The concert faded into echoes, the crowd a slow-moving river pouring from the Mercedes-Benz Arena. Chen Yansen led Meng Jie through the throng, walking an extra block to where the city's pulse finally slowed enough to hail a cab.
"The Marriott Hotel," Chen Yansen instructed the driver.
Meng Jie leaned against him, her voice soft. "My dad booked me a room next door at the chain hotel. I can't stay with you tonight."
After Wei Zhe's call, Meng Zhenguo had moved swiftly. Absolutely no chances for that rascal Chen Yansen, he'd thought, a father's protectiveness in full force. He knew the mind of an eighteen-year-old boy all too well.
"Uncle Meng really doesn't trust me," Chen Yansen sighed, a flicker of smugness hidden behind a facade of disappointment.
"He booked it because he trusts you," Meng Jie retorted, grinning as she nudged him. "Don't even think about me not checking in. He'd probably drive to Shanghai tonight if I didn't."
"Fine. Let's get your luggage first, then I'll walk you over."
The day replayed in Meng Jie's mind—the morning's tears of fear at the coffee shop, the soaring joy of the concert. She gripped his arm tighter. She never cried easily, but the thought of losing him had shattered that resolve.
"Do you like Shanghai?" Chen Yansen asked, gazing at the neon skyline.
"It's exciting to visit. But everyone walks too fast here. It seems exhausting," Meng Jie replied.
The taxi driver chuckled. "Young lady, houses here cost a fortune. If you're a step slower every day, you fall a mile behind. How else can you afford a home?"
"That's exactly why home is better," Meng Jie said. "Blue bricks, gray tiles, old alleys… real life."
The driver said nothing more. College kids, he thought. They'll understand the world soon enough.
Back at the Marriott, Chen Yansen and Meng Jie shared another thirty minutes before he escorted her and her luggage to the adjacent hotel.
He did not return to his room. Instead, he turned toward a brightly lit KFC on the corner.
The night wind held a chill. Through the tall glass, he saw Song Yuncheng sitting alone, staring vacantly at the empty table.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
He rapped on the window.
Song Yuncheng started, her eyes lifting. The moment she saw him, the dullness vanished, replaced by a light that seemed to ignite from within. She sprang up, pushed the door open, and stood before him—only to falter, suddenly timid.
"Leaving your post without permission? Should I deduct your salary?" Chen Yansen teased, a slight frown masking his concern at her weary state.
"Chen Yansen… I'm just glad you're okay," she stammered, head bowed.
"You came all this way just to say that?"
"I… I wanted to see you."
Summoning a courage she didn't know she possessed, she took a heavy step forward and wrapped her arms around him. "I think… I've fallen for you, Chen Yansen. What should I do?" Her voice was a whisper, finally breaking as tears traced down her cheeks.
"Liking me is a good thing. No need to feel inferior about it," he said, his tone light as he pulled her close. The youthful warmth of her was palpable.
A girl like Song Yuncheng didn't require complex pursuit. Ninety-nine percent looks and one percent genuine care were enough. A smile touched Chen Yansen's lips. His opportunity had arrived.
"Let me hold you for just a minute. I'm so tired," she murmured, clinging to him, breathing in his clean, pine-like scent. It was calming.
"Stay at my place tonight. There's a sofa," he offered, feeling the biting wind.
"I'll find my own hotel. I'm going back to Xucheng tomorrow. You… take good care of Meng Jie." She took a step back, instinct pulling her away from the intimacy of shared lodging.
"She's in the hotel next door. She won't find out," Chen Yansen said with a rogue's grin. He wasn't about to let this chance slip. Her defenses were at their lowest.
"I like you, but I don't want to be with you. You have a girlfriend." Another step back. My feelings are my own, her stance declared.
"Don't worry, I won't do anything. Don't you trust me?" The lie came smoothly, his expression earnest.
Song Yuncheng almost laughed. It was precisely because she was starting to trust him that she was afraid.
"Enough. Come with me, or I'll fire you." He cut the debate short with an impatient wave and strode toward the hotel.
Song Yuncheng stood in the cold until the wind stung her cheeks, then reluctantly followed. That annoyingly handsome face of his was more irritating than ever.
He checked them in. The front desk clerk was puzzled—the girl from yesterday looked different.
"Did you bring a change of clothes?" Chen Yansen asked, leaning against the closed door of his room.
"Yes." Song Yuncheng was uncharacteristically docile.
"You shower first, or shall we shower together?" The question was deliberately provocative.
"Don't bully me, okay?" Her plea was soft, her eyes glistening and direct, enough to soften any resolve.
"Fine, you go first. I won't fight you for it." He relented, waving a hand as he walked into the bedroom.
Relieved, Song Yuncheng hurried into the bathroom and locked the door.
Chen Yansen opened his laptop, scanned messages from his project team, and made two calls. One to Liu Zhicheng at Jiushen.com, firmly insisting on compensating users tenfold for the counterfeit Moutai incident, deducting it from their security deposit. The other to Cao Dahua, offering casual thanks and promises of Shanghai souvenirs.
Business concluded, he stood before the window, plans for dealing with Zhang Hanhua taking shape in his mind.
Thud.
A muffled sound came from the bathroom.
"Song Yuncheng?" No answer. He knocked. "Song Yuncheng!"
Silence.
He stepped back and shoved his shoulder against the door. The lock gave way.
Steam billowed out. Song Yuncheng lay collapsed on the wet tiles, the shower still pouring over her. Chen Yansen rushed in, turned off the water, and felt her forehead—burning up.
"Running a fever and not saying a word. You're nothing but trouble."
He scooped her up, wrapped her in a towel, and carried her to the bed. A call to the front desk sent someone out for medicine.
Half an hour later, he held her, coaxing a fever-reducer between her lips and helping her sip electrolyte water. He noticed the scrapes on her knees and palms from her fall and carefully applied band-aids.
"Are you doing this on purpose? To ruin my plans?" he grumbled half-heartedly, giving her a light pat.
He wasn't a saint, but he wasn't a beast either. Leaning against the headboard with her in his arms, his thoughts drifted to Wang Ziyan from his past life, who had also once lain feverish in his arms like this.
A man like him could relive his life, but some commitments remained eternally beyond him. Drowsiness finally pulled him under, Song Yuncheng's steady, warm breath against his chest.