Flirting Recklessly With the White Moonlight Will Get You Marked - Chapter 14
14:
After sending the message, Song Qingre—as expected—didn’t reply.
So tsundere.
But that didn’t stop Yan Qingqiu from going all out: [If you don’t return it, I’ll pester you at your company every day until you do!]
After sending it, Yan Qingqiu realized how utterly villainous she sounded—a full-fledged wicked woman.
Borrowing a million from someone, kissing them, letting them “serve” her with their hands, and then demanding they return the million?
Yan Qingqiu suddenly sobered up.
I’ve been exploiting Song Qingre, this little tangerine. What if she grows wings someday and decides to kill me?
But it wasn’t entirely her fault. Song Qingre was too stubborn. She could’ve at least bargained, offered to return 500,000 yuan, or even 300,000 or 400,000 yuan.
Sigh. Heroines are usually resilient, unlike shameless side characters like me.
Yan Qingqiu flipped her phone face down, but after a while—another message came in. She had been about to send a voice note, but when she saw the sender’s name—
Butler Dong: [I have sent you a personal resume.]
“……?”
Yan Qingqiu closed her eyes—sat up, and downloaded the resume.
Name: Dong Hai
Current Position: Senior Butler (Side Hustle: Romance Novelist)
Education: CK Butler (World-class butler academy), fluent in eight languages, seventh-degree black belt in martial arts…
Later, the butler came upstairs to call her for dinner but she didn’t go down—too awkward, too cringe.
Yan Qingqiu exhaled and pulled out the butler’s latest draft. She even poured herself a cup of tea. Personally, she really enjoyed reading his stories.
[About the young miss—besides moonlight, there were also coins.
During those days of relentless rain, droplets and light fell in strands upon the coins. The loose change the young miss used to toss around for fun was now carefully gathered, her pockets stuffed full. She pushed a tripod against the wall and clambered over into Miss Song’s courtyard.
Coins spilled from her pockets, moonlight slanting across the ground.
The young miss was only fourteen. She fell, got up, fell again. In her pampered life, a single stumble would’ve had her wailing. I wanted to help but the master said, “Children must learn to stand on their own.”
Night after night, the silhouette on the wall grew more adept.
But the rain refused to let up. The young miss wore a raincoat, always leaping down with arms full of things like a little thief.
Finally, Miss Song—absent for days, stood beneath the wall, arms outstretched. The young miss threw herself down without hesitation, mud splattering as two small bodies tumbled into the dirt.
From upstairs, I saw clearly—the young miss hadn’t jumped into her arms. She deliberately shifted mid-air to avoid crashing into Miss Song. The usually graceful landing turned rough, her arm scraping open.
Miss Song fretted over her, “Are you stupid? What if you’d gotten hurt?”
The girl who used to cry at every scrape just pouted, brushing off the mud herself. “I’m fine. I didn’t want to hurt you. I can’t bear to see you cry.”
The rain poured on. Miss Song sobbed violently, her face buried in the young miss’s shoulder.
“See? I almost died, but it’s okay. Don’t be scared of the future, I’ll take care of you. From now on, I won’t waste the money Dad gives me. Supporting you will be easy.” The young miss patted her back.
“This is our secret. Don’t tell my dad.”
“Hey, stop crying.” The young miss wiped her tears. “It doesn’t hurt. From now on, we’ll always be together. You have me.”
“No matter how the world changes, you’re my favorite.”
“If you’re embarrassed, you can call me Big sister Qingqiu.”
Miss Song stayed silent. The young miss’s hands grew damp from wiping her tears.
At fifteen, Miss Song lost both parents—an unchangeable fate. But the young miss, hands stained with mud and rain, pulled her out—handful by handful.
She stood and reached for Miss Song.
Miss Song took her hand.
When the rain stopped, the Song family’s gate opened. Miss Song brought a painting to the house. I never saw its contents—the young miss hid it away, mysterious.
On clear days, Miss Song often came to paint in the yard, setting up a tall easel. The two would hide behind it, secretly applying medicine.
I was lucky enough to see that painting once. It depicted our young miss, titled: Blonde Princess—a name straight out of a fairy tale.
Later, the painting won awards. Miss Song’s talent blazed forth, earning her the title of “prodigy painter.”
But after that… the painting… Ah…]
Yan Qingqiu: “?”
What happened after? Why did the butler stop writing?
She flipped the paper over, scrutinizing the trailing
“…”—ink blots from the butler’s pen, evidence of his melancholy, his inability to continue the memory.
