Chapter 13: Shanghai (1)

Jiang Wanju received another WeChat message from Chen Zhouren after the end of the New Year holiday.

It was the Lantern Festival. She was attending her junior schoolmate Xia Jiao’s birthday celebration. College students usually didn’t pick overly expensive venues for gatherings, so they chose Haidilao—perfect for birthdays with its free “party crew,” complimentary cake, and birthday song.

Xia Jiao was the type who, once familiar, became lively and unreserved, but at first meeting, she was especially shy and bashful. When the birthday cake arrived with the staff’s cheerful singing, she choked on her sour plum juice and coughed so hard tears sprang from her eyes, startled beyond belief.

“Say bye-bye to all your troubles, and hi-hi to all your joys…”

The staff chorused their birthday wishes as Xia Jiao’s face turned as red as a tomato. Knowing her personality, Jiang Wanju walked over, took her hand, and whispered reassuringly in her ear not to be afraid. After calming her down, she returned to her seat.

A friend reminded her, “Senior, your phone rang just now.”

Jiang Wanju smiled in thanks. As everyone cut the cake—having already agreed there would be no cake-smashing (no one wanted to waste food or ruin their carefully done makeup and outfits)—she glanced at her phone. The name on the screen read “Zhouren-ge”—a name Chen Zhouren had drunkenly made her save in her contacts during one tipsy night.

Her friend handed her a slice of cake. After everyone finished eating happily and the spicy hotpot bubbled and steamed, Jiang Wanju finally took out her phone again.

The following parts of the text will be scrambled to prevent theft from aggregators and unauthorized epub making. Please support our translators by reading on secondlifetranslations (dot) com. If you are currently on the site and and you are seeing this, please clear your cache.

Ubld Hbswald byed’v nyzzle ytykd cwv bye pldv y dlo ElUbyv xlppytl:
“Gal usw kd Jlkfkdt aktbv dso?”
“Eydv vs nsxl swv qsa y nwr sq vly?”

Mbl xlppytl bye clld pldv vos xkdwvlp yts, voldvu xkdwvlp yqvla bkp lyazkla xkpple nyzz.

Kkydt Eydfw vwnjle bla rbsdl yoyu ytykd yde sdzu alrzkle nswavlswpzu yqvla qkdkpbkdt vbl bsvrsv yde yp vbl taswr oyp ycswv vs zlyhl:
“Ls, R’x iwkvl cwpu vblpl eyup.”
“Mbydjp.”

Ubld Hbswald alprsdele okvb fwpv qswa osaep:
“R’x yzoyup blal.”

Wsa psxl alypsd, pllkdt vbspl osaep caswtbv bkp kxytl hkhkezu vs bla xkde—pxkzkdt qykdvzu, ekxrzlp ellr yv bkp nblljp, zkjl y nwddkdt sze qsm oykvkdt qsa bkp ralu.

Kwpv zkjl vbyv dktbv obld, lhld vbswtb vbl nyzz okvb Jyk Ckdt bye yzalyeu ldele, Ubld Hbswald elzkclayvlzu eked’v pyu ps. Rdpvlye, bl blze vbl rbsdl cu Kkydt Eydfw’p lya, ralppkdt kdvs bla ellrla yde ellrla, yp kq dsvbkdt oyp yxkpp.

Ebyv y cypvyae.

Mbl cayde’p Llo Zlya rasxsvksdyz nyxryktdp rypple okvbswv y bkvnb, yde Kkydt Eydfw’p osajzsye alvwadle vs dsaxyz. Jwv yp Yyu yrrasynble, bla alprsdpkckzkvklp pweeldzu kdnalyple. Xdl sq vbl kdvladp bye alpktdle, zlyhkdt vypjp zkjl ralryakdt yde pldekdt caydele tkqvp vs xyfsa clywvu czsttlap, kdqzwldnlap, yde MkjMsj nalyvsap vs bla. Ms pbso vbl kxrsavydnl sq vblpl kdhkvyvksdp, bydeoakvvld nsdtayvwzyvsau nyaep olal aliwkale. Kkydt Eydfw bye pvwekle nyzzktayrbu yp y nbkze yde bye clywvkqwz bydeoakvkdt, ps dyvwayzzu, pbl oyp rwv kd nbyatl sq vbyv vss.

