Chapter 4: The First Day
The bar didn’t close until 3 a.m., so it was still early. Most guests were staying in the hotel downstairs, and though it was almost midnight, people kept trickling in, many choosing seats by the window where the tranquil city nightscape was the perfect pairing for drinks. Couples made a beeline for the booths further inside, where the low light helped the alcohol-fueled ambiguity bloom.
The bar counter remained brightly lit and relatively quiet.
Song Xu remained.
Finding the brandy too weak, Wen Bairan ordered a whiskey instead, asking for no ice in the whiskey but a separate glass of ice cubes on the side.
"Does that make it taste better?" Song Xu had never seen anyone drink like this before.
One glass of whiskey, one ice cube. She downed the drink in one go and crunched the ice between her teeth. The crunching sound made her wince, her features contorting as she pinched the bridge of her nose and held her forehead, waiting for the tingling sensation to subside. Then she ordered another round and repeated the process.
She drank with abandon, and from the way she chewed the ice, Song Xu detected a kind of masochistic release.
It was as if, to escape one pain, she froze it with another.
Wen Bairan’s tongue was numb from the cold, moving clumsily in her mouth. "You should try it too," she said, her tongue clumsy.
She waved for another drink.
Song Xu declined politely, "I can’t have anymore."
He had met with three clients that day and already had three rounds of drinks. He was nearing his limit.
Wen Bairan shrugged and said dismissively, "Alright then."
The Irish coffee in front of her was aromatic and smooth.
The ring of coffee sediment at the bottom of the cup was particularly noticeable.
Song Xu held his cup with his left thumb and middle finger, his index finger tapping irregularly on the rim as he watched the woman beside him chomp down on her fifth ice cube of the night.
He asked her, "You really like coffee, huh?"
Since yesterday, she had given him three cups of coffee.
Wen Bairan shook her head. No, coffee didn’t give enough of a kick; it couldn’t compare to alcohol. If she needed to wake herself up, she’d just wash her face. It was a habit she’d carried since her student days. She added with a sigh that studying had been more exhausting than work.
Song Xu almost smiled. "So you don’t wear makeup, to make it easier to wash your face?"
"I did put on makeup," she said. She had specifically put on lipstick before coming out.
Wen Bairan chewed the ice in her mouth, tilted her head, and pursed her lips to show him.
Her lips were beautifully shaped, the peaks like inverted peach petals, full and soft, so tender they looked dewy. Having consumed too much ice, the blood vessels in the skin of her lips were stimulated and swollen, rendering them a shimmering, vivid red.
Song Xu didn’t immediately look away. His slender eyelids grew faintly flushed, and his gaze deepened. "You shouldn’t drink anymore either," he said.
Why can’t I? I’m still clear-headed.
To prove her point, Wen Bairan snatched the fresh drink and downed it in one go. In her carelessness, the movement was too abrupt, and she swayed, almost fell off the stool.
A pair of hands caught her. His left arm reached from behind her shoulder, gripping her left shoulder, while the base of his right palm pressed firmly under her armpit, his broad hand simultaneously gripping her wrist in place.
His hold was not forceful, just enough to support her.
Somehow, Wen Bairan’s throat tightened, and she felt like crying for no reason.
It had been so long since anyone had treated her with such tenderness.
So long that she had nearly forgotten how it felt.
Like a stray cat abandoned on the roadside, she took a deep breath, suppressing the frustration and resentment in her heart, and insisted, "I’m fine, I’m steady on my feet."
Song Xu was sober at the time and maintained a certain distance, holding her firmly about a fist’s length away. Frowning, he asked for her room number, saying he would walk her down to her room.
Wen Bairan shook her head fiercely. She said she didn’t want to return to that empty little room, alone with the walls and ceiling. She would always think of Zhou Lin, and she shouldn’t be thinking of Zhou Lin anymore. They had broken up; it was she who had ended it. She was proud of herself. She wanted to return to her ocean—no, she wanted to fly up to the sky. There were no paths on the ground, but there were still possibilities in the sky.
Song Xu couldn’t make sense of her incoherent babble. Though half-drunk and lacking rationality, she had plenty of energy, flailing her arms around, swaying unsteadily. To avoid hurting her or letting her hurt herself, he stretched out a leg to prop against the stool’s leg, securing it to prevent her from falling.
Noticing his movement, Wen Bairan mischievously bent her knee and deliberately let herself slump downward.
Song Xu’s hand under her armpit lifted, and her body went limp as a rag, tilting to the other side. He adjusted his grip to pull her back, but in the struggle, Wen Bairan tumbled off the stool, her forehead colliding with his collarbone. Her body ended up stuck in the narrow space between their seats, and she dizzyingly sank down.
Onto Song Xu’s leg.
The woman radiated heat through the fabric of her clothes. Her shoulder strap, along with her body, slid halfway down, catching on his ring finger, giving off a faint scent.
His voice was deep and slightly husky, "You’ve had too much to drink."
Wen Bairan didn’t think she had drunk too much. Instead, she found the earlier stumble quite fun, like sliding down a playground slide. She looked up, her eyes hazy with intoxication, and asked, "President Song, do you have a girlfriend?"
Song Xu’s throat moved imperceptibly. "No."
"No is good, no is great. No girlfriend means no breakup, no breakup means no heartache. You’re so foresighted." She gave him a thumbs-up, then randomly grabbed a glass from the table—it was empty. "Huh, no more alcohol. Get me another one."
Song Xu still held her, and the bartender who had been summoned caught his look and tactfully retreated.
"Let’s go back first."
Song Xu said it several times.
If Wen Bairan had agreed then.
Even if she hadn’t.
Instead of tilting her head up and kissing him.
