TIL - 19

Shen Cheng got out of the car, but Wen Huo didn’t move. He stood outside, looking at her: “Get out.”

Wen Huo pointed at her legs: “My legs are still numb.”

“Still numb after half an hour?”

Wen Huo nodded, pressing her lips together: “Mhm.”

The driver in the front seat tried his best to make himself invisible. He had overheard too many of Shen Cheng and Wen Huo’s... unconventional conversations. He knew they were having an affair, but the way they teased each other—the unspoken laughter hidden in their tones—made his ears burn and his heart itch.

Shen Cheng undid one of his suit buttons, as if to breathe easier—or perhaps to consider how to deal with her.

Wen Huo knew when to quit. She reached out and rebuttoned it for him: “I’m fine now.”

Shen Cheng watched as she smoothly stepped out of the car and walked steadily toward the lobby.

Once inside, Wen Huo headed for the bathroom, but Shen Cheng stopped her, grabbing her wrist.

She turned back, her eyes asking: What?

Shen Cheng asked: “Where’s my tie?”

Wen Huo faced him fully: “Guess.”

Shen Cheng’s hand slid from her waist to her backside, the thin fabric between his palm and her skin barely muting the heat. Everywhere he touched felt like kindling for desire.

His grip was firm, his touch oppressive, forcing Wen Huo closer.

She stumbled, crashing into his chest.

Shen Cheng looked down at her, his lips grazing her forehead: “Do you want to be unable to get out of bed?”

Wen Huo squirmed from the tickling sensation: “I need the bathroom.”

Shen Cheng’s hand slid between her legs, pressing against her: “That urgent?”

His touch only made it worse: “Very.”

Shen Cheng let go, picking up a crystal glass from the side table and handing it to her.

Wen Huo understood—he wanted her to pee in the cup. “Can’t you just wait a minute?”

Shen Cheng didn’t budge, insisting. He wanted to watch.

Wen Huo studied him for a moment. She remembered the first time Han Bailu had called off their deal—how she’d taken the chance to lash out at Shen Cheng, calling his games disgusting, saying she hated them.

She hadn’t been entirely lying. He did have some twisted habits in bed.

She took the glass and headed for the bathroom.

Shen Cheng said: “Here.”

Wen Huo turned back. She didn’t want to, but now wasn’t the time to refuse. Shen Cheng’s tone had shifted—serious. Most people, in most situations, weren’t that stubborn. Their minds were even more adaptable than their bodies. “I’m shy.”

Shen Cheng sat down, looking up at her: “You weren’t shy the first time you squirted.”

She remembered. That had been in the basement of Shen Cheng’s suburban villa, in a room like a prison cell. He’d held her legs apart, fucking her for over twenty minutes until she came before he did, drenching him.

Back then, Shen Cheng had just been a target—a mission. She’d been detached, clinical. Of course she hadn’t been shy.

It was the same difference between rape and consensual sex. How could forced or reluctant intimacy compare to genuine desire?

Wen Huo set the glass down and walked over, settling onto Shen Cheng’s lap, looping her arms around his neck: “Professor Shen, you’ll give me a complex. If I start associating glasses with bathrooms, will you fix it for me?”

Shen Cheng’s eyes widened slightly at her sudden embrace.

Wen Huo cupped his face, then leaned in to whisper in his ear: “Let me go, and when I come back, we’ll play a game.” Her next words were murmured against his skin: “Tear me apart.”

Before Shen Cheng could respond, she slipped away.

He stared at his still-outstretched hand, unsure what to think. He was always prepared for contingencies—he anticipated well. But Wen Huo’s move? He hadn’t seen that coming.

Wen Huo took her time in the bathroom. Shen Cheng suspected mischief and went to check—only to find her asleep, slumped over the toilet.

A vein throbbed at his temple. He left her there, walking away.

He showered, drank, and went to bed.

Lying there, eyes closed, the night should have ended. If only he hadn’t opened them again.

Less than ten minutes later, he was back in the bathroom, carrying Wen Huo to bed.

Propped on his side, watching her, he realized her antics were calculated—meant to addict him. He could almost gauge Han Bailu’s instructions based on Wen Huo’s behavior.

After Canada, Wen Huo had been distant—likely because Han Bailu had paused their deal, and Wen Huo, denied her chance at Cambridge, had taken it out on him.

Back then, his thoughts had been simple: her words stung. A man who never accepted defeat couldn’t let a woman play him like that.

She had seduced him. She had tried to call it off. How dare she?

Before he could decide how to retaliate, she’d moved on to another man. Even if it had all been an act with him, couldn’t she have waited? The immediacy felt like a slap to his flawless record.

That day, furious, he’d planned to break her, then cast her aside. But the moment she walked in, she’d folded—looking so pitiful, so unexpected. After so many nights together, no man could resist her vulnerability.

So, rationally, he’d made an irrational choice: Keep playing. Deal with the rest later.

This time, Wen Huo was even more relentless in her teasing than during her initial seduction. She was determined to make him fall. Fine. He’d help her into Guotong Industries, get her papers published—whatever.

