Chapter 11

Qiehui didn’t notice his brief lapse. After finishing her crab, she quietly scooped a small bowl of rice soaked in broth.

She held it out to him. “I made this myself—just a simple dish with a few side ingredients. I don’t know if you’ll like it.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

As Shen Zongliang reached for the bowl, their fingers briefly brushed against each other along the rim.

Qiehui jerked her hand back as if shocked by electricity, hurriedly lowering her gaze and placing her spoon down.

Perhaps he wasn’t fond of soft, mushy foods—he swallowed with difficulty, his expression firming up as he tasted it. The sight nearly made Qiehui laugh.

But she still heard his polite compliment: “It’s not bad.”

She pressed her lips together to suppress her amusement. For the first time, she found President Shen somewhat approachable.

Their meal was abruptly interrupted by an emergency notice from the company.

Shen Zongliang answered his secretary’s call, listened for a moment, then stood up to leave.

Qiehui walked him to the door, her tone casual and neighborly. “Thanks for the crab tonight. Take care on your way back.”

He changed his shoes and tucked his phone into his pocket. “You’re not even going to ask what’s going on?”

Normally, when a guest left suddenly, people would at least ask out of curiosity—everyone had that little bit of nosiness.

But Qiehui simply smiled and shook her head. “President Shen is an important man. Anything you’re involved with must be big. If it were something convenient to share, I’m sure you’d tell me. If you don’t, then you must have your reasons.”

Shen Zongliang chuckled. “You’re quite perceptive and not the nosy type.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. Shen.” After saying that, Qiehui quickly called after him. “Oh, wait—your tray and scissors…”

Shen Zongliang said casually, without the slightest concern, “The front door code is 1023. Could you drop them off for me?”

“Alright.”

Qiehui slowly closed the door, thinking to herself—he sure is trusting with outsiders.

She cleaned up the table, washed his dishes, stacked them back onto the tray, and carried them upstairs.

Entering the passcode, she pushed the door open and neatly put the two trays into the cabinet.

On her way out, she noticed that the calligraphy piece was still lying on the dining table.

She recalled the scene from earlier that evening—twilight spilling through the windows, their shadows leaning close against the wall, heads bowed over the same sheet of paper, an intimacy so subtle yet undeniable.

Even though no one was around, Qiehui still blushed, stiffly turning her neck before letting out a small cough.

A black paper bag sat on the sofa. She glanced at it and saw that it was her shawl, so she picked it up and took it downstairs.

After locking the door, she returned to her own place and, just like the night before, buried herself in her books until late at night.

While reviewing criminal law, the overwhelming number of legal interpretations visibly slowed her progress. Creating a mind map was especially time-consuming.

Her eyes told her she had read the material three times, and her brain confidently assured her that she understood it, yet the moment she attempted the practice questions, she completely blanked.

Listening to lecture videos, everything seemed crystal clear—she would highlight one part of the thick notes here, underline another there.

But after sleeping on it and reviewing again the next day, she stared at the pages in utter confusion. How could everything be a key point?

What was a compound offense? How was an absorbed offense defined? And what exactly was concurrence? What were the differences between them?

Rubbing her temples helplessly, Qiehui had no choice but to resort to rote memorization.

Once she had the legal provisions down to perfection, she felt a surge of confidence and attempted a few subjective questions—only to end up with a head full of question marks.

Had she really studied this?

This was the frustrating cycle that constantly toyed with her sanity.

As the clock neared 1 AM, she let out a long yawn, gathered her books, and got up to shower.

Just as she stood up, her phone rang—it was Feng Youyuan.

“Tomorrow afternoon is the opening of the Lei family’s golf course. Let’s go together?”

Compared to Qiehui, Youyuan’s voice was full of energy, as if she had slept the entire day and was only now truly waking up.

“I have to teach kids in the afternoon. I can’t go,” Qiehui replied.

Youyuan let out a dramatic sigh. “Just swap shifts with a colleague! You stay home all the time—aren’t you afraid you’ll turn into a hermit?”

From the background, Zhuang Xinhua’s voice chimed in, “Qiehui, while you’re at it, help me bring my car over so I don’t have to go get it.”

Thinking about the hassle of that car, she finally relented. “Fine. Send me the time and location.”

She hesitated for a moment—if she refused now, who knew when or where she’d have to track Zhuang Xinhua down next? Otherwise, he’d probably leave his car there for another ten days or so.

Not only was it an unfinished task hanging over her head, but it also took up space.

She called Mr. Wang, who was still awake and happy to get a morning off, readily agreeing to the shift swap.

After her shower, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, Qiehui suddenly thought of Shen Zongliang upstairs.

He had gone out earlier and still hadn’t returned—at least, she hadn’t heard any noise.

She picked up her phone and tried adding his number on WeChat. After sending the request, she placed her phone back beside her pillow.

It was just a casual attempt—she doubted someone with his old-school demeanor kept his phone on him all the time.

Back at his place earlier, she had noticed his phone sitting by the windowsill the entire time. He never touched it unless it rang.

Just as she was about to drift off, a vibration buzzed beneath her pillow.

She checked her phone—WeChat notification. A chat window popped up with Shen Zongliang’s name, showing they were now contacts.

Suddenly, she wasn’t sleepy anymore.

She messaged him:
“Hello, this is Zhong Qiehui. I put your trays back at your place and took my shawl.”

Shen Zongliang replied almost instantly:
“Thanks for the trouble. Sleep early.”

Qiehui could almost picture his face, reading those six words in his formal, businesslike tone.

She had actually wanted to ask if he wasn’t coming home tonight. But after thinking it over, it felt inappropriate.

She wasn’t anyone special to him—why would she just blatantly ask something like that?

So she typed and deleted, typed and deleted, until finally, she settled on a simple reply:
“You too, Mr. Shen. Good night.”

After sending it, she tossed her phone onto the bedside table and ignored it.

In the dim glow of the room, her face sank into the softness of the pillow.

She thought to herself—so close. She had almost crossed the line without realizing it.

Ever since trouble hit her family, the cost of making mistakes in life had skyrocketed.

She had grown terrified of missteps.

Her tightly wound life didn’t allow room for any wrong choices.

Whether it was something as small as a single sentence or as big as a major decision, she always thought it through over and over again.

Yet this slow, cautious way of living was absurdly labeled as “composed” by others.

She pursed her lips and whispered to herself, You were the one who brought up two jugs of wine first. Shen Zongliang, not wanting to give people the wrong impression, simply repaid you with a meal of crab and taught you how to write two words. Don’t overthink it.

Thanks to criminal law, her mind was exhausted enough that she quickly drifted off to sleep.