Once the awkwardness faded, Yan Qingqiu stood by the window. The butler was in the yard, discussing wall repairs with the mason. In his tailcoat and glasses, he looked every bit the proper gentleman. How could someone so prim write such achingly tender, heart-tugging stories?
After watching for a while, she went downstairs. The butler eyed her curiously. “Do you need something, miss?”
Thanks to Song Qingre’s @ on social media, Yan Qingqiu felt a fresh wave of embarrassment. “Come upstairs. Help me hang a painting.”
“Of course, miss.” The butler followed. Yan Qingqiu could’ve sworn he was smiling. She turned to glare, and he adjusted his glasses saying, “I am tempted to laugh, but I’ll restrain myself.”
Yan Qingqiu pointed to the newly unpacked oil painting in her room. “This one, ‘Blonde Princess’. Hang it up.”
The butler stood before the painting and shook his head. “No, this is ‘Golden Hair’, not ‘Blonde Princess’. Though ‘Golden Hair’ achieved greater acclaim, I personally prefer ‘Blonde Princess’.”
Golden Hair was abstract—a morning sun leaping from the earth, its golden rays transforming into a girl’s long tresses. As the hair lifted from the ground, the world below turned dark and oppressive.
Yan Qingqiu felt a sharp discomfort. This painting doesn’t belong in a bedroom. She’d only unpacked it to test if it was the one from the story.
The butler agreed. “This piece isn’t suitable for display.” If sold, it’d fetch at least ten million. He suggested, “Why not hang the others and lock this one away? It’s part of your personal assets.”
Now that Yan Qingqiu had dyed her hair back, the words personal assets felt ominously foreboding. Thankfully, she wasn’t that superstitious. Most of yesterday’s purchases were funded by her “Dad”. Only this complimentary piece truly belonged to her.
“Fine. Lock it up.”
“And the original painting? Blonde Princess…?”
Yan Qingqiu swallowed the question several times before finally blurting. “Stop copying others’ cliffhangers. You’re picking up bad habits. Update properly, finish the story in one go. This limbo is unbearable.”
The butler sighed. “I stopped because I didn’t want to hurt you.”
Yan Qingqiu shuddered. Is the story about to turn tragic?
Her first thought: No! My ship can’t sink! I’ll cry!
Followed by: What’s wrong with me?!
Unable to resist, she whispered, “What happened to the painting?”
“Didn’t you burn it? Don’t you remember? You burned it right in front of Miss Song.”
“Huh?” Yan Qingqiu froze.
The butler said, “If you want to know, I’ll write it next time. Telling you outright would be too painful. Oh, and Miss Song is busy at her studio. She won’t be back today.”
After hearing this, Yan Qingqiu was filled with regret.
All evening, her chest ached unbearably. Unable to sleep, she scrolled through videos, unsure if it was coincidence or surveillance—she stumbled on a line:
“I light incense to honor the gods, to soothe the regrets in my heart. I raise the incense high, resentful that I remain untouched by mortal sorrows.”
Pain. So much pain.
Miss Song and Miss Yan, such an unresolved ache!
Yan Qingqiu couldn’t sleep. She lay on the bed, thinking I have to do something. Deep into the night, well past midnight, she turned on the lights, sat at her desk—and picked up the butler’s draft.
Pen in hand, she resolved to write her own ending. This story won’t end in tragedy. She placed her phone atop the paper, opened her chat with Song Qingre and pressed the voice message button:
“Song Qingre, are you asleep?”
Then she scribbled out the butler’s trailing “…” and began rewriting as she waited for a reply:
[On that night in 20XX, 24-year-old Miss Yan traveled through time. The silence of the world couldn’t suppress the surge in her heart. She pressed the voice button and nervously sent Miss Song a message: “Song Qingre, are you asleep?” It was a conversation across time, Miss Yan’s first greeting after years of separation.]
She checked her phone, no response. First, she changed Song Qingre’s contact name to Miss Song, then drafted a message. After much editing, she still didn’t send it. She continued writing:
[Miss Yan deleted and revised the words in the text box, unsure what to say. She waited and waited. Outside the window, the moonlight stretched endlessly. Would Miss Song reply?]
But in reality, half an hour passed with no answer.
Come on, Song Qingre!
Yan Qingqiu was furious. No tragedy allowed! She considered making up her own ending.
Finally—ding dong—her phone chimed twice. A reply!
Two voice messages: one 5 seconds, the other 8.
Pen in hand, Yan Qingqiu wrote: [Miss Song said:]
She tapped play, eager to hear.
Song Qingre’s voice, lazy and uniquely magnetic, melted her ears in the quiet night:
“Good evening. This is Technician 198 at your service.”
“Would you like a special-technique massage… or my signature body-painting expansion service?”