Xia Chan froze for a heartbeat before reacting.
For reasons she couldn’t explain, she neither hid nor refused. His lips carried a faint trace of lemon, mingled with smoke—yet the taste did not repel her.
He Huaisheng’s mouth was cool, pressing against hers, then shifting into a light bite. His breath surrounded her, enclosing her in a narrow space with no escape.
Her lungs tightened; she pushed gently, but he did not release her. The cigarette slipped away, his palm at her waist tightened, and the kiss deepened, growing more insistent.
Her mind went blank, her heartbeat quickened, her legs weakened. She clutched his collar for balance.
From the depths of the alley, a dog barked.
The sound jolted her awake. She shoved him back, staggered a step, and steadied herself.
Disoriented, she reached for her bag—then remembered her phone was still in his pocket.
“Congratulations…” she muttered, fumbling for words.
He Huaisheng stood silent, watching.
She stepped forward, retrieved her phone from his pocket. Before she could retreat, his hand caught her arm.
He took the phone, typed quickly: Do you want a late‑night snack?
She had eaten little at the banquet, and though she’d steamed earlier at the leisure hall, hunger stirred. Yet it was already dawn, and tomorrow’s work loomed. The kiss still lingered, confusing and embarrassing.
She shook her head. “I’m sleepy.”
He did not press further, only walked her home.
The old building’s iron door was broken, the lock useless. Two pushes opened it.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He nodded, glanced at her once, then turned away into the night.
She lingered at the doorway, watching his tall figure fade into shadow. Her chest felt hollow. She craved a cigarette.
Her mind drifted back to Xie Xingzhou, years ago. Winter of senior year, on the eve of holiday, he had invited her for fresh yogurt. They walked through dirty snow. Beneath the oak tree, before she could answer his question, he bent and kissed her. Snow water dripped cold onto her forehead.
At home, the silence pressed in. She changed clothes, went to the kitchen, boiled water, cut tomatoes. Zhou Lan’s voice broke in: “It’s the middle of the night, and you can’t sleep!”
Xia Chan ignored her, dropped the tomatoes into the pot.
Zhou Lan wandered, muttered, then rummaged through the paper bag Xia Chan had brought back.
“Whose car key is this?” she asked, holding up a Volvo key.
Xia Chan snatched it.
She messaged Huaisheng: Your car keys fell in my bag.
His reply came: For you.
Her heart chilled. You gave me a car just like this?
It’s not expensive. Think of it as borrowed, he wrote.
She bristled. You should have told me directly. What if I handed the bag to the mailroom?
You wouldn’t, he answered.
She snapped: I don’t need the car. I’ll return the key.
It will be useful. The subway delays you.
She stared at his words, unable to reply.
Zhou Lan pressed on, suspicious. “Are you seeing someone? Your boss?”
Xia Chan deflected coldly, but Zhou Lan continued with mocking guesses.
Finally, Xia Chan retorted: “Naturally, it’s not as glamorous as your yacht parties.”
Zhou Lan fell silent, stung.
Later, she muttered: “Your godfather has news. His sentence may be commuted. With money, he could be out in three years.”
Xia Chan’s disgust was sharp. “Do whatever you want. Don’t drag me into it.”
Zhou Lan sneered. “No wonder no one can stand you. I’ve never seen anyone so cold‑hearted.”
Xia Chan ignored her, finished her noodles, cleaned the kitchen, and returned to her room.
Her phone lay on the bed, unchanged. No new messages.
The next day, Xia Chan reported to He Qihua. She mentioned the cocktail party, hesitated, then added: “Yesterday, photographer He Houzhao arrived, but our staff failed to receive him.”
“Who picked him up?” He Qihua asked.
“Consultant He.”
He said nothing more. Relief washed over her.
Later, she warned Zhang Yu to be cautious. “If anyone asks, say we sent someone but Xiao He took the lead. If your colleague tells the truth, he’ll be the one packing his bedding.”
Before leaving work, she delivered documents to He Qihua.
“Mr. He, may I ask you something personal?”
“Say it.”
“I want to buy a car. Could you advise me?”
“What kind?”
“Stable, safe. Price around three to four hundred thousand.”
He smiled. “Then you’ve asked the wrong person. I don’t know cars at that price.”
She nodded. “Sorry to waste your time.”
A week later, she rose early, went to the 4S store, and picked up her new car.
The leather smelled fresh. She had a license but little practice, nerves fluttering as she sat behind the wheel. She drove toward the coastal suburbs, wind carrying the salt of the sea.
Her courage grew. She pressed the accelerator, feeling the car surge. Then her phone buzzed.
It was Huaisheng: You mentioned the car.
I did, she replied.
Test driving?
Yes.
Where?
By the sea.
I’ll come.
