Chapter 10
Hong Kong Island
Like a tightly drawn bow. The air in Jiang Wanju’s lungs seemed about to be squeezed out. Behind her was glass, and beyond that, a dizzying height. She was afraid of heights and gripped Chen Zhaoren’s arm, taking a deep breath.
“Scared?” Chen Zhaoren asked.
Jiang Wanju, failing to control herself, nodded with a hint of a sob.
Normally, a man would stop at a moment like this, offering comfort.
Chen Zhaoren didn’t.
It was like throwing herself straight into a wolf’s mouth.
Jiang Wanju inhaled sharply. “Stop, stop it.”
“Stop what?” Chen Zhaoren said. “In a situation like this, how could I stop?”
He teased her as he looked at her face, lifting her up again.
Deliberately provoking her, he said, “Cry like a little princess, Little Orange, do you like that?”
Jiang Wanju let a tear fall with a soft plop.
Finally, Chen Zhaoren softened his tone, coaxing her: “Not used to it? Being this delicate, how could you dare to come out alone?”
He spoke gently while refusing to let go. Feeling he had already given her enough time, enough kindness, he still saw her tears, and, with no other choice, carried her away from the transparent glass and high altitude.
Just as he set Jiang Wanju down, his phone rang. He didn’t rush, held it in one hand, and saw the name on the screen. He tapped it and declined the call.
Jiang Wanju lay on the sofa, looking a little pitiful—and somewhat alluring.
Chen Zhaoren pinched her cheek.
At the same time, the phone rang again, insistent, as if it wouldn’t stop until answered.
Frowning, Chen Zhaoren picked up this time.
A woman’s voice came from the other side: “Where are you now?”
Chen Zhaoren replied coldly: “If you need something, go to Xiaolin. Don’t bother me.”
After saying that, he hung up and turned his gaze back to Jiang Wanju. But she had clearly changed her expression, trying to stop him.
“Who just called?” she asked, her voice hoarse but her words clear. “I don’t touch men who have other women.”
Chen Zhaoren inhaled sharply as she squeezed him. “You little brat.”
That “little brat” provoked Jiang Wanju. She tried to push him away, telling him to leave. Unfortunately, his arms were strong; he grabbed her waist and pressed her back down.
“What are you worried about?” Chen Zhaoren said. “Family, a little child…”
His voice lowered as he looked at her face: “You still care about this? Don’t worry, a little kid isn’t worth it.”
Jiang Wanju called him a bad man, but at this moment, whatever she said sounded like playful whining.
Chen Zhaoren liked her voice. He bent down, lifted her, kissed her lips, biting gently, and continued arranging her in the posture he liked, patiently coaxing her.
Now, Jiang Wanju was nothing like the cold, distant version from earlier; she had become a little crybaby, her tears flowing like a spring in the mountains.
The sofa shifted, and Jiang Wanju’s head was spinning, a complete mess. Chen Zhaoren, annoyed at her skirt getting in the way, tugged and pulled at it.
In a hoarse voice, she warned: “This was bought by Bai Qing. It’s expensive—almost twenty thousand.”
Chen Zhaoren laughed.
“Then I want to tear it more,” he said.
Jiang Wanju tried to resist but had no strength left and failed completely.
“It’s so expensive,” she said.
“I’ll get you a new one tomorrow,” Chen Zhaoren said, pinching her cheek and leaning down affectionately. “Don’t just talk about this one, pick anything you like… Hmm, not happy?”
Jiang Wanju cared a lot about whether he would replace it, but lack of oxygen made her unable to think properly.
After messing around for a long time, the clock’s minute hand had already moved half a rotation. Her gaze broke for a moment. A few seconds later, she called out urgently: “Ah, no—”
“No worries,” Chen Zhaoren said, caressing her face. The pleasure from just now lingered in his mind. He added, “I’ve been sterilized.”
Jiang Wanju made a surprised sound. The sofa was dirty from a large mess. She wondered how to handle it, but Chen Zhaoren pulled her up.
She stared at him blankly, unresponsive, until he leaned down and bit her ear.
“Want to go again?”
It was more than just “go again.”
The sofa was ruined. Jiang Wanju finally saw the entire suite. Her face pressed into the soft bed, her knees touching the sheets. The expensive silk bedding hadn’t hurt her, though it was stained with saliva. She eventually fell asleep lying down, then woke up lying face down.
She didn’t have breakfast. She slept until eleven, the sun streaming through the window. She raised her hand, squinting, shading her eyes.
Gradually, she could hear Chen Zhaoren speaking on the phone in Cantonese, too fast for her to understand.
She yawned, half-opening her eyes, and heard him come over.
“What do you want to eat?”
His tone was gentle as he approached her bed, naturally touching her face. “Anything you want?”
Jiang Wanju buried her face in the blanket. “…It’s probably not breakfast time anymore.”
“Shall I arrange something?” Chen Zhaoren asked softly. “Soup?”
She peeked out like a little mushroom breaking through the soil after the rain. “What soup?”
What soup?
Lazy people loved tomato, sliced pork, and egg drop soup. Buy pre-sliced meat, crack an egg in, add some tomatoes—simple, and Jiang Wanju often made it herself.
Or coriander, egg, and tilapia slice soup—slightly more complicated but still quick to make.
Chen Zhaoren didn’t drink these. He joked that in Cantonese, these were called “quick soup,” and could be made in a snap—unsuitable for a proper date.
He served Jiang Wanju a “jazz soup”:
Pig bones, polygonatum, conch, old ginger, dried scallops… first into the pot, then chicken feet, pork belly, old chicken. Soup mustn’t be rushed. Before Jiang Wanju woke, he had already prepared the ingredients. Using a slow fire for two hours, then adding fish maw soaked overnight, simmering gently, adding half a melon and blending the other half, cooking for another hour.
By the time Jiang Wanju and Chen Zhaoren came over, the soup was ready.
As soon as it was served, Jiang Wanju smelled its sweet fragrance. Hungry, she took a sip. The chicken soup was rich, mixed with the fresh taste of conch—perfect balance, exquisite flavor.
“It’s delicious,” Jiang Wanju exclaimed.
Chen Zhaoren smiled: “If you like soup, tomorrow I’ll take you for winter melon soup. How about that?”
Jiang Wanju hesitated.
Chen Zhaoren didn’t rush, asking the waiter for a cup of tea.
Not just soup—there were also two kinds of fish rolls, grouper with pork and mushroom strips; one steamed and finished with thickened stock, the other fried golden and seasoned with sour-spicy sauce. Shrimp and scrambled eggs—fresh shrimp, soft eggs, perfect. Shrimp dumplings, delicate and translucent, with tender, juicy filling, well-balanced. White oysters from Lau Fau Shan, crispy outside, tender inside, served with lettuce and salad dressing.
Having eaten a lot of meat last night, Jiang Wanju preferred vegetables: stir-fried pea shoots and kailan with shrimp roe in stock. She thought she had a small appetite, but it took her two full hours to finish the meal, realizing how much she had eaten.
Chen Zhaoren seemed busy. He took several calls but never spoke in front of Jiang Wanju, switching between Cantonese and Mandarin when away.
Yesterday’s assistant or the grumpy young lady didn’t appear, nor did they call.
Jiang Wanju ate lazily. As the meal neared its end, dessert arrived: almond milk with bird’s nest.
Jiang Wanju was puzzled: “Did you order this?”
“I did,” Chen Zhaoren said with a smile, lowering his voice. “It’s strong—does your throat hurt?”