Let’s see who cracked first. Who would beg, ”Please, love me.”

Wen Huo suddenly rolled over, burrowing into Shen Cheng’s chest.

His sleepwear was loose, the neckline wide. Her face pressed against his bare skin, nuzzling unconsciously.

Shen Cheng watched her, recalling her recent jabs about his age. True, he was nearly a decade older. She was in her prime; he wasn’t old, but he lacked her youthful vitality.

Their relationship had been a calculated accident.

She was the calculation. He was the accident.

Even in his wilder years, he’d never considered someone so much younger. Maybe it was his father’s traditional influence.

Subconsciously, he’d assumed a mentor’s role.

He’d taught Wen Huo—subtly, without her realizing—how to navigate society. He’d never objected to her calling him Professor Shen. But that didn’t mean she got to keep throwing his age in his face.

This was the contradiction of men.

They wanted to protect, to be someone’s savior—but not to be relegated to that role, constantly reminded of the gap.

Shen Cheng’s thoughts spiraled until, finally, he tucked the blankets around her and left.

Upstairs, the lights went out. Wen Huo opened her eyes.

The scent of Shen Cheng’s shower gel lingered in her nose. She didn’t know what he’d been thinking, but it couldn’t have been good. Shen Cheng schemed awake or asleep.

She had a plan. Once she hooked Shen Cheng, ended things with Han Bailu, she’d seek out Yang Yinlou’s mother.

Yang Yinlou’s sister, Guan Xinlei, was dead, but his mother was alive. There had to be a way to prevent insomnia-induced heart disease. Then she’d go to Canada.

Academia could happen anywhere. The only wrench was leaving Wen Bing behind. She’d miss him.

...

Wen Huo gazed out the window. Beijing, the city that never slept, dyed half the sky in artificial hues. In this chaotic world, demons walked at night. Who lay beside someone they truly loved? And whose beloved lay in another’s arms?

New flames, old loves—who could’ve guessed such convincing performances were just that? Neither had ever truly cared.

This was modern love.

Love that could be professed casually, performed effortlessly.

When Wen Huo woke, Shen Cheng was long gone.

She washed up, dressed, and left his luxury apartment.

These places were for mistresses. Wen Huo often saw young, beautiful girls coming and going—decked in designer labels, clutching Rolls-Royce umbrellas, never making eye contact but always smiling. Thanks to their “resting bitch face” surgeries and lip lifts.

Not that it was absolute. Most accomplished women wouldn’t choose to live here, even if they owned property for other uses.

Wen Huo returned to campus. Shen Cheng had a public lecture at Peking University that afternoon—she and Qiu Mingyun had to attend.

Getting off the subway, she ran into Wu Guo, selling used books from a stall.

He stood when he saw her: “Wen Huo.”

She glanced at his wares: “Short on cash?”

He joked: “Do I look rich? I’ve worn this same outfit for years.”

Wen Huo smiled. She meant to leave after a greeting, but he stopped her: “Yesterday, Professor Yang asked about you and Professor Shen. I said you were his student. That’s okay, right?”

“Mhm.”

Wu Guo relaxed: “That’s what I told everyone else too. Professor Yang said Professor Shen is upright and principled—no need to worry about rumors.”

Wen Huo recalled Shen Cheng’s words: They know I’d never stoop so low. He really did understand people.

Back at school, Wen Bing called, excited about a promotion—his own office, with a big window.

Wen Huo pulled up the news. The video she’d taken had gone viral. With public pressure, those who preyed on the weak might back off, making Wen Bing’s job easier.

Shen Cheng, with his afternoon lecture, had wrapped up work early and returned home.

It was time for Han Bailu to see Yiyi. A child shouldn’t grow up without her mother.

Han Bailu, after days of sedatives and antipsychotics, lay limp on the floor.

Shen Cheng unlocked her door, feigning concern: “Eaten anything?”

Han Bailu struggled at the sight of him, tears spilling—bitter on her lips. Her voice was hoarse, her strength gone: “Shen Cheng... I gave you a child... I’m her mother...”

She wanted to ask: Why? For Anna, who lied, who never carried your child?

Shen Cheng crouched: “Wash up. I’ll take you to see Yiyi.”

Han Bailu’s eyes were wary.

Of course, there were conditions: “Give me the number you used to contact Wen Huo.”

Han Bailu convulsed, scrambling back like she’d seen a ghost. He knew... He knew everything! Wen Huo... Was he going after her too?

Shen Cheng continued: “And the details of your deal. How much you paid her. What she promised.”

Han Bailu stayed silent. She couldn’t tell him.

“Keep quiet, and you stay here, ‘treated.’ Talk, and I’ll let you see Yiyi—regularly.”

Han Bailu’s cracked lips trembled, saliva stringing between them.

The room, in the villa’s west wing, barely saw sunlight. Shen Cheng’s crouch—one foot flat, dominant—seemed to press invisible weight into Han Bailu’s every orifice.

She couldn’t refuse him.

She couldn’t refuse a predator who hid his true strength.