Flirting Recklessly With the White Moonlight Will Get You Marked - Chapter 5
5:
Yan Qingqiu sat up and examined her body. Her skin remained fair and unmarked—no new bite marks, but it felt sticky.
She cupped her face, rubbing it fiercely. The shame was unbearable.
Alone, it wouldn’t matter. But Song Qingre had been beside her. Had she seen everything when she woke up?
I’m not human anymore.
Did they do it… last night?
Had she slept with Song Qingre? Why couldn’t she remember?
Yan Qingqiu scooted back, scrutinizing herself. She pressed her fingers to her neck, feeling a slight bump but nothing else.
No memories of last night. She’d slept like a log.
Yet her muscle memory faintly recalled scorching heat there, as if her skin had been on fire.
Both were Alphas, so repulsion was expected, but this repulsive?
Yan Qingqiu rushed to shower. As she scrubbed, the slippery sensation felt off. After dressing, she crouched, red-faced, handwashing her underwear.
Had they interacted last night?
Or had she done it all herself?
Headache.
She hung the laundry to dry, then gathered other clothes for the maids. “Where’s Song Qingre’s outfit? I didn’t see it.”
“Miss Song took it to be washed early. We offered, but she insisted.”
Yan Qingqiu pointed to yesterday’s sleepwear. “Wash this. Dry it fast. I need it in half an hour.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Hurry.” She’d woken early, three hours until her next task. No rush. She summoned the butler.
Today, he wore a silver tailcoat and glasses. He handed her a note. “This is what I wrote. Just the memorable parts. More will take time.”
“Be truthful. Not a single lie.”
“Understood.”
She nearly read it first, but something else mattered more. She pulled out her card. “I messed up the PIN yesterday and locked it. Unlock it.”
“You’ll need your ID and household register. And you must go in person.”
“So troublesome?”
“If it’s urgent, we can transfer this month’s allowance to another card.”
Yan Qingqiu’s eyes lit up. Allowance, a foreign concept. As a person that was orphaned at a young age, she never had one. “Is it more this month?”
“No. Still one million.”
“!”
One million! Rich! So rich!
“So little?” she scoffed, inwardly thrilled. “It’s almost the season for change. I need new clothes, bags. Tell them to send more. I’ll reluctantly use this million for now.”
“Of course. I’ll inform the master.”
“Drive me to Song Qingre. Confirm if she’s at the studio.”
The butler called, then asked, “Breakfast at home?”
Yan Qingqiu pondered. “Pack it. I’ll eat with her.”
Showing up empty-handed might get her turned away. With food? Surely Song Qingre would see her.
The staff worked fast. In twenty minutes, she was en route.
In the car, she unfolded the butler’s note. First read—eyes widened. Second read, wider.
Third read:
[Snow fell heavily, plum blossoms in full bloom. The young mistress’s cheeks burned, eyes damp. Miss Song sat beside her, offering candy. The mistress turned away.
Twice more, Miss Song coaxed. Still, the mistress refused, plugging her ears. Under the plum tree, both grown yet small against the backdrop, wind reddening their faces, Miss Song unwrapped her scarf to drape over the mistress. The mistress tossed it aside.
Unfazed, Miss Song retrieved it, shaking off snow. “Qiuqiu, don’t be like this.”
The mistress stayed silent, eyes wetter.
Miss Song gazed back.
In that vast world, their dark pupils held only each other. Snow, blossoms, roses buried beneath—mere props.
It was bitterly cold. Assuming the mistress’s usual temper, I moved to call them inside before frostbite struck.
Then, through sniffles, the mistress whimpered: “You promised kisses yesterday. Lips! Cheeks and eyelids don’t count!”]
Yan Qingqiu: “!”
Kisses! From the context, they’d been sixteen or seventeen—old enough to understand what kisses meant.
Yet according to yesterday’s info, it was a love triangle:
Yan Qingqiu → Fu Ye → Song Qingre.
[System, any progress? Is this real?]
The typically robotic system paused. [Not counted in plot progression. As for authenticity… unclear.]
Would the butler lie? Why fabricate this? Unless… he was a delusional shipper?
Yan Qingqiu considered texting him but hesitated. Shouldn’t I know best?
And, did they kiss or not?
She messaged: [Chapter 2 tonight. No fluff. Just facts.]
Butler: [As you wish. But… daily updates, no?]
Yan Qingqiu: “!”
Miscalculation. Should’ve demanded ten chapters.
[Too abrupt. More details next time.]
Traffic was light. They arrived in minutes.
Tucking the note away, Yan Qingqiu entered the modest studio. No paintings adorned the halls, just a sparse space. An assistant ushered her to a waiting room. “Miss Song is busy. Please wait.”
On the wall hung a single piece:
A plum tree entangled with thorned roses, barbs piercing bark. A winter scene, yet twisted, shadowed.
“Our Miss Song’s work,” the assistant boasted.
Yan Qingqiu stepped closer, until the system warned: [Host, one hour left~]
She turned. “I’ll see her now.”
