Chapter 11: Intoxicated Soft Mist – Have You Ever Kissed?

Xie Qingman silently assessed their positions and distance—restrained and restraining. This posture was just one step away from being forcibly taken away. All that was missing were ropes binding her.

Hard to say, Xie Qingman gazed at him with a faint smile, her words carrying a double meaning. Surely you didn’t go to all this trouble just for my company at dinner?

She tossed the question back at him, but it sank like a stone into the sea, eliciting no response. Ye Yansheng seemed unbothered. He fastened her seatbelt, shifted gears, and started the car.

Thinking of reneging?

His expression was neutral, as if he had suppressed a hint of impatience, though it wasn’t clearly visible.

How could I dare? I’m already here.

Ye Yansheng had been expressionless, but at her words, he laughed. He remained nonchalant, yet the cold, almost ruthless sharpness in his eyes softened slightly, losing some of its edge.

—

They went to Fuyong Pavilion in Suhe Bay, a Huaiyang cuisine restaurant, and ordered its signature dishes.

The antique-style old street stood in stark contrast to the surrounding concrete and steel structures. On the pillars flanking the entrance were carved the lines: Worldly affairs drift with the flowing water, when reckoned, a fleeting dream of life. The calligraphy was fluid, with an air of untrammeled elegance.

Downstairs, someone was singing scenes from The Peony Pavilion. From the private room on the second floor, pushing open the window offered a full view of the flower corridor and the opera stage.

While waiting for the dishes, the performer on stage had just begun the melody of Circling the Earth. Xie Qingman couldn’t help but watch a little more intently:

Dreaming of orioles’ songs, chaotic time pervades, one stands in the secluded courtyard, incense burned out, embroidery threads cast aside… ¹

After listening to a few verses, she furrowed her brows slightly.

Ye Yansheng caught the subtle change in her expression and asked indifferently, Don’t like it?

It’s not that I dislike it, Xie Qingman replied without overthinking, offering an objective critique in response to his question. But her transitions and closing notes feel a bit too showy. Although it could sound more lingering, the most basic enunciation and delivery aren’t quite right. Moreover, Kunqu emphasizes melodic structure—the tune follows the words. The fixed melodies shouldn’t be so casually handled.

Ye Yansheng leaned back, his deep, sharp eyes carrying a hint of amusement. You know Kunqu?

Xie Qingman wanted to say no.

But the words never left her lips.

Meeting his half-smiling gaze, she suddenly realized her critique had been too professional. Trying to brush him off with an excuse would seem far too disingenuous.

After a moment of silence, she struck a middle ground. I’ve studied a little.

Ye Yansheng stared at her for a good ten seconds, his smile still elusive and hard to read. It seemed as if he were questioning her proficiency, yet not entirely.

He truly had a knack for controlling situations—achieving his aims with just a look.

Just like now. Xie Qingman knew full well he was provoking her, yet she couldn’t help wanting to prove herself—even though, initially, she had no intention of showing off. Compelled by his gaze, as if guided by some unseen force, she picked up the melody from the stage and sang two lines for him:

Morning flights and evening scrolls, rosy cloud emerald terrace, rain threads and wind slices, misty painted boat, brocade screen person too sees this springtime cheap… ¹

Her voice was lovely—delicate and mellifluous, like the refined water-polished tunes of Kunqu, clear as a breeze tracing snow, pure as a mountain spring rinsing jade, lingering and tender.

Outside the roseleaf raspberry, the intoxicated soft mist, though the peony is fair, how can it claim spring’s prime before its return? ¹

Ye Yansheng’s slender fingers curled slightly, tapping idly on the table.

As the final note faded, he leaned back and asked casually, Studied the Zhang school style? Not entirely, though. Your singing is even more lingering and poignant than hers.

I dare not compare myself to Mr. Zhang. Xie Qingman repeatedly waved her hand. I appreciate the Suzhou-style Zhongzhou rhyme, but I dislike forced attempts to emulate the Suzhou flavor. If the articulation and enunciation become too deliberate, it loses the fundamental pitch accuracy and the authentic essence of Kunqu opera.

