My Queen, My Rules - 73

At seven in the evening, after concluding his business meeting at the hotel, Cen Sen stood under the portico and watched his counterpart's car drive away.

In Xingcheng, caught between the tail end of winter and the cusp of spring, the branches lining the streets stood bare, showing no signs of budding. The evening wind was damp and cold. Cen Sen tilted his head back slightly and asked, "Still no answer?"

Zhou Jiaheng lowered his gaze and replied, "No answer, but the line is connected. The driver said that after Madam arrived, she told him to go back first."

A sedan pulled up slowly under the portico. Cen Sen didn't ask further, simply allowing Zhou Jiaheng to open the door for him.

Once inside, he leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes as if resting. In the murky twilight, his expression was hard to read.

By the time they reached the neighborhood where Ji Mingshu had gone for her follow-up visit, the nearby elementary school had long fallen quiet, but the square-dance all-stars were just hitting their daily (sometimes twice-daily) peak performance hour.

Four separate teams were assembled for their nightly performance right outside the complex gates, each with different dance styles and soundtracks. Combined with an old man sawing away on an erhu and singing opera nearby, the evening's cultural showcase successfully spanned both eras and continents.

The dancing itself wasn't the problem; the issue was that they were blocking the main gate of the residential area. The security guard was nowhere to be found, probably off enjoying himself somewhere. The Maybach could neither advance nor retreat.

Cen Sen signaled the driver to stop and got out to walk the rest of the way.

But walking proved no easier. Within two hundred meters, three aunties stopped him to inquire about his marital status.

By the time he finally extricated himself and entered the neighborhood, it was nearly eight p.m.

The old neighborhood was stingy with its streetlights, leaving only the light from various household windows to pierce the gloom.

Some were watching TV, the sounds alternating between heart-wrenching drama and uproarious laughter.

Some were only now cooking dinner, the sizzle of stir-frying mingling with the scent of oil and spices wafting outside.

Some were helping children with homework; the parents' frustration and fury at their child's perceived failures were palpable even from a hundred meters away.

Somehow, this environment gave Cen Sen a sense of long-lost familiarity.

“My uncle and aunt complain about it every day. They say that show was full of scammers, that the place became unlivable. Besides the appliances they gave us, everything else was just for show."

“Miss Ji, I'm really so sorry. I know you designers have your ideas, and you were really trying to meet all the requirements we gave before. But we never imagined it would turn out like this.”

“Living is about practicality, you see? Look, there isn't even a cabinet for our winter quilts. How are we supposed to live here? That lamp you chose is quite pretty, yes, but it takes up a whole square meter just sitting there. How big is this apartment anyway? It's not even that bright, and it's really in the way.”

…

Ji Mingshu sat on a stone bench by the flower bed, knees drawn to her chest, lost in a daze.

That afternoon, after seeing the completely altered renovation through the security gate, she had run into the homeowners, Mr. Wang and his wife, returning from work.

They had been somewhat apologetic upon seeing her, but that apology had transformed into righteous complaints after giving her a tour of the apartment.

She'd left the fruit basket, maintained a semblance of politeness as she left, and then felt as if all her strength had drained away. She didn't want to do anything, didn't want to say anything. She just sat there downstairs, staring into space.

Her taste had been praised since she was a child. In university, like many socialites, she'd taken design electives. While others chose jewelry or fashion design, she, in order to set herself apart, chose spatial design.

Fortunately, she was good at it. Her teachers often praised her for her vision and ideas.

After marrying Cen Sen, she hadn't worked, but that was simply because she didn't want to work. She'd never doubted her professional capabilities.

During her previous runaway-from-home episode, wanting to prove to Cen Sen that she wasn't helpless without him, she had successfully designed a runway show for Chris Chou, gaining both fame and fortune in a glorious moment.

So even now, she remained firmly convinced: if Ji Mingshu wanted to do something well, she would do it well.

—Of course, that conviction had lasted only until six o'clock this afternoon.

"Cold?"

Cen Sen was clearly no star pupil in the subject of comfort. His opening line was neither warm nor tender.

Ji Mingshu looked up slowly. "So if I wasn't cold, you weren't planning on giving me your coat, is that it?"

"I wasn't planning on it even if you were cold."

…?

Ji Mingshu thought she'd misheard. What nonsense was this Dog Man spouting?

"If you were going to catch a cold, you'd have caught it already. These few minutes won't make a difference."

Ji Mingshu: "…"

It was very strange. She clearly wanted to curse him out, but some part of her mind inexplicably agreed with his detached, pragmatic capitalist logic.

So when Cen Sen reached out his hand to her, she acted as if under a spell, stupidly taking it and obediently rising from the stone stool.

Cen Sen hadn't expected her to be so docile. Seeing her downcast, unhappy expression, all the lines of consolation he'd rehearsed on the way over somehow suddenly vanished into thin air.

"The follow-up didn't go as you imagined?"

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around Ji Mingshu, then ruffled her hair.

