After Abandoning Her, She Discovered That Her Partner Was a Paranoid - Chapter 7

The return journey lacked the train’s initial excitement. As the two boarded the plane back to A City, night had just fallen.

The cabin lights were dimmed, and through the porthole, rows of planes waited for takeoff.

Jing Feizuo leaned against the window, lost in thought, until her phone suddenly vibrated, its screen lighting up—a text from an unknown number containing only a photo of A City Airport.

Her breath hitched.

Wen Jin, hearing the vibration, glanced at Jing Feizuo’s phone. “Who’s that?”

Jing Feizuo instinctively locked her screen, her fingers tightening on the glass for a moment before relaxing. “Just spam.”

Wen Jin nodded, seemingly uninterested, and returned to her magazine.

With the trip and vacation over, Jing Feizuo immediately ended her brief cohabitation with Wen Jin.

Three days after returning from G City, she threw herself into a new work project. Despite being hailed as a “genius painter” in recent years, Jing Feizuo had never received special treatment within the art world.

The price of fame was relentless networking, a constant struggle to survive in an increasingly commercialized art ecosystem.

Wen Jin stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, her gaze fixed on the time displayed on her phone screen: 12:17 AM.

The city lights still blazed outside, but the streets were nearly deserted. She dialed Jing Feizuo’s number again, only to hang up after hearing the busy signal.

A worried expression crossed Wen Jin’s face. She had specifically asked Jing Feizuo to let her know when she got home.

Jing Feizuo rarely stayed overnight at Wen Jin’s place. Even after nights fueled by intense desire, Wen Jin could barely find any trace of her having been there the next morning.

Knowing that living alone was Jing Feizuo’s habit, Wen Jin swallowed her objections. But when they were apart, longing and worry clung to her like shadows, transforming into countless tiny silver needles that pricked her day and night. Even her rigorously disciplined lifestyle couldn’t keep her spirits up.

Waking in the middle of the night, startled by the emptiness where Jing Feizuo’s arm should have been, she realized the depth of her yearning for her.

Yet Wen Jin was seven years older than Jing Feizuo, and their work styles and habits differed greatly. She didn’t want Jing Feizuo to feel like she was trying to control her.

Wen Jin was restraining herself, though she didn’t know how long she could hold out.

After waiting a long time without hearing back from Jing Feizuo, she reluctantly returned to her study, multitasking between handling emails and constantly checking her phone for any sign of activity.

At one in the morning, her phone finally vibrated, but the call came from an unfamiliar number.

Wen Jin answered immediately. “Hello?”

“Good evening, Ms. Wen Jin,” a young woman’s voice said. “I’m Jing Feizuo’s assistant. She’s had a bit too much to drink, and we’re at Cloud Peak…”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Wen Jin interrupted, hanging up abruptly. She grabbed her car keys and rushed out the door, remembering to notify her driver to meet her at Cloud Peak.

Cloud Peak was A City’s most renowned hotel. When Wen Jin arrived at the club entrance, she saw the assistant half-carrying Jing Feizuo out.

The art world’s rising star now resembled a rain-soaked cat, the top two buttons of her shirt undone, her cheeks flushed with an unnatural crimson.

“Two bottles of Yamazaki 18, mixed with champagne,” the assistant whispered. “That curator kept pushing her to drink.”

Wen Jin followed her assistant’s gaze and saw a woman peering out from behind the club’s glass doors. The woman in the green dress met Wen Jin’s eyes and smirked provocatively.

Wen Jin looked away and took the limp Jing Feizuo from her assistant. “Thank you for your hard work,” she said.

Jing Feizuo’s body carried a mixed scent of whiskey and a gardenia perfume that didn’t belong to her. The aroma made Wen Jin’s temples throb.

In the back of the black Mercedes, Jing Feizuo leaned against the leather seat, her head tilted. Wen Jin reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from her forehead, but Jing Feizuo suddenly grabbed her wrist.

