ATC 11

Chapter 11

Hong Kong Island

Jiang Wanju felt that this person was truly rotten at heart. His voice, when he spoke, was neither hurried nor slow—just enough for only the two of them to hear.

Originally, Jiang Wanju had been propping her face with one hand. Upon hearing his voice, she lowered it, glanced around, and seeing that no one was paying attention, quietly responded.

She felt a bit warm, unconsciously took a bite of a refreshing dish, and then heard Chen Zhurén say, “Do you have plans for this afternoon?”

Jiang Wanju shook her head.

“How about we go pick out some clothes? Consider it my way of apologizing,” Chen Zhurén said.

His tone was light and gentle, and the words he spoke were difficult for Jiang Wanju to refuse. Who could say no to something like, “I’ll take you shopping, swipe the card freely”? Jiang Wanju gladly accepted the invitation and went to the Prince’s Building in Central. Chen Zhurén dutifully fulfilled his role.

If Jiang Wanju had shown no preference, he would never have said stereotypical things like, “Girls should wear XXX.” He watched her hesitate among the season’s new arrivals, smiling, only giving careful advice when she asked.

When Jiang Wanju wavered between two different suit sets, Chen Zhurén laughed: “Why not buy both?”

She turned to him: “What are you talking about?”

“I promised to make it up to you with ten items,” Chen Zhurén said. “Take your time choosing.”

He was truly generous. Unlike other men who would typically find a seat and rest after entering a store, Chen Zhurén stood beside Jiang Wanju and naturally spoke with the sales assistants. Jiang Wanju wasn’t sure what he said, and soon they were invited into another room with soft sofas and a coffee table. She didn’t need to stand; someone would bring her clothes, one by one, until she was satisfied.

This shopping trip lasted an hour and a half. Chen Zhurén called his assistant to pick up the clothes and shoes.

There were so many shopping bags that the assistant almost couldn’t carry them. The last few, with white camellias, were carried by the staff together to the car.

Chen Zhurén asked Jiang Wanju, “Do you need any undergarments?”

Her pure cotton triangle underwear from yesterday was no longer usable—it smelled like Chen Zhurén. She had no idea where he got so many things, perhaps some of them even included a faint, hazy pink—maybe her.

That morning before leaving, Jiang Wanju balled them up and tossed them into the trash.

She glanced at Chen Zhurén, who said, “This is also part of the apology.”

Jiang Wanju asked, “Are you this generous with every woman?”

The question was a little offensive.

Chen Zhurén smiled indulgently. “That way of asking is a bit troublesome, little Orange… If I were you, I wouldn’t be so direct.”

Jiang Wanju said, “Then how would you ask?”

“I would ask, ‘Are you this generous with everyone?’”

Following his words, Jiang Wanju asked, “Then what’s your answer, Mr. Chen? Are you this generous with everyone?”

“Of course not,” Chen Zhurén’s dimples appeared faintly. “No matter which way you ask, that’s the answer.”

Jiang Wanju pressed her hand to her heart, softly hummed, and heard Chen Zhurén lower his voice: “Also, don’t call me ‘Mr. Chen.’ It sounds old-fashioned and not good.”

He naturally held her palm as if a big fish swallowed a small one, firmly keeping her in his hand: “Last night’s address was fine. ‘Sir,’ or ‘Brother Zhurén,’ which do you prefer?”

Jiang Wanju preferred ‘Sir,’ but Chen Zhurén clearly liked the latter. Perhaps most men his age shared the same preference, or maybe he was accustomed to a brotherly stance—even though he never mentioned his family, when attending a banquet with Bai Qing, Jiang Wanju had noticed that Chen Zhurén was the central figure among his siblings.

Jiang Wanju’s original plan for Hong Kong Island was four days and three nights. After the breakup, all her previous plans were crossed out in bright red. That didn’t matter—Chen Zhurén took her to eat, drink, and enjoy herself. Unfortunately, she barely stayed in the suite she had booked.

Chen Zhurén had considerable knowledge about food. He took her on the tram to Victoria Peak, drank beer while watching horse races, admired the Victoria Harbour night view… but the most important thing was eating. He took her to have Cantonese cuisine, joking that it was influenced by a certain little thing.

He didn’t pry into her private matters but introduced her to a business partner—the reason he came to Hong Kong.

Strangely, the partner was a blonde, blue-eyed German, yet spoke fluent Chinese, making conversation easy. During dinner, his companion, a petite Chinese woman, was by his side, speaking softly and sweetly, gracefully.

Interestingly, when Jiang Wanju went to the restroom, she overheard the petite girl whispering to the tall German in the corridor: “Mr. Klaus, you didn’t tell me we’d be working tonight—I think I need to remind you that evening engagements count as overtime. You understand what I mean…”

“I understand, Xiaolong,” the German smiled. “Double hourly pay, plus night work allowance. Is that okay?”

The girl laughed: “Alright, my dear Mr. Klaus.”

Jiang Wanju didn’t hear the rest. She quietly left, finding it amusing.

Chen Zhurén was interesting too.

He really knew how to pick food: classic slow-cooked soups, lotus root and octopus stew with pork shank, dried octopus with old lotus root and pork shank, cooked to fragrant richness. Good preserved plums should be savored slowly; soups should be drunk hot. Three-pound Eight Treasures Duck had the bones removed; the filling of lotus seeds, lean meat, salted egg yolk, mushrooms, chestnut, lily bulb, ginkgo, and barley was stuffed in the duck, fried until the bones broke, stewed until the meat was tender.

Since they were in Hong Kong, desserts were essential. In autumn and winter, Jiang Wanju had called for double-boiled pear, lotus seeds, white fungus, and papaya for two nights, scraping the bitter lotus hearts with a toothpick—sweet and soothing.

On the last day, they had Winter Melon Soup, nicknamed “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” The melon was carved into delicate auspicious patterns, filled with shrimp, crab, bamboo fungus, dried scallops, fresh lotus seeds, scallops, shredded roast duck, and other ingredients. The broth was fresh, meat tender, garnished with ham paste, night-scented jasmine, and crab meat—a true dream. This was originally a late dish of old-style banquets and Jiang Wanju loved it most.

But every midsummer night’s dream must end. On the last night in Hong Kong, Jiang Wanju was still in Chen Zhurén’s suite, wearing the LP pajamas he had picked, half-lying and flipping through an art book.

Chen Zhurén sat on the other side of the sofa, having just closed his laptop, drinking water.

At that moment, the phone rang. Both saw the name on the screen: Bai Qing.

Jiang Wanju calmly picked up the phone, without evasion, and answered.

Chen Zhurén casually set down his cup, stood up without a word, his dimples faint, and lifted one of Jiang Wanju’s legs.

Jiang Wanju thought he was joking and laughed, struggling slightly, but couldn’t free herself. Bai Qing’s voice came through the phone, as calm as ever: “Wanju, are you coming back tomorrow? I checked the time; I should be able to pick you up.”

Jiang Wanju opened her mouth, but no sound came, caught off guard and her voice changed. She covered her lips, saying nothing.

Half pink, half purple, brushing carelessly through the gauze.

Jiang Wanju looked up and met Chen Zhurén’s gaze.

He lowered his eyes to her, holding her leg, smiled, and mouthed:

“Continue.”

He gestured for Jiang Wanju to continue. And he would continue too.