—
In the office, a secretary spoke to Song Qingre, who reclined in her chair, brow furrowed.
“The exhibition space is set. Only the rent remains. Mr. Fu offered to cover one million.”
Song Qingre’s lips curled coldly. “How generous.”
“If he pays, we’re indebted. He’ll control us.”
A knock. “Miss Yan is here.”
Song Qingre’s expression softened.
“Should I put his call through?”
“Both.”
“The call or Miss Yan?”
“Both.”
The door swung open.
Yan Qingqiu strode in, pearl-clad, waist cinched by a rose chain, black fishtail skirt swaying. Her ponytail swayed with each haughty step.
She flopped onto the sofa, waving a maid forward. A lunchbox landed on Song Qingre’s desk.
“Too busy for me?” Yan Qingqiu challenged.
Song Qingre eyed the food. “Thank you. The exhibition consumes me.”
Another knock. The secretary whispered, “Mr. Fu is on the line…”
“He ‘helps’ by paying, then holds it over you. We could’ve haggled ourselves,” the secretary muttered. “Now he’s visiting this afternoon.”
“Visiting?” Song Qingre sighed. “I’ll think—”
Yan Qingqiu’s ears perked. Let’s hear what the crooked-neck scum wants.
Fu Ye’s voice oozed through the receiver: “About the venue, I’ll front the one million.”
Song Qingre demurred. “The price is too high. I’ll wait.”
“It’ll be snatched.”
“I’d have nothing to repay you. Another time.” She moved to hang up, but paused.
“Coming to see that crooked neck?” Yan Qingqiu scoffed. Classic toxic CEO move: create a crisis, then play savior.
How do heroines fall for this?
“How much do you need?”
“Not much.” Song Qingre avoided the topic, reopening the lunchbox. “Shall we eat out?”
“Answer!”
“One million.”
Yan Qingqiu’s heart skipped. A million, a fortune in her past life.
“You’d sell yourself for that? Fu Ye’s no saint.”
“The exhibition could recoup it.”
“What if it flops?” Too blunt. “What if he backtracks?”
Song Qingre arched her brow. “I’ve considered that.”
The secretary cut in: “Without funding, we can’t attract patrons. We’re already—”
“Hua Jian!” Song Qingre snapped.
Yan Qingqiu bit her lip. “I’ll give it.”
“You?” Song Qingre frowned. “Keep it.”
Yan Qingqiu slapped her card on the table. “Take it.”
She turned away, eyes squeezing shut. My lipstick kiss is still on it…
Song Qingre seemed stunned. Yan Qingqiu couldn’t let her fall into Fu Ye’s trap.
(Even if she wasn’t much better.)
“What do you want?” Song Qingre asked bluntly.
Yan Qingqiu’s terms would be simpler than Fu Ye’s.
“Will one million buy me you?” Song Qingre countered.
With her credentials, Song Qingre could earn a million yearly. One month’s allowance seemed paltry.
Yan Qingqiu did want to “keep” her. Song Qingre was stunning. In her past life, she’d never had the chance.
She checked Song Qingre’s reaction.
The woman sat motionless, neither smiling nor scowling—just watching, faintly amused.
“One day,” Yan Qingqiu bargained. “My terms are simple. Am I not better than that trash?”
Song Qingre didn’t agree, but didn’t refuse.
“Think fast. This offer expires.”
“Your terms?”
“Kiss me until I’m breathless. The money’s yours.”
“Just a kiss?” Song Qingre’s brow arched. “One million for that?”
Her skepticism was fair. Their history wasn’t rosy.
Yan Qingqiu panicked. Too obvious.
Song Qingre leaned in. “Liar.”
She sees through me!
Fine. If you insist…
“Okay, you got me,” Yan Qingqiu admitted. “I… want you. So I’ll take your body too.”
Silence.
Your smarts backfired, Song Qingre. Now you’re really in for it.
“Decide fast.”
“Last night…” Yan Qingqiu hinted.
Song Qingre raised a hand—misinterpreted by the secretary, who pocketed the card.
“Draw up a contract,” Song Qingre ordered. “Payment for services rendered.”
Then to Yan Qingqiu: “Lips first?”
She spread her legs slightly, black oxfords tapping.
“Sit on my lap. Today, I’m yours.”
Yan Qingqiu’s eyes bulged. The secretary gawked. Song Qingre, this bold?
So fast?!
“People are here! Have some shame!”
“Ah. You negotiated so eagerly, I assumed you liked the audience.” Song Qingre waved the secretary out. “Bring the contract later.”
Her sleeve brushed the phone receiver.
Yan Qingqiu eyed those long legs, the crisp white shirt, the black slacks hugging slender ankles.
She stood—then sat back down. A million spent, I’ll get my worth.
Legs parting, she reclined, oozing arrogance. “Come here. Sit on my lap. Kiss me.”
A pause.
“Wear your blazer. Look proper.” She smirked. “And call me ‘big sister.’”
Preferably with tongue.