled eggs in front of Jiang Wanju and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said such flippant things last night.”
Jiang Wanju didn’t respond. She was hungry. She lowered her head and took a bite of a small sausage on top of the tomato-poached eggs.
“Your job is hard,” Chen Zhouren said. “Some hardships, you don’t need to go through.”
He handed her a wine glass. Jiang Wanju took it and sipped along the rim. The taste wasn’t particularly good. At last, she looked up and met Chen Zhouren’s eyes.
“I won’t deny your physique, stamina, or skill,” Jiang Wanju said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gone out with you again.”
Chen Zhouren had been sipping his wine, but upon hearing her words, he stopped, focusing intently on what she was saying.
His appearance was far too deceiving—when he looked at someone like that, it gave the illusion of being cherished, of being told “you matter.”
Jiang Wanju said politely, “I’ve got a strong backbone. I’m not suited to be someone’s lover, President Chen. You’d better give up.”
Chen Zhouren laughed but gave no comment. He refilled her wine glass. “How long are you planning to stay here?”
“Two days,” Jiang Wanju replied. New chapters come out on g.com first.
Chen Zhouren said, “Since you’re here, let me keep you company.”
When it came to leisure, Chen Zhouren was a seasoned pro.
They wandered through ancient streets filled with the scent of incense, past grand foreign-style buildings that had risen from what was once Huangpu’s muddy banks. Chen Zhouren knew every alley and corner of the city—from the Taiping Garden where Jewish immigrants once gathered to the skyscrapers shimmering in the clouds.
From the southern city to the foreign concession districts, with Chen Zhouren leading the way, Jiang Wanju didn’t need to rely on any maps—she just followed him. Dinner was at the Bund, in a refined and understated French restaurant. The glass ceiling let in soft outdoor light; the decor was cozy and the music gentle. Jiang Wanju slowly cut into her Beef Wellington, savoring each juicy bite.
Chen Zhouren never brought up whether she’d stay or leave.
He behaved like a long-time friend—attentive and patient with her.
From the calm charm of Xujiahui to Tianzifang shaded by plane trees, the old villas and alleys carried a romanticism fermented by time. Chen Zhouren did indeed have good taste in restaurants. The handmade dumplings in rich mushroom sauce were filled with truffle; the duck slices with caviar were plated like works of art; the black truffle pizza was fragrant and melted in the mouth; red wine–braised ox tongue, candy-like sorbets…
They ate, drank, and had fun—but Jiang Wanju never spent the night with Chen Zhouren again. Though their suites were next to each other, at night he’d walk her back to her room, and in the morning he’d knock on her door to invite her for breakfast.
They never held hands, never hugged, never kissed—let alone anything else. Jiang Wanju stayed clear-headed. She even called a coworker during the break and saw a notice in the group chat: the bonus for this trip was quite generous. The exact amount could already be checked via email.
Still, that generous bonus wouldn’t even cover the price of one of Chen Zhouren’s shirts.
On her last night before leaving Shanghai, Jiang Wanju didn’t go anywhere. She stayed in the suite, drank a little wine, and chatted with Chen Zhouren in fragments about many things.
She told him that she hadn’t planned on staying long in this industry at first, but her aunt had given her a classic luxury handbag.
Once she had the expensive bag, she wanted shoes to match. Then the dress to match. All equally expensive.
That’s why she chose to keep climbing the ladder in this field. She craved glamour, loved everything displayed in glass cases or glowing softly under delicate lighting—whether understated or dazzling.
Everyone defines “luxury” differently. To Jiang Wanju, sincerity was precious. But to some, it was a toy they could discard once bored, a flower to be tossed after its scent faded.
Chen Zhouren listened.
“Have you ever heard the story of King Zhou of Shang?” Jiang Wanju suddenly asked. “One day, he got a pair of ivory chopsticks. Then he no longer wanted ceramic bowls—he insisted on jade cups. He wouldn’t wear rough cloth anymore—he wanted silk and satin…”
“Later, King Zhou built the Deer Terrace Pavilion, indulged in wine and meat, and lived in excess until he was overthrown and died.”
Chen Zhouren summed up her story: “Human nature—desire is insatiable.”
Wanting the next hill after gaining one; reaching one goal and dreaming of a bigger one.
“Yes,” Jiang Wanju smiled. “Maybe the very act of constantly chasing desire, satisfying oneself bit by bit… is the essence of life.”
Chen Zhouren mixed a Negroni—using Campari and red vermouth. Jiang Wanju took a small sip. Between the bitterness and sweetness, it wrapped her tongue in soft warmth.
Chen Zhouren sat beside her. He reached out, running his fingers through her hair, his thumb pressing gently against her chin, guiding her toward a kiss.
But Jiang Wanju raised her hand and covered his lips.
Chen Zhouren lowered his gaze to her. He asked, “You don’t want to?”
Jiang Wanju looked him in the eye. Her fingers trailed down and touched his chest through his shirt, feeling the warmth beneath.
She said, “If you stay with me—I’ll give myself to you.”