Northern Kunqu is grand and precise in pitch, while Suzhou Kunqu is delicate and graceful—each has its merits. Since Ming Dynasty Mandarin was fundamentally southern-based with Wu dialect characteristics, this approach seemed more reasonable.

She hadn’t expected him to understand, so she was somewhat surprised.

After all, Ye Yansheng carried an intense aura of decisiveness, with an untamed, imposing demeanor that felt oppressive:

He resembled a high-ranking official long-steeped in court politics, or a sharp blade tempered on the battlefield—hardly the type to patiently appreciate musical performances.

But upon reflection, it wasn’t entirely strange.

Most scions of influential families learn a bit of everything to cater to their elders’ preferences, grasping about seventy or eighty percent to showcase later.

Just as he, who didn’t believe in deities, still appeared at temples.

Xie Qingman lowered her gaze, twirling the shadow celadon Hare’s fur cup in her hand, and fell silent.

She took an absent-minded sip.

Cough—cough—

The pungent liquid burned her throat like fire. Xie Qingman choked immediately after drinking, covering her mouth as she bent over.

It wasn’t tea—it was baijiu.

When they had first sat down, the waiter had specifically reminded her that the alcohol was complimentary, meant to accompany the dishes, but she’d forgotten in her distraction.

Ye Yansheng hadn’t had time to stop her. Watching her cough until she curled over, he chuckled and said, Take it slow.

He gently patted her back, his voice uncharacteristically soft, the sharpness and gloom in his eyes fading. Did you even check what you were drinking?

And you have the nerve to say that? Xie Qingman pressed the back of her hand to her lips, her cool gaze tinged with annoyance as she glanced at him. Not only did you fail to remind me, but you’re making sarcastic remarks now?

When did I have the chance? Ye Yansheng let out a light scoff.

But seeing the redness at the corners of her eyes and the mistiness in her gaze—as if she’d been badly wronged—his eyes darkened, and he unexpectedly conceded. Forget it.

His smile deepened. My fault.

That was just like him: casually offering affectionate-sounding words without truly meaning them.

–

Ye Yansheng settled the bill.

He truly seemed to have acted on a whim, spending half the day going back and forth just to share a meal with her.

And such whims gradually became more frequent.

Amid the crunch of finals week and performance exams, he took her paragliding, skiing in Niseko, landing on the slopes via helicopter, attending exclusive classical concerts, and occasionally sending over various peculiar little gifts.

This went on for days.

Once, just because she mentioned the French cuisine at a private estate in Cap Ferrat, the day after school break began, she encountered a chef team flown in from abroad, along with air-freighted ingredients, recreating the Rose Festival banquet on the spot—

Truthfully, she hadn’t liked it that much; she’d just been impressed by the chef. Blue lobster and goose-necked barnacles were his signature dishes, but she was somewhat averse to the latter. To lighten the mood, the chef kept telling her corny jokes…

Regardless, the whole affair had a certain a lone rider raising red dust to make the imperial consort smile flair.

Xie Qingman looked at Ye Yansheng and joked earnestly, Yang Yuhuan didn’t end well. Don’t bring that fate on me.

Ye Yansheng merely laughed at her remark.

He said her imagination was too vivid—she might as well switch to screenwriting—dismissing it lightly. What was the relationship between Emperor Xuanzong of Tang and Lady Yang?

What exactly is our relationship?

Xie Qingman stared directly at him, not speaking for a long time.

This was how they coexisted—no defined relationship, no explicit words, yet every subtle detail brimmed with unspoken intimacy.

It felt like… ordinary lovers tentatively dating.

A platonic romance at that.

An unexpected development. No matter how she looked at it, she never imagined Ye Yansheng would be the type to pursue pure love.

This delicate balance was shattered one night in Beijing.

She remembered it was mid-December. The capital was already bustling with festive energy—lanterns hanging in hutongs, colorful light strips adorning the streets, all converging into a vibrant New Year’s atmosphere under the night sky.

