My Queen, My Rules - 46

Sympathy Card

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The enclosed immersive video installation wasn’t finished yet, leaving the show space semi-open to the elements. A biting wind whistled through the interior, making his words—“I’ll compensate you”—almost indistinct.

Ji Mingshu didn’t know how to respond. She tried to take a half-step back to create some distance between herself and Cen Sen. But the moment she lifted her foot, a sharp pain shot up from her ankle. She couldn’t help but let out a soft hiss.

“Sprained?”

Cen Sen looked down, assessing.

Ji Mingshu didn’t answer, but her nose and brows were scrunched up in discomfort.

Cen Sen considered for a brief moment. Then he suddenly took off his overcoat, stepped forward, and draped the still-warm garment over her shoulders, tightening the lapels until she was practically swallowed inside it.

Ji Mingshu instinctively shrank back, wanting to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. But before she could move, Cen Sen’s silk-scarf-wrapped hand came around her shoulders without warning. Leaning down slightly, he hooked his other arm under her legs and, with effortless ease, swept her up into a bridal carry.

If a moment ago Ji Mingshu hadn’t known what to say, now she was bursting with questions she couldn’t quite voice.

They were very close. She stared unblinkingly at Cen Sen, her warm breath misting softly against the line of his jaw.

Cen Sen occasionally glanced down, meeting her gaze with deep, unreadable eyes.

The silk scarf wrapped around his hand was stained a dark, ominous red. From time to time, a corner of the elegant fabric fluttered in the wind with a strangely beautiful, almost morbid grace.

He carried her all the way to the executive suite on the hotel’s top floor, settling her gently on the sofa before taking a seat opposite her. He extended his injured hand, allowing the doctor who had followed them in to clean and dress the wound.

Sitting face-to-face like this, Ji Mingshu could see the blood still welling from the cuts on his left hand. The wound looked even more gruesome up close.

As the doctor disinfected the wound and picked out glass shards, Ji Mingshu instinctively looked away, her heart clenching tight—whether from the shock of Cen Sen’s injury or the sharp pain from another doctor treating her own ankle, she didn’t know.

Cen Sen himself remained expressionless. He looked down at the wound as if he felt no pain. From start to finish, he didn’t so much as furrow his brow.

Once both their injuries were treated, the two doctors offered a few instructions in turn, then packed their kits and stood to leave.

Zhou Jiaheng respectfully showed them out, murmuring, “This way, please.”

The three of them soon left. With the soft “click” of the door closing, silence descended upon the room. The two injured parties were left alone, and a vague, unspoken awkwardness hung in the air.

Doing the math, it had been nearly two months since they’d last seen each other. The capital had already transitioned from autumn to winter, and the weather forecast even predicted that the first snow would fall this week.

In the past, whenever silence fell between them, Ji Mingshu was usually the one to break it. This time, too, she instinctively wondered what topic of polite conversation would suit the awkward situation they were currently in.

But just then, looking at her frost-reddened hands, Cen Sen suddenly said, “It’s cold out. Wear more when you go outside.”

“…?”

“Oh… I know…”

Ji Mingshu was momentarily thrown. Since when did Cen Sen, with his notoriously sharp tongue, offer words of concern?

Having spoken, he stood up and used the in-room coffee beans and machine to brew two cups of Americano. After tasting his, however, he seemed dissatisfied with the flavor.

Ji Mingshu took a sip as well and found the beans too bitter. She frowned imperceptibly, set the cup down, and grasped for conversation. “Why were you here today?”

“I heard you were designing a show here. I had some time today, so I came to take a look.” Cen Sen dropped a sugar cube into her cup, his voice calm and low. “Actually, I meant to come earlier this week, but I was tied up with business trips overseas.”

Ji Mingshu suppressed a cough and swallowed the coffee, her face flushed from the effort.

Secretly, she’d had a narcissistic hunch, but she’d never imagined Cen Sen had actually come to see her—and that he’d admit it so frankly.

Continuing on the topic of the show, Cen Sen brought up another point. “I saw your design downstairs earlier. It’s exquisite. Very lavish.”

“…?”

That’s not what you used to say.

Sure enough, the next second, he reverted to his old ways. “But your work still suffers from the same issue I mentioned before.”

“What issue?”

Ji Mingshu couldn’t recall for a moment.

“It’s not user-friendly enough.”

Cen Sen set down his coffee and looked at her. “I’m not familiar with the designer’s style, but since he approves, it proves your main venue is conceptually sound. Even from a layman’s perspective, I can see the artistic merit. Where I find it lacking is in your audience seating plan. It seems… inefficient.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but he preempted her. “You want to seat the audience in the triangular areas of the piano staircase and the galleries, correct?”

“…”

He’s right.

Cen Sen continued, “From what I understand, fashion shows are an intimate experience. The triangular areas and galleries of the piano staircase are too confined. Furthermore, your current lighting plan is designed entirely from the runway’s perspective, with no consideration for the audience’s comfort. That level of brightness and light dispersion is likely to cause significant visual fatigue. I think you could make some improvements in that regard.”

Unconsciously, Ji Mingshu propped her chin in her hand, following his train of thought.

She was surprised to find that this layman’s perspective made a lot of sense.

Actually, this wasn’t a problem unique to her. Many shows, domestic and international, shared this common flaw. People were crammed together on little benches, the experience often mediocre at best. There had even been jokes about audience benches collapsing before a show started.

