Chapter 5: Goodbye Xia Chan

 

By the next morning, half the hotel had already invented their own version of Xia Chan’s encounter with He Huaisheng.

A few minutes in the cold had turned into a legend — whispers traded between corridors and service stations, every version more imaginative than the last.

Whenever Xia Chan walked by, conversations cut short. Eyes averted. Smiles concealed behind teacups. Yet the murmurs continued, right within earshot.

She’d never cared much for gossip, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. The hotel was under review, and everyone was treading carefully, watching each other for weakness. What would have been harmless chatter in ordinary times could now become a weapon — a reason to question her loyalty, her future.

Xia Chan felt a dull resentment stir. Why does every story involving He Huaisheng end in trouble?

Fortunately, the Lunar New Year arrived swiftly, silencing the rumors before they could take deeper root.

---

The New Year at home was uneventful. Dinner, the same quiet chatter. On the first morning, she followed Zhou Lan to the temple to burn incense.

Zhou Lan, ever devout when fortune suited her, donated generously — only to draw a “medium” lot. She grumbled all the way home, blaming fate and stingy deities alike.

Once, when Zhou Lan’s family prospered, every distant cousin appeared at her door bearing smiles and flattery. Now that her luck had turned, even indifference counted as mercy.

---

On the fifth day of the Lunar New Year, Xie Xingzhou left Chongcheng for the capital.

Xia Chan sat awake long after midnight, weighing the decision, until finally she rose before dawn and went to the airport.

He was already there, standing beside a thirty-inch suitcase — everything he owned packed neatly into a single case.

“Wait a moment,” he said, “I’ll go print my boarding pass.”

Xia Chan nodded and waited.

He wore the black wool coat she had once bought for him — a four-figure indulgence even after discounts. It still suited him perfectly, but his face had thinned, his eyes darker, quieter.

Her chest tightened. Out of habit, she reached for a cigarette — and then remembered. No smoking indoors.

When Xie Xingzhou returned, he gestured toward a nearby bench. “Let’s sit for a while.”

The crowd’s noise hummed around them — rolling suitcases, announcements, laughter — all blurring into a steady, distant rhythm.

“How was your New Year?” he asked finally.

“Nothing special. Same as always.”

“And Aunt Zhou?”

“She’d be fine even if the sky fell.”

He gave a faint smile that faded too quickly.

Silence settled again, heavy and uneasy.

Finally, Xia Chan rose to her feet. “You should go. What time’s your flight?”

“Soon,” he said, standing as well.

She slipped her hands into her pockets. “Just wanted to tell me you’re in the capital?”

He nodded but didn’t move.

“Then… have a safe trip,” she said quietly.

He smiled again — distant this time. “You shouldn’t say that before a flight. It’s bad luck.”

Xia Chan didn’t answer.

“Take care of yourself,” he added softly. “Don’t be so stubborn. And don’t smoke—”

“Xie Xingzhou,” she interrupted, raising her eyes, voice calm but cold. “You don’t have the right to say that to me.”

He froze.

She stepped back slightly. “You know my temperament. I said everything I had to say that day. But there’s one thing I forgot to mention.”

Her eyes held his, steady and unyielding. “I never regret anything I do. And I never give others the chance to regret it, either.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he smiled faintly — a small, bitter smile. “…Alright.”

Xia Chan watched as he passed through the security gate, his back straight, expression unreadable.

Just before he disappeared, he turned.

She was easy to spot — black down jacket, bright red scarf like a flame against the gray. He stared for a long moment, until that flash of red dissolved into the crowd.

---

Outside the terminal, the wind was sharp and cold. Yesterday’s snow had turned to ice along the pavement.

Xia Chan stood still for a moment, then pulled out her phone. One by one, she deleted everything — his number, his messages, his photos.

That night at dinner, she’d downed four bottles of beer with him, said everything she’d ever needed to say — except one word: stay.

But neither the city nor she herself could keep him.

She turned once more toward the glass wall. Inside, people moved about with hurried steps and distant laughter.

Leaning against the pillar outside, she lit a cigarette. The smoke burned her throat; she coughed until tears blurred her vision.

Then — her phone vibrated.

A message popped up.

He Huaisheng: “Miss Xia, here to see a friend off?”

Startled, she looked up — and spotted a familiar silhouette by the French window inside.

Before she could decide whether to go in, He Huaisheng was already walking toward the exit.

She quickly stubbed out her cigarette, brushed her hair back, and wiped at the corners of her eyes. By the time he reached her, her expression was calm again.

“Mr. He,” she greeted evenly.

His gaze lingered for a second before he pulled out his phone.

Going back to the city? I’ll give you a ride.

Xia Chan hesitated.

It wasn’t gossip she feared — no one could dictate her private life — but she had learned to be cautious. He Huaisheng wasn’t a simple man; that much she could tell. A man with patience like his was either a saint or a strategist.

“The airport subway’s quite convenient,” she said finally, shaking her head. “But thank you, Mr. He.”

He looked at her, eyes steady, and then — for the first time — spoke aloud. His voice was rough, uncertain, as though long unused.

“…Are you afraid of me?”

Xia Chan blinked, startled.

His tone was awkward, almost self-deprecating — not what she expected.

