Jiang Wanju placed her hand against his cheek. She looked into Chen Zhouren’s eyes for a long time without speaking, then leaned in and kissed his lips.
Jiang Wanju knew perfectly well she was doing something unbelievably foolish.
Chen Zhouren was not a good man.
He wasn’t the steady warmth of pinewood burning in a fireplace. He was an uncontrollable flame rising from hot oil—drawing close could warm you, but it could just as easily burn you.
But Jiang Wanju was too cold.
In a foreign land, she needed warmth.
On the plane back to Paris, she reached out her hand toward Chen Zhouren and fell into his arms.
The plane climbed higher and higher, passing through layers of cloud.
Dealing with the French was never easy. Jiang Wanju had a strong personality, yet because of her nationality, she still had to endure subtle forms of discrimination—good opportunities almost always went to the French first.
For reasons she couldn’t quite understand, French people often carried a strange sense of superiority. It didn’t come from wealth, status, or ability, but from nationality—simply from being French.
Whenever she encountered these situations, she would rant endlessly to Chen Zhouren. She was never someone with a gentle temper. When she encountered racial discrimination, she pushed back fiercely more than a few times.
Zhouren would listen with a smile, then pour gin into her glass himself.
“Alright, Little Orange, calm down. Want to go to a classical music concert this week? At the Philharmonie de Paris, designed by Jean Nouvel himself. I happened to get a few front-row tickets.”
Jiang Wanju bit hard into her olive.
She said, “Let’s go.”
It wasn’t just the concert. During Zhouren’s time in Paris, he and Jiang Wanju walked side by side along the Seine, which used to be a highway. The bitterness of cheap Parisian coffee was long behind them; now they could sit across from each other in floating gardens and savor a delicious cup from a specialty roastery. This chapter was copied from novelping dot com without permission.
The streets of Paris weren’t exactly safe. Because of her job, Wanju had to wear elegant and expensive clothing, constantly worried about pickpockets. In her free time, she would immediately change into something plain.
But when she was with Chen Zhouren, she didn’t have to worry—especially after witnessing him drag a mugger into a dark alley and break the man’s nose.
In truth, Jiang Wanju had already gotten used to greeting people with Bonjour or Bonsoir, asking permission before taking photos, even of storefronts. She had grown used to speaking softly like Parisians, not discussing money in public, and accepting the service charge on bills.
Getting used to something, however, didn’t mean she had adapted to it.
She still needed someone of her own kind, someone raised in the same culture and language. Someone she could complain to freely, share things with, and hug without restraint.
Even after mutually acknowledging their relationship, Jiang Wanju didn’t kiss Chen Zhouren again.
They held hands, hugged, talked, drank, dated—like some sort of Platonic romance. Neither made a move to flirt again.
This pure, restrained connection lasted until two weeks later, when a sudden snowstorm hit. Jiang Wanju had been drinking brandy at Zhouren’s place. After a nap, she woke to a world of white.
Wrapped in a blanket, she went downstairs and saw Zhouren cooking. The aroma was rich.
Jiang Wanju sniffed. “What is that?”
“A method a friend from Italy taught me,” Zhouren answered. “Steak seared over high heat.”
Wanju blinked in surprise. “I thought Italy only had meatballs, ragù, and pasta.”
Zhouren commented, “Narrow-minded.”
The high heat sealed the juices instantly. By touching the firmness of the surface, he judged its doneness. Once satisfied, he sprinkled fennel seeds, black pepper, rosemary, and other spices evenly over the steak.
“The blizzard came suddenly. No way to order food,” Zhouren said. “Make do with this.”
She hesitated and turned back. “So… I can’t go home either, right?”
Zhouren said, “You can.”
“And—?”
“If you’re related to Jesus,” Zhouren replied without even looking up. “He should be willing to escort you back.”
“…”
She sat down and slowly ate the steak he made. To be fair, it wasn’t bad at all.
That night, the two of them lay on the sofa and watched an art film. Halfway through, Wanju got sleepy. She went to the bathroom to wash up, filled the tub with hot water, closed her eyes, and sank into it with a satisfied sigh.
A moment later, she heard knocking on the bathroom’s glass door.
Wanju sat up. “What is it?”
Zhouren replied, “Nothing.”
She lay back down.
After a one-second pause, he added, “But Little Zhouren says he has something.”