Xia Wei looked at the car keys in her hand, feeling a sense of familiarity, and resignedly carried her bag to catch up with Song Qiao.
While waiting for the elevator, Xia Wei’s mind was filled with the thought that tonight’s dinner was secured anyway. Since she was tagging along just for a free meal, Song Qiao would be able to handle everything on her own. She just couldn’t understand why Song Qiao wanted her along to drive—was it just to give her some exposure to the outside world?
Or was it a test—testing whether she was a mole?
The elevator arrived, interrupting Xia Wei’s train of thought. Song Qiao stepped in first, and Xia Wei stood near the buttons without moving. Song Qiao raised her eyes to look at her.
Xia Wei looked back at Song Qiao.
“Press the elevator.” Song Qiao reminded her silently.
“Oh, oh, right.” As if waking from a dream, Xia Wei hurriedly pressed the button for the basement level (B1).
The elevator grew quiet again, with only the mechanical hum of the cables. Xia Wei kept glancing out of the corner of her eye at Song Qiao, and seeing that she wore no particular expression, she quietly withdrew her gaze.
Other people got in halfway through. This time, Xia Wei was smart and purposely stood far away from Song Qiao to make room.
Song Qiao caught Xia Wei’s little movement out of the corner of her eye. Her brow furrowed slightly for a fleeting moment before disappearing.
Once out of the elevator, Xia Wei followed behind Song Qiao, found her car, walked around to the driver’s side, pulled open the door, and got in.
This time, Song Qiao didn’t sit in the back; instead, she sat in the front passenger seat.
“Let’s go.” Song Qiao fastened her seatbelt and noticed Xia Wei hadn’t moved.
“Right.” Xia Wei reined in her wandering thoughts, lightly stepped on the accelerator, and drove Song Qiao toward The Puli.
The route was already familiar, though it was still the tail end of rush hour with heavy traffic on the road, and Song Qiao hadn’t specified how long it would take.
Perhaps fearing a scolding from Song Qiao, Xia Wei drove very cautiously, maintaining high concentration, though she still couldn’t help stealing glances at Song Qiao.
Song Qiao leaned back against the seat with her eyes closed, clutching a file folder in her hands—a white kraft paper envelope with a red seal stamped across the closure, looking like an important contract at a glance.
The car ride was quiet all the way, save for the occasional navigation prompt broadcasting road conditions.
Arriving at the destination, Song Qiao opened her eyes, glanced out the window, and didn’t get out immediately. She took out a mirror from her bag, checked her reflection, reapplied a layer of lipstick, and rearranged her hair.
Having finished all this, she looked at Xia Wei in the driver’s seat, who had already instinctively unbuckled her seatbelt, looking ready to follow wherever Song Qiao went.
Sure enough, when Song Qiao got out of the car, Xia Wei didn’t even need to be called; she was already standing right beside her.
“You…” Song Qiao trailed off, stopping mid-sentence.
Xia Wei turned her head to look: “What’s wrong, Director Song?”
“Nothing.” Song Qiao tightened her grip on the file folder, stared at Xia Wei for a long while, and taking in the anticipation in Xia Wei’s eyes, ultimately said nothing, turning to walk toward the hotel entrance.
Seeing this, Xia Wei hurried to follow, shouting inwardly: Dinner, here I come!
The private dining room was on the second floor. Pushing open the door, Xia Wei didn’t smell the expected aroma of perfume; instead, the air was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with the natural body odors of people, almost making her want to cover her nose.
Out of the corner of her eye, Song Qiao noticed Xia Wei’s expression and quietly shifted a small step closer to Xia Wei. Xia Wei instantly felt much better; the cedar scent on Song Qiao diluted the unpleasant smell of smoke and alcohol.
Five people were already seated inside the private room—three men and two women, all over forty years old, dressed formally, looking unmistakably like people from the client’s side.
At the head of the table sat a man in his fifties with his hair slicked back so shiny it gleamed. Seeing Song Qiao enter, his eyes narrowed into slits with a smile.
“Director Song is here, sit, sit down quickly.”
Song Qiao walked over with a smile and greeted everyone at the table one by one. Following behind, Xia Wei was about to find a corner seat when Song Qiao looked back at her and patted the chair beside her: “Sit here.”
The moment Xia Wei sat down, she felt the gazes of everyone at the table land on her. The man at the head of the table looked her up and down, then smiled and said, “Little Song, is this a newcomer in your department? Haven’t seen her before.”
“My assistant, Xia Wei.” Song Qiao’s introduction was as brief as reading an employee badge. “Brought her along to get some exposure.”
“Good, good, good. It’s a good thing for young people to come out and see the world.” The man smiled, raising his wine glass. “Come, come, come, let’s have a drink first.”
A waiter carrying a decanter walked over and prepared to pour a glass for Xia Wei. Staring at the glass slowly filling up, Xia Wei hesitated over whether she should drink it. As before, that familiar hand reached over from beside her and took her wine glass away.
“She’s driving.” Song Qiao placed the wine glass beside her own hand, her tone as flat as discussing something that needed no debate. “She’s driving me back tonight, she can’t drink.”
The people at the table exchanged glances, and the man at the head of the table chuckled twice: “Director Song is still as meticulous as ever. Alright, alright, alright, then we won’t make things difficult for the young lady. Come, come, come, let’s drink.”
After three rounds of drinks, the atmosphere grew lively.
Someone proposed a toast to Song Qiao, and she didn’t turn any down, emptying her glass every single time.
Sitting beside her, Xia Wei watched Song Qiao drink cup after cup, feeling a bit tight in her chest.