“President Wen’s hands are so cold,” Jing Feizuo murmured groggily, pressing her cheek against Wen Jin’s hand. Her drunken whispers, laced with the scent of alcohol, tapped against Wen Jin’s heart. “So comfortable…”

Wen Jin noticed then that the sandalwood bracelet Jing Feizuo had been wearing for days was gone, replaced by a faint indentation on her wrist.

Frowning, she checked beneath Jing Feizuo and spotted a conspicuous pink card in her carelessly opened handbag.

She unfolded it and read the gold-stamped message:

To Jing Feizuo:

Please come to my solo exhibition. You know those paintings were all made for you.

L.

Wen Jin glanced at the card and tucked it back into Jing Feizuo’s pocket.

She noticed a faint, suspicious red mark on Jing Feizuo’s collarbone—not lipstick, but something more like paint.

As the car bumped over a speed bump, something fell from Jing Feizuo’s pocket. Wen Jin leaned down to pick it up: the bracelet, still warm with Jing Feizuo’s body heat.

“Turn the air conditioning down a bit,” Wen Jin told the driver, her voice eerily calm.

The brief jolt had caused Jing Feizuo to collapse completely against Wen Jin, her nose pressed against the hem of Wen Jin’s dress, the familiar jasmine scent clinging to her skin filling Jing Feizuo’s nostrils.

Jing Feizuo suddenly chuckled dreamily. “We use the same body wash,” she murmured, her restless hand stroking Wen Jin’s thigh. “But why do you smell so much better than me?”

Wen Jin seized her wandering hand, her cheeks flushing in the dim light. She poked Jing Feizuo’s cheek, her tone exasperated. “You little pervert.”

After a pause, she addressed the driver, who was working late: “Xiao Yin, thank you for working so late. Your bonus will be doubled this month.”

Wen Jin still took Jing Feizuo back to her apartment.

The steam in the bathroom fogged the mirror, blurring their reflections.

Wen Jin’s fingers gently traced Jing Feizuo’s shoulders and neck, drying the last droplets of water from her skin with a towel before dressing her in the pajamas she had prepared. Her movements were deliberate and tender, as if handling a priceless treasure worth billions, or perhaps savoring some secret ritual.

Jing Feizuo tilted her head back, utterly compliant, her long eyelashes appearing translucent golden-brown under the soft light.

Wen Jin suddenly recalled the little girl who had looked up at her over a decade ago, when she had similarly admired the girl’s thick lashes in the lamplight.

At that moment, the faces of twenty-seven-year-old Jing Feizuo and seven-year-old Jing Feizuo seemed to merge in Wen Jin’s mind, her heart racing.

She took a few deep breaths, then carried Jing Feizuo to the bed. The woman in her arms was on the verge of falling asleep, but Wen Jin firmly yet slowly lifted her by the nape of her neck, pressing the rim of a glass against her lower lip. “Honey water.”

Jing Feizuo obediently took small sips, her throat bobbing beneath her pale skin. A few drops of water spilled, trickling down her chin onto her pajama collar.

Wen Jin’s eyes darkened. She wiped away the spilled water with her finger, then suddenly pinched Jing Feizuo’s chin lightly. “Do you remember who brought you home tonight?”

Jing Feizuo blinked in confusion, her pupils dilated by alcohol, making her look like a harmless animal. She shook her head slowly, her hair brushing against the back of Wen Jin’s hand.

Wen Jin released her chin, studying the faint red mark her fingertip had left on Jing Feizuo’s skin. “Then do you remember who slipped you the invitation?”

Jing Feizuo’s reaction was a beat slow. The way she tilted her head to think reminded Wen Jin of that Ragdoll cat she’d seen online, the one that always wore an innocent yet sly expression after misbehaving.

“I don’t remember,” she finally replied, reaching for her phone on the nightstand. “What time is it?”

Wen Jin intercepted her hand, seizing the phone first.

“It’s two in the morning.” She tucked Jing Feizuo under the covers. “Your assistant said you have no work tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

Before turning off the light, Wen Jin glanced one last time at Jing Feizuo curled up in the blanket. Moonlight streamed through a gap in the curtains, illuminating the beaded bracelet on the nightstand.

