Places like this were never on Lin Wan's map. On most nights, she might eat with colleagues, sing a song or two, then go home, drink a little, shower, and sleep.
Tonight was different. She'd dressed up for a coworker's wedding—light makeup, a simple evening dress—because she was helping with the guests. But the banquet had barely begun when Milan called. The first sentence was furious: "Wanwan, Qian Jiawei is cheating." The second was bleak: "Come drink with me."
The bombshell left Lin Wan stunned. She told the newlyweds she had to step out and rushed to the address Milan gave her. In the lobby she spotted her friend on a sofa, looking wrecked.
They ordered drinks at the first-floor mini bar. Milan, a Northeasterner who'd done sales after graduation, could handle liquor and drank with bold, clean strokes—especially tonight, when she went straight for the hard stuff. Lin Wan didn't try to stop her. The wedding had already clawed open an old ache—if not for that accident, she and Wang Xiao might have been the smiling couple onstage. Her chest felt hollow. If a heartbroken person wanted to sit in a dark corner and let go for a moment, who could blame her?
Between swallows, Milan listed Jiawei's sins. "Of all people, he picks a faded socialite and plays boy toy."
"Xiaomi… maybe you misunderstood?"
"Misunderstood? My coworker saw them—took photos. He's holding her hand with one hand and her LV with the other, grinning like a lapdog. Don't tell me he was helping a granny cross the street."
"Maybe he actually was—"
"Please. Interlaced fingers? The camera's so sharp you can count the lines next to his eyes. Here—look."
Milan scrolled and handed her the phone. Lin Wan studied the shot: two figures hand in hand, his face turned just enough to catch him mid-sentence—more than incriminating.
In Lin Wan's mind, Qian Jiawei had been second only to Wang Xiao. Milan was beautiful and had plenty of admirers, yet he chose him because he was steady and tender. He used to take her clothes back to the dorm to wash when she had cramps; the girls still told that story. They'd always been close. After graduation, they moved in together. The quick marriage was because of an unexpected pregnancy—something they hadn't planned to keep—until his visiting mother discovered it and insisted they wed on the spot. Soon after the honeymoon, Milan slipped and miscarried. When Lin Wan visited the hospital, Jiawei had held Milan's hand and said, "We're young. We'll have another." Lin Wan had been moved. She never imagined that a man so attentive could go so far off course. What was happening to the world?
Holding her glass, Milan gave a bitter smile. "I'm embarrassed to tell anyone. I used to brag that even if all men cheat, mine wouldn't. And here we are—married for just a few months."
She took a long drink, coughed, and pressed on. "I'm stupid. Lately he's been 'working late,' and sometimes he smells like perfume. He'd say it was client dinners, and I—idiot—made soup for him when he got home."
"When I saw that photo, I wanted him hit by a car." She caught herself, flustered, and grabbed Lin Wan's hand. "I'm sorry—Wanwan, I didn't mean—"
"It's okay," Lin Wan said, patting her hand, voice even. "When I'm alone, I've thought about this too. If there were only two choices—either he betrays me after we marry, or he dies young—I'd rather live with betrayal." She looked down, wiped her face, lifted her head with a thin smile. Really. If he were alive—happy—even with someone else—I would talk myself into accepting it. Life matters more than love. So… don't curse your husband.
"Wanwan, Wang Xiao wouldn't have done that," Milan said firmly, squeezing back.
"Sadly, he never got the chance to prove it," Lin Wan answered, her voice turning bitter.
After that, it wasn't clear who was comforting whom. They drank, grief sloshing back and forth until both were a little drunk. People say it's easier to get drunk when you're upset—maybe because some part of you is trying to escape.
"I still think you should talk to him," Lin Wan said. She didn't want to believe it, not after witnessing their love from the beginning. She didn't want to see something that had bloomed produce a misshapen fruit.
"Talk how? He'll make excuses, and I'm not quick enough to counter them. Right now, I trust only my eyes. I want to see her—what charm she has. I want to know whether he fell for her, or for her money. If it's the former, I'll hate him. If it's the latter, I'll despise him."
Lin Wan had no answer. She felt lost too—and dizzy. She knew the signs; at home, this level of tipsy meant she could crawl into bed and sleep. Milan had vented; maybe that was enough for one night. Complaints wouldn't solve anything. Lin Wan shook her head clear and signaled for the check.
The server came, but leaned down to whisper something in Milan's ear instead. Milan's bleary eyes sharpened; she snorted and said, "Wanwan, you head home."