She had seen Song Qiao acting decisively and efficiently in the office, and seen her commanding quiet awe in meetings, but she had never seen her drink like this—every single glass was downed cleanly and briskly, a polite smile consistently maintained on her face, but that smile was merely driven by facial muscles and never reached her eyes.
Someone started urging Xia Wei to drink. “Young lady, since you’re here, it wouldn’t make sense not to have a glass, right?”
Just as Xia Wei was about to speak, Song Qiao let out a light laugh and took over the conversation: “Heh… she has to drive, I’ll drink in her place.”
With that, down went another glass.
The person who had tried to urge her to drink couldn’t say anything more and awkwardly sat back down.
Watching Song Qiao’s profile as she set down her wine glass, Xia Wei felt a lump in her throat, unable to quite define what it was.
Several rounds later, the people at the table began swaying and slumping sideways.
The man at the head of the table leaned back in his chair with a flushed, bright red face, his speech already slurred.
A woman beside him slumped directly onto the table, her chopsticks dropping to the floor.
Someone else was raising a wine glass to empty air, mumbling, “Come, come, come, let’s have another drink.”
Song Qiao sat in her chair with her back straight, no trace of intoxication visible on her face.
She picked up the contract on the table, flipped to the last page, and handed the pen to the man at the head of the table: “Director Wang, please sign the contract.”
The man squinted at her and smiled: “Director Song, I really admire your alcohol tolerance.” He took the pen and signed his name on the final page; the handwriting was crooked, but it was indeed a signature.
Song Qiao took back the contract, put it into the file folder, and sealed the opening.
She stood up, sweeping a glance over the collapsed circle of people at the table. There was no expression on her face—neither triumph nor mockery—just that very faint, business-is-done-so-it’s-time-to-leave calmness.
“Director Wang, we’ll be leaving first, let’s catch up another day.”
The man waved a hand, mumbling something incoherently, presumably meaning something like “safe travels.”
Song Qiao picked up the file folder and walked out in her high heels.
Her pace was steady, her back straight, no different from how she looked back at the office.
Following behind, Xia Wei looked at her straight back and secretly felt a wave of admiration—drinking that much and still able to remain this steady, how on earth did this person pull it off?
Stepping out of the private dining room, the corridor was quiet save for the sound of their footsteps.
Song Qiao walked in front, her pace remaining steady as her high heels made muffled thuds against the carpet.
When they reached the elevator bay, Xia Wei pressed the button, and the elevator doors opened.
Song Qiao stepped inside, and Xia Wei followed behind.
The moment the elevator doors closed, Xia Wei saw Song Qiao’s shoulders sway slightly.
It was very light, very brief. If Xia Wei’s attention hadn’t been entirely fixed on Song Qiao, she never would have noticed.
“Director Song?” Xia Wei instinctively reached out, wanting to steady her.
“I’m fine.” Song Qiao’s voice was still as steady as ever, but Xia Wei noticed her hand gripping the file folder so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
The elevator reached the ground floor, and the doors opened.
Song Qiao walked out, her pace still steady, though slightly slower than before. Following close behind, Xia Wei didn’t dare walk too fast or too slow, keeping just that close, ready to catch Song Qiao at any second.
Stepping out the main doors, a night breeze blew over carrying a hint of chill. Song Qiao stood at the entrance, took a deep breath, and set off toward the parking lot.
She took three steps.
On the fourth step, her body suddenly swayed—a lurch much larger than the one in the elevator.
Xia Wei quickly stepped forward and grabbed her arm. Song Qiao’s body leaned into her, pressing with moderate weight against her shoulder, reeking of alcohol mixed with that familiar cedar scent.
“Director Song?” Xia Wei’s voice tightened slightly.
Song Qiao didn’t speak. Her head rested on Xia Wei’s shoulder, her breathing heavy, her eyelashes trembling slightly.
Looking down at her, Xia Wei discovered that her face was frighteningly pale without a shred of color on her lips—a completely different person from the one chatting and laughing effortlessly inside the private room earlier.
“Are you alright?” Xia Wei asked again, her voice unconsciously softening.
Song Qiao’s fingers clutched at Xia Wei’s sleeve with a force as if grabbing onto a lifeline.
She parted her lips, her voice very soft, so quiet Xia Wei almost missed it: “…Where do you live?”
Xia Wei froze: “Huh?”
“Send me… to your place.” Song Qiao’s voice was disjointed, every word sounding squeezed out from her throat. “Can’t… go back like this.”
Supporting her, Xia Wei’s mind descended into total chaos.
Send her to her place? She didn’t even know Song Qiao’s home address.
Send her to a hotel? With Song Qiao this drunk, she wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving her alone in a hotel either.
“Director Song, what is your home address? I’ll send you back.”
Song Qiao shook her head—the movement was slight, but Xia Wei felt it.
“Can’t… go back like this.” She repeated herself, her voice carrying a stubbornness Xia Wei had never heard before. “Home… nobody’s there.”
Xia Wei felt something tug at her heartstrings.
She remembered what was written in that memo notebook—”She doesn’t talk much about personal matters. Don’t ask her what she did over the weekend, whether she has a boyfriend, or where she lives. If she wants you to know, she’ll tell you herself.”
Did Song Qiao not want her to know where she lived?
“Then should I take you to a hotel?” Xia Wei tentatively asked.
Song Qiao didn’t answer, merely shaking her head. Her hair brushed against Xia Wei’s neck, tickling slightly.
Supporting her and standing in the night wind, Xia Wei had no idea what to do.
Leaning against the driver’s seatback, Xia Wei looked at Song Qiao with a tangle of conflicted emotions in her eyes. Song Qiao’s eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly, and she was still cradling the file folder in her arms, her fingers clutching the drawstring of the envelope as if afraid someone would snatch it away even in her dreams.