As morning light pierced through the sheer curtains, Wen Jin had already prepared breakfast. She sat on the edge of the bed, gently tapping the rim of a water glass with a spoon, the crisp sound causing the person huddled under the covers to shrink further in pain.

“Still have a headache?” Wen Jin pulled back the curtains, sunlight cascading in like golden foil. “Now you know why you shouldn’t mix whiskey with champagne.”

Jing Feizuo buried her face in the pillow, letting out a groan.

Wen Jin walked over and pulled back the covers, revealing Jing Feizuo wearing her own pajamas. The wide neckline had slipped off her shoulder, exposing a red mark on her collarbone—Wen Jin had spent considerable effort last night scrubbing off the paint from that spot.

“Explain this,” Wen Jin said, opening her phone’s photo album and zooming in on the mark on Jing Feizuo’s collarbone from the previous night.

Jing Feizuo squinted at the image for a long moment before finally remembering.

“It’s cinnabar,” she said, struggling to sit up. “Linda insisted I give her a lipstick print yesterday.”

“Linda,” Wen Jin repeated, chewing on the name. “The one who wrote ‘Love Letter’?”

Jing Feizuo looked puzzled. “What love letter?”

Wen Jin retrieved the pink card from the table. Jing Feizuo picked it up, read it, and burst out laughing.

“This is a mass-produced invitation! She wrote ‘Made for you’ on all of them!” Her laughter abruptly stopped as she pressed her temples. “God… I’m never mixing drinks again.”

Seeing her state, Wen Jin sighed and handed her the lukewarm water she had already prepared. “Drink this, rinse your mouth, and eat your breakfast,” she ordered.

As Jing Feizuo slurped down her plain congee at the table, Wen Jin stood nearby with her arms crossed, her back to the light. Her silhouette resembled a drawn sword. Jing Feizuo had rarely seen her in this posture, but it wasn’t entirely unfamiliar.

She had witnessed Wen Jin in this stance several times during business negotiations, when the latter was crushing her opponents in the marketplace.

Sure enough, as Jing Feizuo finished the last bite of her congee, Wen Jin spoke.

“Starting tomorrow, you’re moving in here,” Wen Jin stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. For a moment, Jing Feizuo felt like she was being reprimanded in Wen Jin’s office. “For the long term.”

Jing Feizuo’s smile faded slightly. “I’ve already told you, that’s not happening.”

“The living conditions and location here are far superior to your apartment.”

“I have too much stuff. Moving would be a hassle.”

“I’ll send people to help you move.”

“I don’t like strangers touching my things,” Jing Feizuo said lightly, her tone deceptively firm.

“I’ll help you move.” Wen Jin’s arms remained crossed, her gaze growing colder.

“Are you serious?” Jing Feizuo tilted her head back, facing Wen Jin. Suddenly, Wen Jin felt strangely unfamiliar. “Just because of a printed card?”

Wen Jin stared down at Jing Feizuo for a long moment. “I’m giving you two choices. Either move in yourself, or I’ll buy your apartment.”

Jing Feizuo didn’t reply, and silence began to thicken between them.

Wen Jin suddenly smiled, leaned closer, and crouched down until their eyes were level.

For a fleeting moment, Jing Feizuo saw a flicker of vulnerability in Wen Jin’s eyes, but it vanished so quickly that she wondered if it had been her imagination. The next instant, she saw only Wen Jin’s dark, stormy eyes, like the rumbling sky before a tempest.

“Darling, sometimes I feel so distant from you. As if our relationship could end at any moment.”

The silence continued to rise, completely enveloping them both.

Jing Feizuo recalled when they first met. Whenever a conversation reached a dead end, this formidable businesswoman would always lean in to pick up the broken thread. Her carefully maintained facade of authority would melt away like dripping wax, revealing the warm compromise beneath.

Many words of refusal hung on Jing Feizuo’s tongue, but in the end, she blurted out, “Give me more time.”