Don’t. I don’t dare bring anyone.
How can you test without passengers?
His next message arrived before she could type: Wait for me.
Annoyed, she sent a voice message.
His reply came: Thank you. Your Mandarin is standard.
She froze. She had forgotten WeChat’s voice‑to‑text translation.
Binhai Avenue stretched wide and empty, ending at the sea. The sky was clear, the water as pure as the heavens above.
Xia Chan drove for a while, then parked by the roadside. She locked the car and sat on the railing, letting the wind wash over her.
In the distance, a black speck approached, growing larger until a car stopped ten meters away. One man stepped out.
He Huaisheng waved the car away, and it turned back down the road.
Xia Chan squinted, watching him walk toward her.
Today he wore a smoky gray T‑shirt instead of his usual formal attire. Relaxed, unburdened, he looked different—less bitter, less restrained. She realized she preferred him this way.
He stopped before her, pulled out his phone, and typed: Why aren’t you in the car?
“Motion sickness,” she said lightly.
He paused.
She hopped off the railing, steady in her flat shoes, hot pants, and white shirt. Her legs were long, straight, and slender.
He glanced at her, lowered his head, and typed again. Her phone buzzed, but she ignored it.
“Can you talk?” she asked.
He looked at her.
“Then talk to me today.”
He shook his head.
“Either you speak, or you call Mr. Ding to pick you up. I’m tired of staring at my phone.”
After a long silence, he finally spoke, voice hoarse and strange. “I… not very good at saying.”
Xia Chan shrugged. “Then you need to practice. Not everyone has the patience to type with you.”
He hesitated. “…Say what?”
“Are you hungry?”
He shook his head.
“I am,” she said, opening the car door. “Let’s eat.”
She drove slowly down Binhai Avenue, nerves taut with him beside her. Every bump made her clutch the wheel tighter.
He watched her, then forced himself to speak. “You drive… it sucks.”
“Oh,” she shot back, “not as bad as your Mandarin.”
He pressed his lips together.
Afraid she’d hurt his pride, she added quickly, “Don’t be angry. I’m just teaching you frustration.”
He said nothing.
At a roadside stall, she ordered barbecue—razor clams, oysters, squid—and two bowls of seafood porridge.
“Do you drink beer?” she asked.
He nodded.
She placed the bottle before him.
“You don’t drink?” he asked.
“I’m driving. If I drink, I’ll have to walk home.”
But when the spicy squid burned her tongue, she grabbed his beer and gulped it down.
After that, she didn’t care. Barbecue demanded beer.
He watched her.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“You,” he admitted.
She laughed. “What about me?”
He said nothing, poured himself a glass.
“You can’t drink like that.” She raised her bottle, clinked it against his, and drank straight from the neck.
He squinted, half amused, half unsettled. Even her rudeness carried a strange elegance.
She smiled at him. He raised his bottle too.
After the meal, she insisted on paying. “You lent me a car. I can’t let you pay for food too.”
Back on the road, she hesitated to drive. “Let’s walk.”
They wandered down to the beach. She carried her shoes, toes sinking into sand. The waves crashed, dazzling under the sun, the wind heavy with salt.
She walked deeper, lost in memory—Xie Xingzhou, a winter sunrise, his laughter, his kiss, his promise of marriage.
The tide rose unnoticed. Suddenly, a hand pulled her back. She stumbled into a damp embrace, meeting Huaisheng’s cold gaze.
She sneered softly. “I drank too much. My head’s dizzy. I’m not planning suicide… Why don’t you call me?”
“I shouted,” he rasped.
Of course—“blind shovel” again. No wonder she hadn’t heard.
She asked suddenly, “Have you seen The King’s Speech?”
Later, sitting on the roadside railing, drying their clothes in the sun, she explained. “George VI had a stutter, but he became an orator. If he could, so can you.”
He was silent.
“You’re strong‑willed, but you fight too much with your pride,” she teased. “Has anyone tried to sell you anti‑hair loss products?”
He frowned.
She laughed. “I meant Xie Ding’s ‘thank you’!”
His face darkened further.
She smiled, then grew serious. “Since you can speak, why not try more? Opportunities vanish too quickly for typing.”
He said nothing.
“At least call my name right.”
He hesitated. “…Isn’t it?”
“Of course not. ‘Xia Chan’—four tones for Xia, two for Chan. You say one and three.”
He tried. Still wrong.
She took his hand, placed it on her throat. “Feel it. This is ‘Xia’—four tones. This is ‘Chan’—two tones. Do you feel it?”
His palm felt the warmth of her skin, the vibration of her voice.
Her lips moved, eyes bright, hair brushing in the sea breeze.
Her fingers touched her own neck, pulse racing beneath.
His heartbeat with hers.
