My Queen, My Rules - 67

One had to admit, Ji Mingshu was a woman who knew when to bend with the wind.

Inside the office, the blinds slowly descended, and the harsh white light shifted to a soft, warm yellow, casting a dim, ambiguous glow.

From the direction of the desk came the faint rustling of clothes and documents dropping to the floor, accompanied by stifled, delicate murmurs.

Ji Mingshu sat on the desk, her hands weakly clinging to Cen Sen's shoulders, slipping off several times, only to find their way back again each time.

Thinking of the people outside, she didn’t dare make a sound. Tears pooled in her eyes, and in her frustration and indignation, she could only bite his neck.

The black hair on Cen Sen’s forehead was damp with sweat. At the peak of passion, he occasionally leaned in and whispered something into Ji Mingshu’s ear, his voice low and raspy with barely restrained desire, the rims of his eyes faintly red.

In truth, Ji Mingshu’s worries were somewhat unnecessary. With the New Year approaching, most employees were already on holiday. The Junyi headquarters building was sparsely populated, and the top-floor executive office level was even more so. Add to that the “Do Not Disturb” indicator Cen Sen had activated—would anyone with sense dare to step closer or eavesdrop?

But still. Ji Mingshu had been in there for hours without emerging. The assistants in the Chief Assistant’s office across the way were at a loss. They glanced at each other, silently acknowledging the awkwardness in each other’s eyes: Is it appropriate for us to be here while they’re doing aerobic exercises in broad daylight?

When someone called to say there were urgent documents requiring Cen Sen’s signature, they replied with straight faces, “President Cen is occupied,” while simultaneously, and helplessly, visualizing just how vigorously he might be occupied. It was mortifying.

A little past seven in the evening, Cen Sen dialed the internal line and informed them in a steady voice that they could leave for the day. They couldn’t pack up and disappear fast enough.

Only after triple-checking that the coast was clear did Ji Mingshu dare to put on her sunglasses, pull her collar high, and follow behind Cen Sen with small, unsteady steps.

Her gait was unnatural, as if her legs might give way at any moment, and her knees bore a faint redness.

Perhaps having had his fill with the office play, Cen Sen didn’t make more demands that night. Ji Mingshu curled up in his arms and slept peacefully.

The next day was New Year’s Eve, and the heavens finally showed a smile after days of heavy snow.

Ji Mingshu and Cen Sen woke up early to head to the Ji family mansion.

They stayed for the New Year’s Eve lunch. During the meal, Second Uncle Ji Rubai brought up the old topic again. Centering on one core issue and two supporting points, he launched a full-scale campaign to urge the now three-years-married couple to have a child.

“Second Uncle, I’m only twenty-five. What’s the rush?” Ji Mingshu put down her chopsticks, her tone coquettish. “Lots of girls my age aren’t even married yet; they’re still in grad school or job hunting.”

But Ji Rubai wasn’t having it. His reasoning was sharp. "Twenty-five? You’ll be twenty-six after this New Year. And you’re not in grad school or job hunting, so why compare yourself to them? Besides, does studying or working affect marriage and having children? Sihuai, you tell her. At your school, aren’t there quite a few young women who get married and have kids while doing their master’s?”

Ji Sihuai was Ji Mingshu’s eldest cousin, a professor at a prestigious university in the capital who had made associate professor in his early thirties.

He responded with a smile, "Quite a few, actually. Not just master’s students—undergrads too. Last year, a third-year student wanted me to be her advisor. She was sharp and well-rounded, so I thought she’d be a great addition to my lab if she got into a master’s program. But she ended up having a baby before even finishing her third year."

Ji Rubai nodded approvingly, giving Ji Mingshu a look that said, See? What I’m saying is politically correct.

Then, Ji Rusong, her aunts, and her cousins all turned to her with expressions that echoed: ‘Your second uncle is right.’

Ji Mingshu had a mouthful of soup she couldn’t swallow.

Fortunately, Cen Sen intervened gently, coming to her rescue. "Mingshu’s still young. We can take some time to prepare and get her health in order. There’s no hurry to have a child for another year or two.”

After speaking, he lightly raised his wine glass in a toast to her uncles and cousins.

With that, no one could push further. After all, no amount of nagging could force the two to conceive.

After barely escaping the Ji family ordeal, they headed to Nanqiao Hutong for dinner. As if coordinating with the Ji elders, the Cen family didn’t waste much time before trying various ways to hint and probe. When the couple didn’t take the bait, they asked directly about their plans for having children.

The Cen side was more manageable, though, because Cen Yingshuang had made it home for the New Year. As an older, unmarried woman, she bore the brunt of the elders’ inquiries, shielding Ji Mingshu from much of the pressure.

After the New Year’s Eve dinner, night had fully fallen. The TV was on, blaring cheerful commercials, and the main house and pavilion of the Cen compound were filled with laughter and cheerful chatter. The younger generations, after finishing their meal, dashed out to the alley to retrieve fireworks from their car trunks, comparing whose were trendier and more extravagant on their way back to the courtyard.