Perhaps there would have been room for change later.
The two were too close, the leg beneath her burning like hot iron against her, sending waves of warm, tingling numbness through her lower abdomen. Wen Bairan let her head loll onto his shoulder, inhaling his scent.
It was exactly the same as in his car during the day. Warm, faint, comforting, putting her at ease. Mixed with a hint of alcohol, it was even more intoxicating.
She vaguely recalled someone saying that the best way to forget one relationship was to start a new one.
She didn’t need a new relationship, but she certainly needed to forget.
She had made her decision and couldn’t let herself regret it.
To ensure she wouldn’t regret it, cutting off all retreat was the cleanest way.
That was the last moment Wen Bairan remained conscious.
She suddenly leaned in, and Song Xu instinctively pulled back. The full, cool softness of her lips landed half an inch above his Adam’s apple.
Wen Bairan blinked dazedly, unable to see the deepening shadow in Song Xu’s stunned eyes.
Something in the air seemed to hiss.
The alcohol suddenly rushed to her head—her face felt hot, her lips felt cold.
It was as if the lingering smoke of a burned-out match drifted in and out of her breath.
Pop—
Somewhere, a guest had shattered a glass.
A waiter stepped forward to clean it up, whispering "sorry" to those nearby.
Behind the bar, the bartender snapped back to attention, only to find the man and woman who’d been in a standoff were now kissing.
Wen Bairan’s head spun dizzily, but she vaguely remembered being the one who initiated it. Song Xu’s lips weren’t soft enough; kissing his lips felt like pressing against dried leaves. She moistened them slowly with the tip of her tongue, but as she tried to pull back, a powerful force seized her. Her breath left her in an instant. A hand tightened sharply at the small of her back, pulling her hard against him.
Pain and desire were trapped inside their mouths, exchanged back and forth.
Her eyes were open, but her vision was blurred.
The crystal backing behind the liquor cabinet’s grid reflected light, and everything around them broke into a hazy, dreamlike blur, like a scratched-up old movie.
Song Xu’s lowered lashes were long and fine, like a baby’s—soft, they gently brushed beneath her eyes.
She studied his face, deeply shadowed in the dim light.
He was nothing like Zhou Lin.
They were nearly polar opposites.
Zhou Lin was a leopard on the open plains—his unique agility and vigor gave him the capital for arrogance, and so he was wildly arrogant.
Song Xu wasn’t any animal you could easily name. Wen Bairan thought he was like the ocean: vast, silent under the night sky, its surface shimmered with a cold, silvery light, just as he had remained unreadable all evening, yet still drawing the gazes of every woman within ten tables.
Wen Bairan had thalassophobia. That kind of bottomless, immense darkness terrified her; she was afraid of being swallowed whole.
He cupped her face, and for a moment she felt timid. Feeling herself lifted, her legs weak, she still hooked her arms around his shoulders.
In the private bathroom, the sound from a flushing toilet next door drowned out the noise of their kissing.
Even with alcohol giving her courage, like taking off her shoes and wading into the ocean, the water was still piercingly cold.
Wen Bairan melted in his arms, afraid she might suffocate the next second, yet unwilling to leave the heat of his body.
Who said Song Xu was a monk?
Even if he was, he must’ve been a pro before he became a monk.
He kissed her until she lost all track of time, only wanting to get closer, even closer.
His large hands held her hips, turning her deftly until her back was flush against his chest. Reaching around from behind, he lifted her chin and lowered his head to play mischief behind her ear.
With practiced skill, he undid her buttons, his hand nearly inside. Pinned to the wall by him, Wen Bairan bent forward, her thin high heels unable to support the weight of both their bodies.
The metal pipes on the wall were unusually cold. She was sensitive to the cold and wanted him to hold her again, fidgeting uncomfortably, so he lifted her up.
He was indeed gentler than Zhou Lin, though just as commanding.
Men probably all liked to be in control.
When Song Xu heard her murmur someone’s name, his eyes cleared instantly.
Wen Bairan didn’t want to stop. She nuzzled the back of her head against his collar, turning her face to find his lips.
Her voice was seductive as poison.
"Keep going…"
Song Xu knew she was drunk, but he was still sober.
He didn’t want her to wake up and regret it later.
His hand tightened on her chin, his low voice laced with restraint and warning: "I’m not a noble man. Reason tells me to stop, but you… you’re making me reckless. Are you sure?"
At that moment, desire and drunkenness overwhelmed Wen Bairan. She didn’t register his words—not a single one.
She twisted in his embrace, her slender arms coiling like a snake around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss.
……
That was the last time Wen Bairan thought of Zhou Lin.
For the rest of the night, he consumed her body and mind.
He made it clear that he was Song Xu.
……
In the executive suite, Song Xu leaned against the headboard, smoking.
Inhale, exhale—smoke curled, hiding his face.
He had woken when Wen Bairan left.
He didn’t try to stop her.
Last night was like a dream.
And when a dream ends, it dissipates.
The empty space beside him on the bed still held a trace of warmth. She’d curled there last night, pleading with him to slow down, saying she was dying.
The faint sound of inhalation; the ember restless, jumping between his fingers.
Song Xu lowered his gaze, and smoke suddenly rushed into his windpipe. He didn’t cough, forcing it down until his lungs felt ready to burst, before letting out two low, stifled hacks. A nearly pathological self-control. Frown lines etched between his brows.
He stubbed out the cigarette, rising from the bed with a hint of irritation.
Soon, the sound of water came from the bathroom.
Outside the window, daylight was about to break.
On the nightstand, a wisp of pale smoke curled from the cigarette in the ashtray.
On the verge of going out, but not yet extinguished.