The moment she pushed the door open, a cold wind rushed toward her face. She instinctively tightened her coat a little and looked up—
A black Maybach was parked at the entrance.
The car’s body was as dark as ink, gleaming with a cold light under the winter sun. Its lines were smooth, its presence steady, forming a strange harmony with the bluestone path and the bare plane trees in front of the villa. The engine was still running, faint white smoke rising from the exhaust pipe, the car’s paint reflecting the pale blue of the sky and the shadows of tree branches.
The car door opened.
Pei Huaijin stepped out from the driver’s seat.
He was wearing a black suit today.
The fabric of the suit had a subtle texture under the sunlight, his shirt pure white, the collar stiff and neat. He wasn’t wearing a tie, and the top two buttons were undone, making him seem less rigid.
His hair swayed slightly in the wind, but the overall outline remained impeccably sharp. His brow bone was high, his eye sockets deep, his nose bridge straight, and his thin lips slightly pressed together—standing beside the black Maybach, he resembled a sword sheathed in its scabbard: cold, restrained, and unreadable.
He walked around the front of the car to the passenger side and opened the door.
“Miss Shen, please,” he said, his voice neither too loud nor too soft, carrying an added layer of crispness as it was carried by the winter wind.
Shen Qingyu looked at him, momentarily lost in thought.
The black suit, white shirt, and black Maybach seemed like a scene deliberately designed by someone.
“Mr. Pei, hello,” she said, her voice steadier than she had expected.
She walked over, and Pei Huaijin raised his right hand, firmly blocking the top of the doorframe at just the height of her head—a natural gesture.
“Thank you.” Shen Qingyu sat in the passenger seat. The car’s heater was strong, the seat warm, and a faint scent of cedar lingered in the air.
Pei Huaijin closed the door, walked back to the driver’s seat, and the car drove out of the villa area.
Neither of them spoke. Shen Qingyu’s gaze fell outside the window, watching the street scenes gradually recede.
The Maybach’s sound insulation was excessively good, leaving the car so quiet that only the faintest airflow from the air vents and the occasional ticking of the turn signals could be heard.
Shen Qingyu didn’t find this silence awkward, as forcing conversation would likely have been even more uncomfortable.
After about thirty minutes, the car entered a street she wasn’t very familiar with. On both sides were the gray brick walls typical of Beijing’s old city, withered vines crawling over the tops, and occasionally a ginkgo tree extending beyond the wall, its leaves already fallen, leaving only bare branches sketching dense lines against the blue sky.
The car turned into a dark wrought-iron gate, where uniformed security personnel stood. Seeing the license plate, they bowed slightly and gestured for the car to pass. Inside was a small courtyard paved with bluestone and planted with several neatly trimmed pine trees. At the far end of the courtyard stood an independent two-story building with gray walls, black window frames, and large floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Through the glass, warm yellow lights and white tablecloths were visible.
Pei Huaijin parked the car and turned off the engine.
“We’re here,” he said.
He got out of the car, walked to the passenger side, opened the door, and once again raised his right hand to block the top of the doorframe.
“Thank you.” Shen Qingyu stepped out and looked up, surveying the building before her.
“I’ve heard of this restaurant. They say it’s very hard to get a reservation here,” she said.
“I made a reservation in advance,” Pei Huaijin said, his tone flat, as if speaking of the most ordinary matter.
He pushed open the glass door and stepped aside to let her enter first.
The moment the door opened, warmth enveloped them, carrying with it the aroma of food. The interior of the restaurant was even more understated than it appeared from outside—the floor was dark oak, the walls a warm gray, adorned with a few small abstract paintings. The lighting was soft but not dim, and each table was draped with a white tablecloth, set with silverware and a small glass vase holding a single white moth orchid.
The background music was low and gentle, and with few people speaking, the entire space felt exceptionally tranquil.
A man in a black suit approached. He didn’t look like an ordinary waiter but more like the restaurant’s manager. Upon seeing Pei Huaijin, he gave a slight bow, his tone respectful but not obsequious.
“Mr. Pei, your table is ready. This way, please.”
He led them through the dining hall to a window-side table tucked away in a corner, with no other diners nearby.
