Chapter 30
The spring breeze caressed the grassy lawn. Jiang Wanju took a few steps and reached out to wrap her arms around Chen Zhouren’s neck. He responded naturally, pulling her into his embrace. The wind blew, and his black coat wrapped Jiang Wanju entirely.
Jiang Wanju said, “I don’t need the spring breeze, I’ll do it myself.”
The pale pink cherry blossoms hung down, their fallen petals scattered in the wind. Under the clear sky and green grass, Jiang Wanju tilted her face up and kissed him.
She tried not to care about the gazes of passersby. Like any ordinary couple, they kissed and held each other beneath the cherry blossom trees in spring.
In a foreign land, a little orange sapling bounced along and found the fertile soil it belonged to.
Thanks to Chen Zhouren, Jiang Wanju managed to contact that artist again on the third day. This time, she visited in person, bringing a silver serving dish from the 1900–1920s that Chen Zhouren had collected. Yes, this eccentric artist had an obsession with collecting items with historical value.
This gift successfully persuaded the artist to have a proper conversation with Jiang Wanju. Using the conversational skills she had learned from Chen Zhouren, she managed to convince him.
No need for a PLAN B. The artist signed the contract smoothly and agreed to cooperate.
Jiang Wanju was ecstatic. That very evening, she invited Chen Zhouren out for dinner — at a new-style French bistro in the Marais district. The restaurant’s decor was full of artistic flair: the ceilings and walls were marble, and the interior was entirely white.
Jiang Wanju tasted the lobster and raised her glass, happily drinking red wine with Chen Zhouren.
It was the most relaxed and joyful period she had experienced in France. Work suddenly seemed smooth; she shared many common interests with the artist. Her superior stopped being difficult, and apart from occasional encounters with racial discrimination or overly arrogant French people, her life had few obstacles.
She took a vacation and traveled north with Chen Zhouren to visit beautiful, famous museums. They also visited the stylish, historic Nantes warehouses. Chen Zhouren personally made her a cocktail — which wasn’t very good — and Jiang Wanju teased him for a long time. Eventually, he could take no more, leaned over, and kissed her.
The air was humid. Jiang Wanju wrapped her arms around Chen Zhouren’s neck and whispered playfully, “Bad thing.”
Chen Zhouren, wearing a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing his toned forearms, asked, “So do you want the bad guy’s ‘bad thing’?”
Jiang Wanju felt hot and flushed. She tried to push him away, but he pressed closer, kissing her carefully along her palms and up her neck. He liked leaving red or purple strawberry marks on her under her clothes — as if stamping badges on her — a way to claim and confirm her.
Jiang Wanju didn’t mind. She left many marks on him too — teeth marks, bites, strawberry bruises. The old ones faded, so she left new ones. She regretted not being someone like A Zhu from The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber, who could leave permanent marks on him, yet was also glad she wasn’t A Zhu.
Chen Zhouren didn’t restrain himself either.
Whenever she bit him with all her strength, he remained expressionless, didn’t flinch, nor avoid her. He indulged her, seemingly wanting these little souvenirs. Jiang Wanju would gradually release her teeth, using her tongue to lick the marks she left behind.
She hated herself for not being ruthless like A Zhu, yet was thankful she wasn’t.
The last stop of their trip was the castles of the Loire Valley. The Loire, eventually flowing into the Atlantic, was home to beautiful castles straight out of fairy tales. The luxurious castles had grand domes, charming chapels, and vast banquet halls. From the towers, one could overlook the entire garden.
Jiang Wanju and Chen Zhouren strolled through this fairy-tale castle. With few tourists around, they held hands and danced. Jiang Wanju, inexperienced, stepped on his feet multiple times. In playful retaliation, Chen Zhouren lightly tapped her head.
They stayed overnight in a nearby small town, drank in the evening, and a passionate Spanish dancer in the tavern tossed a note with her contact information at Chen Zhouren. He ignored it, clinking glasses only with Jiang Wanju and holding her close, kissing her earlobe.
Midway through the evening, fireworks exploded in the town square, and they went outside. Jiang Wanju mischievously held the note the Spanish dancer had thrown, winking at Chen Zhouren: “Don’t you want a closer look?”
Chen Zhouren tapped her head: “Say another word and I’ll toss you into a wine barrel.”
Jiang Wanju teased, “Wouldn’t tossing me in a barrel make it easier for you?”
He sighed and carried her off. She playfully pounded his back, laughing, asking to be put down.
Onlookers stared as Chen Zhouren carried her to the best spot to watch the fireworks — the second floor of a small tavern. He set her down, took her hand, and placed it against his chest.
He said, “Listening to you, I’ll end up with heart disease someday.”
Jiang Wanju leaped into his arms, spreading her hands to kiss his face.
She didn’t know why, but she increasingly loved touching him. Not just sexually — even simple gestures like snuggling, brushing together, holding hands, hugging, were enough to satisfy her.
They sat on the second floor of the old tavern watching fireworks. Though modest compared to home, under the foreign night sky, watching fireworks with a loved one was enough.
No one cared about how grand the fireworks were — they only cared who they were watching them with.
As the final firework rose, Chen Zhouren’s phone rang with an unfamiliar ringtone.
He paused for two seconds, cup in hand, and walked aside to answer.
Jiang Wanju wrapped her scarf tightly, turning to watch him. She couldn’t hear what the other person said, but his expression darkened.
After a few words, Chen Zhouren’s face grew stern. He squeezed his wine glass tightly.
The fragile glass couldn’t bear the pressure and shattered, spilling the remaining red wine onto the wooden floor.
The shards cut his fingers, blood mixing with the wine, quietly dripping.
Above them, fireworks exploded brilliantly — grand and magnificent, like the heavens splitting, stars falling in reverse, gold and silver scattering. Countless stars fell to earth.
But it was only a moment.
It was the final firework.