This widespread neglect of the audience area usually stemmed from the organizers holding a superior stance over the attendees, compounded by budget constraints, post-show teardown requirements, and tight scheduling for multiple shows.

But for Chris Chou’s debut show in China, there were no such limiting constraints. Making improvements in this area wouldn’t be difficult.

As for the lighting’s impact on the audience, that was indeed a significant oversight on her part.

She was about to ask if he had any specific suggestions when his phone screen lit up. He glanced at the caller ID, stood, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window to take the call.

Ji Mingshu paused, glancing back at him, her ears subtly straining to listen.

The caller seemed to be American. They were discussing a joint project in Hawaii. Cen Sen spoke entirely in English, his pronunciation crisp and pleasing—a low, husky baritone that held a subtle, restrained sexiness, distinct from the exaggerated inflections common among Western speakers.

Listening, Ji Mingshu gradually drifted off. A wave of drowsiness crept over her.

Pushing to finish the design, she hadn’t slept properly in days. Even coffee seemed to have lost its effect. Sinking into the plush sofa, sleep ambushed her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and soon, she was fast asleep.

By the time Cen Sen finished his call and returned to the living room, Ji Mingshu’s head was lolling to one side, her long lashes resting on her cheeks, her breathing deep and even.

He stood by the sofa for a while, watching her. Then, he picked her up gently and carried her to the bedroom, laying her on the bed before drawing the blackout curtains.

Though it was still daytime, the room plunged into a dim twilight.

Cen Sen sat on the edge of the bed, brushing stray hairs from Ji Mingshu’s face and tucking the covers around her—just as he had done the night before she left home.

Only now, after all these days, he felt he had figured many things out. Those vague, flickering thoughts had churned repeatedly in his mind, ultimately pointing toward a truth he didn’t want to examine too deeply but which his subconscious had already acknowledged.

Somehow, he suddenly felt the desire to kiss her.

He was a man who acted on his thoughts. He made no claims to being a gentleman, nor did he have a concept of “taking advantage.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. Bracing one hand by her ear, he leaned down slowly, closing the distance. He pried her lips apart, his tongue exploring, tasting, nipping gently. Not satisfied, his mouth trailed downward, over the smooth skin of her neck, to the delicate hollow of her collarbone.

Lost in deep sleep, Ji Mingshu remained oblivious. She merely turned onto her side in her slumber, casually grabbing his bandaged hand and tucking it under her head like a pillow.

The doctor had instructed Cen Sen to avoid putting pressure on his left hand. But now, captured as her pillow, he didn’t pull away. The bandage slowly bloomed red. He just sat on the edge of the bed, leaning down now and then to kiss his little golden canary, a gesture tinged with unconscious attachment.

When Ji Mingshu woke, it was late. The air held a faint metallic scent. Groggily, she reached to turn on the lamp, rubbing her eyes as she sat up.

As her mind cleared, her gaze fell on the bloodied bandages discarded on a nearby table.

Belatedly, she looked around the room. Questions surfaced: How had she fallen asleep? And how had she ended up in bed?

Her mind went blank for three seconds. Her gaze returned to the bloody bandage, and the sequence of events pieced itself together in her mind.

A pair of flat shoes sat by the bed, clearly meant for her. She slowly slid her feet into them and hobbled out to the living room—

Cen Sen was gone.

With the shadow of her two-day confinement still lingering, she instinctively went to the suite door and tried the handle.

It turned. The door opened.

Zhou Jiaheng was standing right outside.

Seeing her awake, he offered a warm, polite smile and a slight bow. “Good evening, Madam. The delegation from the Lausanne Institute is arriving in the capital tonight for an exchange. President Cen’s presence was required. He specifically asked me to wait here for you.”

Ji Mingshu said, “Oh,” then remembered the bandage. “His hand…”

“President Cen’s wound seemed to reopen earlier, but it’s been redressed. It’s nothing serious.”

Ji Mingshu nodded, leaning against the doorframe, lost in thought. After a long moment, she said, “Then take me back.”

Zhou Jiaheng, unsurprised, replied, “Of course.”

Ji Mingshu turned back to grab her bag and heels. Only after getting in the car did she add, “Take me back to Xinggang International.”

“…?”

Zhou Jiaheng’s smile stiffened. He was momentarily at a loss for words.

The night lights of the capital flashed by, streams of color blurring past the windows.

The Porsche seemed to drag its heels, taking a full hour to reach Xinggang International.

Before she even got out of the car, Ji Mingshu received a WeChat message from Cen Sen.

Cen Sen: [Aren’t you coming home?]

Ji Mingshu ignored it, glancing at Zhou Jiaheng in the rearview mirror.

Zhou Jiaheng, well-practiced in the art of plausible deniability, kept his eyes down, expertly avoiding her gaze.

Another message came in.

Cen Sen: [I’ve re-ordered the broken light fixture. It should arrive in the next couple of days.]

Ji Mingshu, maintaining her aloof facade, replied with a single character: [K.]

Cen Sen: [I’ll have the scarf sent over to you tomorrow.]

Still a High Cold: [K.]

After a long pause, Cen Sen finally sent a voice message, asking the most crucial question. “My hand isn’t very convenient for typing, Mingshu. When are you planning to come home?”

Ji Mingshu: [Dunno.]

Ji Mingshu: [Strongly suspect you’re playing the sympathy card on me.]

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