Pei Huaijin pulled out the chair for her. Shen Qingyu sat down and draped her coat over the back of the chair. Her cream-colored knit dress looked especially soft under the warm yellow light, the V-neck just revealing the delicate silver chain resting on her collarbone. The small diamond on the chain glimmered faintly.
The waiter brought the menus—leather-bound, thick, and densely packed with dishes listed in both French and Chinese. Shen Qingyu flipped through it, overwhelmed by the extensive selection. Each dish had a lengthy name, and the prices were equally impressive.
Pei Huaijin was also browsing the menu, but his movements were much quicker than hers.
“Any dietary restrictions?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then I’ll order. I know a few dishes here are excellent—the ingredients are flown in fresh daily.”
“Alright.”
After placing the order, he glanced at Shen Qingyu.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked. “They have a Burgundy white wine here that pairs well with seafood.”
“No need,” she replied, her voice steady. “I don’t drink.”
Pei Huaijin’s hand holding the menu paused for a moment.
Then he smiled.
“Is that so?” he said, his voice neither too loud nor too soft, the tail end of his words lifting slightly, like a feather lightly brushing against the ear.
Shen Qingyu felt a twinge of guilt at his question, remembering how much she had drunk at the bar that night.
“Mm,” she said, forcing herself to sound firm, though her voice was a little softer now, clearly lacking conviction. “I don’t drink.”
She shifted her gaze away, pretending to look at the scenery outside the window. Reflected in the glass was Pei Huaijin’s profile, the faint smile at the corner of his mouth not yet fully faded.
The waiter brought the appetizer—a fragrant pumpkin soup drizzled with a bit of cream and sprinkled with toasted pumpkin seeds, served in a shallow white porcelain bowl that looked like a work of art. Shen Qingyu picked up her spoon and took a sip. The soup was rich, sweet but not cloying, just the flavor she liked.
Pei Huaijin was also drinking his soup, his movements quiet, the spoon barely making a sound against the bowl. He ate gracefully—not in a deliberately maintained manner, but with an innate, effortless composure.
“How is it? Does it taste good?” he asked.
“Mm, very good,” Shen Qingyu said.
“That’s good.”
The two fell silent again.
Shen Qingyu thought it would be quite nice if they could finish the meal quietly like this, without needing to speak.
But Pei Huaijin clearly didn’t share the same sentiment.
After the appetizers were finished, the waiter cleared the plates and served the main course. The steak was beautifully cut, with a cross-section of even pink, accompanied by roasted baby potatoes and asparagus. Pei Huaijin cut a small piece and put it in his mouth, chewed a few times, then set down his knife and fork.
He looked at Shen Qingyu, his gaze more serious than before.
“Miss Shen,” he said, “there’s something I’d like to ask you.”
Shen Qingyu looked up, still holding her knife and fork.
“What?”
Pei Huaijin leaned back in his chair, fingers resting on the edge of the table, his posture casual, but his tone carried an unavoidable gravity.
“Have you ever considered the matter of us getting married?”
Shen Qingyu’s knife and fork froze mid-air.
“What?” She thought she had misheard.
“There’s no need for us to beat around the bush,” Pei Huaijin said, his voice steady, his tone matter-of-fact. “I need a wife with a matching family background, and Miss Shen must also be bound by parental expectations, needing to marry me, right?”
Shen Qingyu set down her knife and fork, picked up her napkin, and dabbed the corner of her mouth. She felt she should say something but didn’t know where to start. She stared at the steak in front of her for two seconds, then looked up, meeting Pei Huaijin’s gaze.
“Mr. Pei,” she said, her voice calmer than she had expected, “we don’t have any feelings for each other. Are you sure about getting married like this? What would it be after marriage? Just living together for convenience?”
She paused, looking into his eyes.
“I don’t want that kind of marriage.”
Pei Huaijin looked at her, silent for a few seconds.
Then he spoke, his voice neither loud nor soft, “Miss Shen believes that without feelings, marriage is impossible, but a one-night stand is acceptable, right?”
Shen Qingyu froze.
It felt as if something in her mind snapped with a “crack.”
A one-night stand… What was this person talking about?
Her face began to burn, as if someone had lit a fire on her cheeks. She looked at Pei Huaijin, who still appeared indifferent, but a meaningful curve appeared at the corner of his mouth.
“Mr. Pei,” her voice tightened slightly, “what are you talking about? I don’t understand.”