Ji Mingshu had been following his cold, ruthless logic and had started to feel less aggrieved. But now that he was being inexplicably gentle, the grievance she'd been stewing in all evening doubled and surged forth. Her urge to vent instantly peaked.

"Didn't go as imagined? It was nothing like I imagined!"

Ji Mingshu began a long, rambling heap of complaints, growing more upset as she spoke. "…We were supposed to prepare a final gift for the homeowners, remember? Their profile said they played the piano, that they used to have a music room at home. So we prepared a new piano as the gift."

"Pianos are expensive! We didn't have enough budget left, so we had to follow the production team's script and work as salesclerks in a mall. I even ruined a pair of high heels! And they sold the piano!"

"The most important thing is they said my design was just for show, completely impractical. You didn't see how disdainful they looked. Tell me… tell me, is my design really that bad?"

Ji Mingshu was too upset; her voice began to choke up.

She looked at Cen Sen with tear-filled eyes. After a moment, she suddenly found fault with him, picking at the buttons on his shirt.

"You're terrible. You said you'd finish at seven and pick me up, but it's already eight o'clock."

"Even Jiang Chun's Tang Zhizhou knows how to give kisses, hugs, and lifts. You wouldn't even give me your coat; you totally want me to get sick."

"You don't like me at all. You're a liar!"

By the time she said "liar," her voice was thick with unshed tears. She wrapped her arms around Cen Sen and vigorously rubbed her running nose and tears all over his shirt.

A sudden warmth soaked through his chest. Cen Sen couldn't muster a single word of rebuttal. He could only pat her shoulder gently and ruffle her hair again.

In that moment, Cen Sen suddenly realized he'd been operating under a misconception.

When an employee was discouraged, he could indeed ruthlessly toss documents their way and tell them to reflect on how they could accomplish anything if they couldn't handle such a minor setback.

Because he was the boss; he needed to project an air of imposing authority that commanded belief.

But Ji Mingshu wasn't his employee. She was his wife.

His wife, who lacked a sense of security and relied on him deeply. Every time he showed the slightest bit of concern, she derived immense comfort from it.

"Don't cry. I'll make you pork ribs when we get back, alright?" His voice was low and husky.

"Are you even human? Th-thinking about ribs now?!" Ji Mingshu hiccupped, her speech broken.

Cen Sen paused briefly, then explained after a moment's thought, "That's not what I meant. I can make whatever you want to eat."

Ji Mingshu leaned against his chest, silent and sullen.

Cen Sen didn't say more either. When Ji Mingshu's sobs gradually subsided, he gently lifted her face. Using his slightly rough thumb, he tried to be as gentle as possible, carefully wiping the tears from her cheeks bit by bit. He kissed her slightly reddened eyes.

"Mingshu, I like you. I'm not lying to you."

In the dim twilight, Ji Mingshu saw her own reflection in his clear pupils. She heard the sound of her heart skipping a beat.

Back at the hotel, Cen Sen cooked.

Besides the staple dish of braised pork ribs, he also made boiled fish filets in chili oil. Tender slices of black fish were marinated, then cooked until they formed a heap of snowy-white meat in a bowl. Finally, he poured over a small pot of sizzling oil. The aroma of scallions, ginger, garlic, Sichuan peppercorns, and other spices mixed with the fragrance of fish and instantly filled the air.

Ji Mingshu's eyes were still red like a little rabbit's, but sitting at the dining table, she couldn't help swallowing a few times.

She usually didn't eat much at night, but being sad and upset was draining. The world wasn't worth it, and this Dog Man Cen Sen wasn't worth it either, but little ribs and boiled fish definitely were.

After eating, Ji Mingshu seemed to regain her energy. She hugged Cen Sen's arm, leaned on his shoulder, and launched into a stream-of-consciousness recap and self-reflection.

"Actually, it really was my lack of thorough consideration. You told me before, but the plan was hard to change by then. I only altered a few places, thinking it would be enough. It's mainly my fault."

"But I think this kind of live-in design is different from hotel design. Your Junyi hotels are more high-end, focused on comfort and novel design. I can't let this one setback make me fill all your design proposals with storage solutions, right? You don't need that in a designer hotel. I really should go with you to inspect some designer hotels; that's the proper way to do it."

…

Ji Mingshu talked a great deal that night.

Cen Sen offered her some advice as well.

Finally, Ji Mingshu grew tired and actually fell asleep leaning on his shoulder.

Cen Sen picked her up in his arms, carried her to the bed, and tucked her in.

After turning off the lights, he gently kissed her forehead. Remembering how she had cried and accused him, complaining that even Tang Zhizhou knew how to give kisses, hugs, and lifts, his heart suddenly softened. He murmured very, very softly by her ear, "Goodnight, baby."

As he tried to get up, Ji Mingshu suddenly wrapped her arms around his neck. Her voice held a hint of triumphant glee at catching him, mixed with sleep-drenched coquettishness. "I heard that! I heard it! Say it again! Quick, call me baby!"

---

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