"And you?"
"They're upstairs. I'm going to take a look."
It took Lin Wan a few seconds to process them. So this was a sting.
"I'll go with you."
"Thank you for listening. I would've burst if you hadn't. The rest—I can handle." Milan pulled cash from her purse and handed it to the server. "Please call a cab for my friend."
"But you're drunk—" Lin Wan stood and grabbed her hand.
"Some things are easier when drunk," Milan said with a faint smile. She gently freed their hands. "Go on."
There was a plea in her eyes—a quiet request for privacy. Lin Wan understood. Some battles aren't meant to be witnessed, not even by your closest friend.
Milan straightened her back and headed for the stairs like a soldier stepping onto a field—part resolve, part tragedy.
Watching her go, Lin Wan's chest tightened. Why is holding on to happiness so hard?
She didn't leave. She waited in the lobby. After half an hour with no sign of Milan and no answer on her phone, worry nudged her to her feet. She swayed—head heavy, feet light—so she asked for the restroom, splashed water on her face, and went upstairs.
From the second floor on, it was all VIP rooms—doors shut, the silence oddly oppressive. Uniformed servers drifted by with trays of fruit and bottles of wine. Each time a door opened, a burst of sound and color leaked out before the hush sealed itself again.
On the third floor, two men sidled up to her, sticking like glue. Lin Wan's head was spinning, and the two tall shapes blocking her front and back made the hallway tilt. "Move," she snapped. "I'm in a hurry."
"Don't be like that, sweetheart. Tell us what you need—your big brothers will help."
"Yeah, don't waste a good night on your own. We know a better place."
Anger flared. Lin Wan swung her handbag—hard. The sharp-cornered leather made a decent weapon. The men dodged, startled, and she darted past—only to slam into someone. The world tilted; darkness swarmed her vision, and she landed on the carpeted floor with a thud.
At least the carpet kept it from hurting. She sat there a moment, gathered her clothes and bag, and pushed herself up—then stared.
"You—" she blurted.
Chen Jin had been watching for a while—expression cold, temper rising. In his eyes, the scene told a different story: a woman in a revealing dress haunting a den of indulgence, flirting with trashy men. Two words: fallen woman.
So, Lin Wan, he seethed. Playing the saint with me—then coming to a place like this to fool around? I treated you like a white flower and nearly made myself sick over it.
A nasty thought flashed: Selling herself? He swatted it away—ridiculous. If that were true, he'd lose all face for failing to "settle" it that night. No—impossible.
Besides, he wasn't inexperienced. Her eyes were too clear—free of worldly dust. A fiery, straightforward fool, maybe, but not that. Still, fools do reckless things when they're hurting.
Arms crossed, he watched her stumble toward him, not even bothering to help after she bumped into him and fell.
Lin Wan gaped up at him, then her brows curved, and she murmured, soft and dazed, "So tall."
His face darkened. She didn't recognize him. The smell of alcohol on her made him angrier. How much did this idiot drink? She rubbed her head and muttered, "So hard. Gave me a headache."
The two men she'd escaped from started back toward her. Chen Jin's arm shot out; he scooped the sleepwalking woman up and held her across his chest. His look warned them off, cold and sharp. "Don't even think about it."
He strode away. The two stood there, stunned, cursing their bad luck as the "duck" flew from their mouths.
In his arms, Lin Wan suddenly began to giggle—kicking and wriggling, laughing from the hallway to the front doors, all the way into the car.
"Idiot," Chen Jin muttered. "Drive," he snapped at the chauffeur, Old Li, who was staring.
"Oh—yes, sir." The engine turned over. "Where to, Mr. Chen?"
"Where do you think? The apartment."
Chen Jin's mood was dark. He had to pin down a drunk woman who kept flailing and laughing, deal with a driver who'd apparently left his brain at home, and ignore a phone that wouldn't stop ringing. The reek of wine on her made him nauseous. He rolled down the window for air and didn't spare a thought about how thinly she was dressed. If she catches a chill—serves her right.
He rubbed his temples, fished out the still-singing phone, and answered. Fang Zheng's voice blasted through: "Brother, where'd you go? Fall down a toilet? Need us to send a rescue team?"
Before Chen Jin could reply, Lin Wan's laughter spilled into the receiver.
"No way," Fang Zheng yelped. "You… busy?"
Chen Jin pushed down her flailing arm. "I've got something to take care of. Rain check," he said, and hung up before Fang Zheng could answer.