Most of Jiang Wanju’s body sank into the soft sofa. Although she was clearly at a disadvantage, her fingers remained pressed against Chen Zhouren’s lips, stopping him from going any further.
Chen Zhouren moved her fingers away and kissed her lips.
The night breeze swirled through the room. The scent of the wine they’d just drunk slowly began to fade. Jiang Wanju dug her nails into his neck hard enough to leave marks, while her shoulder throbbed from where he was gripping it.
It wasn’t so much a kiss as a brutal struggle between two people, as if there would be no tomorrow. In the suffocating intensity of it all, it was Jiang Wanju who bit Chen Zhouren’s lip hard enough to taste blood before finally letting go.
Chen Zhouren said, “Stubborn.”
He didn’t seem to care that Jiang Wanju had bitten his lip and drawn blood. He tasted it himself, still half-reclining on the sofa, and asked her, “Was it tasty?”
Jiang Wanju replied, “Have you thought it through?”
Chen Zhouren’s hand slowly and lazily rubbed her head. During the kiss just now, the back of her head had rested steadily in the palm of his hand—it hadn’t been hurt at all.
“So, what benefit is there for me to be with you?” Chen Zhouren lowered his head and looked at Jiang Wanju, the hint of a dimple showing. “What can you offer me?”
Jiang Wanju thought for a moment. “My abilities are limited. I can’t give you a car, I can’t give you a house, and I definitely can’t help your career.”
Chen Zhouren laughed. “Sounds like a losing deal.”
“But I can make breakfast,” Jiang Wanju looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll make an extra fried egg for your breakfast.”
Chen Zhouren’s smile gradually faded.
He asked, “Are you serious?”
Jiang Wanju said nothing.
Chen Zhouren paused for two seconds, then stroked her cheek. He’d seen her barefaced, with light makeup, with heavy makeup—he knew everything about this girl.
Except her heart.
“If I don’t stay tonight,” Jiang Wanju asked, “will you let someone else ‘stay’ with you instead?”
Chen Zhouren neither confirmed nor denied it. Smiling, he patted the back of her head gently—still a soothing gesture. “Why are you so interested in my private life?”
He stood up, straightened his clothes, and said to Jiang Wanju, “Hope we get the chance to meet again.”
Jiang Wanju sat on the sofa without saying a word. Two minutes later, she calmly downed all the remaining wine on the table.
The next morning, she boarded a flight back to Beijing.
The internship went very smoothly. Jiang Wanju was no longer given a hard time—Bai Qing, feeling guilty, treated her with extra care. As for the director, though she and Jiang Wanju weren’t particularly close, her quiet support was always present.
There was just one minor incident. Near graduation, Jiang Wanju attended a class reunion. In the excitement, she drank too much and, while taking a walk that evening, slipped and fell into the water. A younger classmate, Xia Jiao, jumped in to save her—ignoring the rumors about snakes in the water and the freezing cold of the night—shivering as she pulled her out.
It happened to be Jiang Wanju’s 22nd birthday. That night, Xia Jiao stayed with her in the dorm and, awkwardly, told her cold jokes until dawn.
After graduation, Jiang Wanju smoothly entered the workforce. Four months later, she was offered an opportunity to go to the company’s Paris headquarters for further training—a chance that landed in her lap without much struggle.
The day before the first snow fell in the Forbidden City, Jiang Wanju boarded a plane to Paris.
In the fashion world’s version of Wall Street, she gradually adapted to starting her mornings with baguettes smeared with jam and unsalted butter, paired with espresso. In her free time, she strolled the charming Champs-Élysées and grew used to watching relaxed pedestrians from the glittering bridges over the Seine. On weekends, she either attended moderately challenging cooking classes or sat on a wicker chair on the terrace of an art nouveau café, reading and writing postcards to friends back in China.
Sometimes she’d take trips south, through the old vineyards of Bordeaux, for wine-tasting classes. Other times, she wandered leisurely through Château de Chambord or Château de Chenonceau, admiring Renaissance art.
In her tall white-and-wood-accented apartment, Jiang Wanju focused on work and learning, striving to do everything to the best of her ability—waiting for the day she could return to China with a promotion and a raise. Find the original chapter at novelping.com.
She occasionally met other Chinese expats but, much like in university, she kept her relationships at a comfortable distance, calmly assessing whether they were worth the effort to maintain. Only with Xia Jiao, when chatting or video-calling, did she open up and genuinely share her joys and frustrations.
December arrived quietly.
Daylight hours grew shorter, and except for the south of France, the rest of the country welcomed in the cold. As the Christmas holidays approached, ski resorts in the higher altitudes of the Alps began to open. Jiang Wanju went skiing—and unexpectedly ran into someone from her past: the blond, blue-eyed German gentleman she’d briefly met in Hong Kong, and his Chinese girlfriend.
The woman waved excitedly at Jiang Wanju, and the three of them enjoyed a delightful meal together—cheese fondue, roast turkey stuffed with chestnuts, and a large log-shaped cake.
After dinner, they parted ways. The couple was heading to Germany for Christmas, having just left a horse show in Paris, while Jiang Wanju planned to visit Alsace to experience a traditional pre-Christmas market.
The inn Jiang Wanju chose served breakfast and looked like something out of a fairytale, with its timber-framed design. After a snowfall, the entire village resembled a plump, snowy cake—charming and sweet.
The market gradually filled with people. In front of a crafts stall draped with string lights, Jiang Wanju paused. She wore thick gloves and held a large cup of hot spiced wine infused with olives and herbs. Her attention was caught by a small, delicate ornament.
It was a white wolf holding a tiny orange. The orange’s material was unclear, but the wolf was made of silver, gleaming under the lights.
Wrapped tightly in her scarf, Jiang Wanju stepped closer to get a better look—but a tall man in a black coat beat her to it, picking up the pretty little trinket first.
She heard him ask in fluent French, “How much is this?”
The wind swept past, carrying a faint scent—cool, like a forest after rain.
She looked up just as the man turned his head slightly.
She saw a familiar dimple.
Chen Zhouren said, “Long time no see.”