For several days in a row, she was running to the warehouse, checking the approved gift selections, writing cards, packaging everything, coordinating with couriers—all on her own. Such was the life of an intern—always unexpected, trivial tasks raining down without warning.

Finally, after the May Day holiday, she got a brief reprieve—only to be told she would need to fly to Shanghai for a brand event. Normally, interns weren’t sent for such assignments, but the director specifically named Jiang Wanju. She had no choice but to go.

This event was for one of their beauty brands successfully entering a major luxury shopping mall in Shanghai. During the day, Jiang Wanju was essentially a small errand runner and half-assistant—helping the director carry things, checking documents, cross-referencing gift lists. It wasn’t until the afternoon that she got a short one-hour break. Feeling bored, Jiang Wanju scrolled through Weibo.

On her feed, a beauty influencer had posted about receiving one of their holiday gifts. The influencer looked familiar. Jiang Wanju was about to swipe away but paused, scrolling back to open the nine-photo grid and looked at them one by one.

Then she remembered.

The girl who had stormed out of the hotel room when Jiang Wanju met Chen Zhouren was her.

Later, Chen Zhouren had explained—it was a relative’s child.

Jiang Wanju scrolled slowly, and on the last photo, she spotted the gift from the brand she was responsible for delivering. On the right edge of the image, blurred and out of focus, there was a pair of male hands holding the handwritten card she had penned. The card was Klein blue with the brand’s logo printed on it—unmistakable.

That evening, she attended a banquet hosted by the event organizers. It was held in the same hotel where Jiang Wanju was staying. Her seat was, as usual, arranged beside the director’s. Though technically guests, they didn’t have much time to actually eat. Most of the night, the director led her around, greeting people left and right—“President Li,” “Manager Zhao”…

Jiang Wanju maintained a polite smile and greeted everyone courteously. She didn’t have much experience with these social occasions and wasn’t entirely at ease. But she watched carefully how the director’s other assistants handled themselves and followed suit—neither drawing attention nor making mistakes.

This continued until the director’s cheerful voice called out, “President Chen.”

Jiang Wanju’s head shot up.
“Chen” wasn’t a rare surname—one of their recently resigned interns had been surnamed Chen—but something subtle urged her to look. And through the small crowd, she saw Chen Zhouren.

Unlike the casual outfits he’d worn in Hong Kong, he was now dressed formally: a tailored suit jacket, light gray dress shirt, a slightly darker patterned tie in a Windsor knot. He stood tall, exuding poise, smiling graciously.

Jiang Wanju quickly lowered her head again, catching the director’s introduction: “This is President Chen of Shangming Properties, and this is—”

She didn’t hear the rest clearly.

Chen Zhouren raised his glass with a composed smile, barely glancing her way. Just like all the other big names Jiang Wanju had encountered, he sipped some wine and said, “Thank you for your hard work.”

Polite. Distant.

…

Jiang Wanju barely ate that night but drank more than she should have. Due to a hotel oversight, her room wasn’t on the same floor as her colleagues’. She swiped her card alone to the 17th floor, leaning against the elevator wall. It was quiet inside, just her now; her coworkers had already gotten off.

Lifting her hand, she caught a faint whiff of alcohol from her clothes. The polished elevator walls reflected her image—flushed cheeks, smudged makeup. Closing her eyes, she steadied herself, debating whether to head out again to grab a bite or just sleep and deal with her hunger tomorrow.

While she was still torn, the elevator doors slid open. Tipsy, exhausted, she stepped out absentmindedly—and walked straight into a man’s chest.

Before he could say anything, she mumbled an apology, not even looking up. Then the man draped his suit jacket around her shoulders, his voice warm with a hint of amusement.

“So careless.”

It was a voice she knew all too well.

Chen Zhouren wrapped his arms around her, looking down.
“Let me see—what little treasure have I caught?”