Ji Mingshu and Cen Sen stayed in the main house, chatting with the elders. Hearing her mention she’d eaten a bit too much, Cen Sen said he’d take her out for a walk.

The adults teased the young couple for their affection. Ji Mingshu, three parts playing along and seven parts genuinely feeling sweet, cooed at the elders before holding onto Cen Sen’s arm and heading out.

The capital’s winter night was bitterly cold, their breath forming puffs of white in the air. They walked slowly along the narrow hutong alley.

The Ji family had once lived in this hutong, but they had moved away when Ji Mingshu was in high school. Over a decade or two had passed, but the hutong seemed unchanged—the same people, the same road.

Seeing the utility pole at the alley’s entrance, Ji Mingshu suddenly pointed. “Do you remember?”

Cen Sen looked at her.

“When we were kids, my classmates and I always jumped rope here. You know, the kind of rubber band rope you can take apart? We’d always tie one end to this pole.”

“Once, after we split into teams, we were short one person to stand there and hold the rope. You happened to be coming home from school, so I asked you to help.”

"Do you remember how cold you were back then? You gave me this icy glare and walked straight home without a word! I was so mad at the time! My friends and I spent a good while cursing you out!”

"Really?" Cen Sen thought for a moment. "I don’t remember."

Ji Mingshu rolled her eyes. Right. There are a lot of things you don’t remember.

She seized the opportunity to thoroughly air old grievances, listing the myriad awful things he'd done, all his coldness and rejection toward her sincere attempts at friendship.

Cen Sen listened attentively but remained quiet. He truly didn’t remember most of the things Ji Mingshu mentioned.

During his first two years at Nanqiao Hutong, he was still trapped in a world that contained Father An, Mother An, and a little sister, unable to break free. Even hearing his classmates call him by his name filled him with resistance. He would silently correct them in his heart: I’m not Cen Sen. I’m An Sen.

When his English teacher kindly asked if he had an English name, offering to help him choose one, he had, without hesitation, written Anson on the form—a name he still used to this day.

Though he didn’t recall the incidents Ji Mingshu described, he supposed that back then, distrustful of and indifferent to the whole world, he probably hadn’t been capable of accepting the seemingly ulterior-motivated friendly overtures of a girl like Ji Mingshu.

However, listening to Ji Mingshu enumerate his hundred childhood sins, Cen Sen suddenly recalled something Jiang Che had once said—

“Do you remember when you first arrived at Nanqiao Hutong as a kid? Ji Mingshu really liked you back then. She’d bring little snacks every day to play with you.”

…

"Of course she did. Back then, Shu Yang teased her every day for getting the cold shoulder from you, saying that she'd forgotten about Cen Yang so fast, thrown him to the winds, and called her heartless.”

Cen Sen turned to Ji Mingshu. "Jiang Che said that when I first moved to Nanqiao Hutong, you really liked me."

Ji Mingshu, who had been rambling, suddenly paused. "Yeah. It was the kind of… liking purely out of appreciation for your looks, you know?" She didn’t deny it; she just carefully clarified.

"Did I grow up ugly?"

"…?"

"No? If you’re considered ugly, what hope is there for the rest of them?"

Ji Mingshu never hesitated to compliment Cen Sen’s appearance; after all, it was a testament to her own taste. Even during their early marital disputes, she’d end with a sharp: “I’ll let it slide because of that face!”

Cen Sen seemed to smile faintly, then asked, “And now? Do you still like me for my looks?”

"…"

This kind of leading question deserved to be dunked in the pig cage!

They had reached the utility pole at the alley entrance. Ji Mingshu pressed her lips together. Her traitorous heart pounded against her ribs, but she refused to answer.

A cold wind swept across the alley mouth. The streetlights cast fragmented light on the long road, illuminating the snowflakes that had suddenly begun to fall again in the deep night. Children across the street laughed and chased each other with sparkling sparklers in hand.

As Ji Mingshu was still wrestling with how to respond, Cen Sen suddenly embraced her from behind, wrapping her entirely in his overcoat. His arms encircled her waist, his lips brushing her ear, cool and damp, sending a shiver through her.

Ji Mingshu’s face grew hot; she subtly tried to pull away.

This was a bit beyond the scope of a performative display of affection for an arranged marriage couple, wasn’t it? Actually, a few times before, it had felt a bit…

She had always held herself back from overthinking, fearing that her own feelings might have colored her perception of Cen Sen’s actions. She also feared that if she asked, what if she’d get an answer that would disappoint her.

But now, she could clearly sense that it wasn’t just her overthinking.

"Then… you answer me first."

"Hmm?"

"Do you… do you like me?" Without waiting for a response, she quickly explained herself, "Not that I’m being narcissistic; it’s just you’ve been… so nice to me lately. So if you don’t like me, it’s your fault for giving me the wrong idea. Like, when you came back early from Paris, buying me this and that, and…”

"You only figured it out now?"

---

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