“No,” she said, her expression composed. “It’s just that the subway line’s easier.”

He Huaisheng glanced at her, lowered his head, and began typing.

His fingers moved swiftly across the screen—precise, steady, and unhurried. He never stumbled over his words when messaging.

A moment later, her phone buzzed.

“I’m just pretending to be crazy and stupid. Hardly worth Miss Xia’s vigilance. Just passing by.”

Xia Chan nearly dropped her phone. Her heart jumped into her throat, and for a second, she almost screamed.

He Huaisheng, however, remained composed, his expression calm as ever. He simply gestured ahead, a silent “please.”

Suppressing her panic, Xia Chan hesitated, then followed him.

She needed to know—how did He Huaisheng know what she’d said about him?

Had Chen Rong told him? Or had he overheard it himself, perhaps while dining nearby that day?

This time, He Huaisheng was driving. With him focused on the road, the silence inside the car became suffocating. Xia Chan sat stiffly in the passenger seat, every turn of the wheels making her pulse race faster.

Before long, they entered the city. He Huaisheng insisted on driving her home.

Out of caution, Xia Chan asked him to stop a block away.

As she reached for the door handle, she called out, “Mr. He.”

He looked up, his gaze landing briefly on her lips.

Xia Chan hesitated, words caught between her teeth. She had gossiped about him first—how could she accuse him of eavesdropping?

In the end, she simply said, “Thank you for the ride.”

He Huaisheng shook his head slightly.

Xia Chan paused, then took her bag and stepped out of the car. “See you next time,” she said, though silently she prayed never to.

This man appeared like a shadow—always there when she least expected, especially when she was at her lowest.

A few steps later, she turned back. His car was already gone.

Her phone buzzed again.

“Instead of acting rashly, it’s better to hold back.”

Xia Chan frowned.

“Mr. He, did you send this to the wrong person?”

No reply.

The phrase “pretending to be crazy and stupid” replayed in her mind, a thorn she couldn’t pull out. After much thought, she called Chen Rong, probing cautiously. But Chen Rong showed no sign of knowing He Huaisheng personally.

So if Chen Rong hadn’t told him—then someone else must have. Perhaps that middle-aged man? Or someone else entirely?

She reread his message again.

“Hold back.”

Yes, if she didn’t, she might lose everything.

When work resumed after the New Year, tension in the hotel was thick enough to taste. Even the briefest exchange of glances in the corridor carried undercurrents of intrigue.

Xia Chan’s nerves stretched thin—between the threat of layoffs and Liu Hongyi’s increasingly obvious advances, she was near exhaustion.

So, during the Lantern Festival, she suggested dinner with Fu Ruyu and Chen Aijia.

She and Chen Aijia waited twenty minutes before Fu Ruyu arrived—down jacket, snow boots, and oversized sunglasses hiding half her face.

“Sorry,” Fu Ruyu rasped. Her voice was hoarse.

“Did you catch a cold?” Chen Aijia asked.

Fu Ruyu shook her head.

Chen Aijia frowned. “It’s not sunny—why the sunglasses?” She reached out to remove them.

Fu Ruyu quickly turned her head away. “Don’t—”

But it was too late.

Her eyes were swollen like walnuts beneath the glasses. Chen Aijia’s jaw dropped. Beneath a thick layer of foundation, red fingerprints still marked her cheeks.

“Who hit you?” Chen Aijia exploded.

Fu Ruyu bit her lip, saying nothing.

“Was it that boyfriend of yours? I knew there was something off about him the last time he scolded you in public!”

Fu Ruyu shook her head quickly. “It’s not him—”

Xia Chan’s voice turned cold. “Ruyu, don’t defend him. If he dares to slap you now, he’ll dare to do worse later.”

Fu Ruyu stared down at her hands, whispering, “This is my business. Let me handle it.”

Her tone silenced them both.

The rest of the dinner passed awkwardly. Only when they arrived at the restaurant did conversation ease again.

They began to talk about work—inevitably.

“Do you think we’ll be laid off?” Fu Ruyu asked.

Xia Chan sighed. “If someone’s going, it’ll probably be me. Liu Hongyi’s been looking for a reason.”

Chen Aijia smirked. “He doesn’t dislike you, he just likes you too much.”

Fu Ruyu smiled faintly. “Xia Chan, maybe you could ask Mr. He for help. He does owe you a favor.”

Xia Chan shook her head. “There’s no such favor between us. And even if there were, this is an internal hotel matter—he couldn’t interfere. Besides,” she added with a half-smile, “even he might not be able to save himself.”

Fu Ruyu chuckled softly. “Fair point.”

Chen Aijia raised a brow. “Still, people saw him putting your coat on before the New Year. Lighting your cigarette, too. You sure there’s nothing between you?”

Xia Chan laughed. “What could there be? He’s deaf. How would we even communicate? Stare at each other all day?”

“Or,” Chen Aijia said with a wicked grin, “rely on love... or on something more physical.”

Xia Chan laughed and flicked her napkin at her.

Their laughter faded eventually, replaced by the same heavy silence hanging over the hotel—uncertainty. All they could do now was endure.

Three days before the layoff announcement, word spread through the staff corridors like wildfire—

The new head of housekeeping had been chosen.

Fu Ruyu.

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