He opened his mouth. “…Xia Chan.”
He felt it.
Xia Chan smiled with satisfaction. “See? How could someone as smart as you not learn?”
She was pleased with the progress. Of course, it was unrealistic to expect a man who had been silent for decades to suddenly speak with the eloquence of Churchill. Still, even small steps mattered.
She released his hand, ready to speak again—only for him to catch hers.
He Huaisheng pressed forward, guiding her lightly until she leaned against the railing.
Her breath quickened. When she lifted her eyes, his gaze was lowered, fixed on her neckline.
Their clothes were half‑dry. Her white shirt clung to her skin, revealing the dark outline beneath. She hadn’t noticed before, absorbed in her teaching, but now it was obvious.
Chen Aijia’s words echoed in her mind: “You’re especially good at seducing men.”
Xia Chan had denied it then. She had a boyfriend—when had she ever seduced anyone?
“Others are conscious, you’re unconscious,” Chen had insisted. “A glance, a word, a gesture—and men fall under you.”
Xia Chan hadn’t believed it. If she truly had such power, would she have endured Liu Hongyi’s unspoken rules? Wouldn’t she already have risen on charm alone?
But now, with her damp shirt and her hand guiding his to her throat, she wondered.
“He Huaisheng…” she whispered, uncertain.
The kiss in the alley had embarrassed her, but she hadn’t hated it. Truthfully, she didn’t dislike him. She even had a good impression. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have stepped into Xinghui, into this mire.
Yet she knew men like him weren’t safe. She had seen too many stories in hotels—bloody lessons of betrayal. And after Xie Xingzhou, she was more cautious than ever.
Good impression, yes. But only that.
He didn’t give her time to think. His hand tightened at her waist, his head lowered.
She turned away, pushed at his chest. “Don’t do this.”
One mistake was enough. There couldn’t be two.
He looked down at her.
“I know what you want,” she said softly. “I can’t afford to play. You’re a good friend.”
She hesitated, then added, “And this car… I need it. Without one, I waste too much time. But it’s expensive. I can’t buy it outright. I’ll repay you monthly, like a mortgage.”
His expression didn’t change. He stepped back, as if accepting her words.
She lifted her gaze to the horizon, hair whipping in the sea breeze.
He pulled out a cigarette box, but the sea had soaked it. He shoved it back into his pocket.
Xia Chan sat on the railing, watching him. “My mother used to be someone’s lover.”
He paused.
“She was spoiled—an entire cruise ship rented for her birthday, Victoria Harbour lit for her. People called her ‘Second Grandma.’ But four years later, he found a ‘Third Grandma,’ then a ‘Fourth.’” Xia Chan laughed bitterly. “If someone can be good to you, they can take it back just as easily.”
She looked at him. “So I won’t go her way.”
His eyes darkened. “No… let you… take that path.”
She smiled. “What do you mean? You like me? Want to marry me?”
She jumped down from the railing, clapped her hands. “Don’t say that. I wouldn’t believe it. You don’t believe it yourself.”
Before he could answer, she said, “Let’s go back. Better to change clothes than linger here.”
She slid into the driver’s seat. He joined her after a pause.
“Where do you live?” she asked.
He typed on his phone. She glanced at the screen, then drove.
Silence filled the car. She turned on the radio—Na Ying’s voice spilled out.
Xia Chan sang along: “I’m afraid when I wake from the dream, we’ve been divided into two places… love and hate inseparable…”
Her voice cracked on “dawn.” She glanced at him. He looked calm. Deafness had its advantages—no embarrassment.
After an hour and a half, they reached the city. She parked at the Golden Portuguese Garden.
“Here?” she asked.
He nodded.
She looked at the upscale community. “Saving money, I see.”
He said nothing, only thanked her before leaving.
She laughed. “Thank you for not killing me? I practiced driving, and you practiced speaking.”
He bowed slightly and stepped out.
Xia Chan grew more confident with the car. Driving saved time, and she stayed late at the office, studying documents.
Her English degree had lain dormant, but Xinghui’s global partners reminded her of its value. She picked up listening exercises, read English classics in the mornings, memorized words, and rediscovered the rhythm of her old exam days.
Work was tedious, summer arrived, and finally she was given a chance to stand directly before He Qihua.
July 8 marked Xinghui’s anniversary. The cocktail party was grand. One of the first secretaries fell ill, and Xia Chan, steady and mistake‑free, was temporarily added to the team.
Her task: memorize guest information and remind He Qihua as needed.
It sounded simple—his memory was sharp—but she dared not slack. She studied over 200 profiles, linking faces to names, names to deeds.
By the end of the week, she could recall each guest instantly.
The banquet hall at Kaiser glittered, ready for the celebration.
And Xia Chan faced the familiar question once more: what to wear.
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