But their destination was atop a high-rise building.

Almost the entire nighttime panorama of Beijing lay prostrate beneath their feet. The brightly lit Chang’an Avenue stretched into the distance, its traffic flow resembling woven fabric, while everything below appeared as insignificant as ants.

Standing there, she felt an unreal sensation of overlooking the world from cloud nine.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Xie Qingman became unusually talkative, chatting intermittently until the gathering dispersed and they stepped into the elevator.

She mentioned hating rainy days, yet recalled one evening in London when she’d wandered into a small pub less than two kilometers from her hotel on High Holborn. She’d ordered white wine that night too, while the bar played Vivien Leigh’s Waterloo Bridge—the scene where Roy and Myra kiss in the rain.

She’d watched the entire film just for that one shot. Because she admired the artistic technique, she wanted to experience everything from performance to production.

While sharing this, Xie Qingman maintained her usual cool composure, but the faint smile gracing her lips lent her an indescribable vitality and spirit.

Ye Yansheng watched her intently, the corner of his mouth quirking up while his eyes remained unreadable.

Any kissing scenes?

Xie Qingman let out a soft ah.

Though he seemed casual, as if the question held no particular meaning, her mind still short-circuited momentarily.

Then belatedly, she realized he was asking about her own situation—she was attending the second round of auditions tomorrow for Reaching the Pinnacle, the historical drama series.

Only two people occupied the elevator.

The atmosphere grew subtle, surrounding sounds seeming to fade into the distance.

Serious historical dramas usually don’t include them… Xie Qingman’s voice gradually softened, and certainly not during auditions. Besides, I haven’t even secured the role yet.

A peculiar expression flickered across Ye Yansheng’s eyes and brows.

It had been an offhand question, but watching her gaze drift away and her earlobes flush pink, a mischievous and almost childish curiosity stirred within him.

He suddenly felt like teasing her.

And so he leaned slightly toward her.

The movement was subtle, but their height difference created an undeniable sense of oppression. Ever been kissed? he asked.

Xie Qingman’s lips parted slightly.

She wanted to say no, yet found herself inexplicably unable to form the words.

In her momentary daze, Ye Yansheng advanced another step.

She instinctively retreated, only for her back to meet the elevator wall—trapped in a dead end with nowhere left to withdraw.

Xie Qingman’s slender spine stiffened slightly. She looked at him, her voice unconsciously rising an octave: Ye Yansheng.

He stood too close.

What’s wrong? Ye Yansheng’s voice dropped low, tinged with amused laughter and utterly lacking seriousness, Afraid I’ll devour you?

There was something dangerously magnetic about him.

Then, retracting his languid and frivolous demeanor, he straightened up as if nothing had happened, perfectly proper.

Yet her cheeks still burned.

The distance between him and her was unnervingly close. His jet-black pupils darkened, the gaze he cast carrying such aggression that its oppressive force left her nearly immobilized.

It felt like a question, yet was delivered with unyielding dominance.

Too much time had passed, leaving some memories blurred.

She couldn’t recall whether there had been any coercion on his part then, nor whether she had silently consented or merely yielded half-heartedly. She didn’t even know what expression she had worn at that moment.

She only remembered that after a brief standoff, she whispered two words: The surveillance.

Ye Yansheng let out a soft chuckle, his gaze cold, yet his eyes darkened with intensity.

Without another word, he pressed the button for the lowest floor and, as if reading her mind, raised a hand to cover the surveillance camera.

The moment the elevator doors closed, he gripped her chin, lowered his head, and captured her lips, stealing her breath entirely.

As the elevator began its descent, silence enveloped them once more.

Beyond the towering buildings, the city lights glittered—vibrant yet cold, casting a lavish but sterile glow.

Inside the sealed elevator, they sank deeper, as if cut off from time and space, leaving only the two of them.

No one could witness the intimacy of this moment.

The weightlessness of the descent was almost eclipsed by other sensations. Xie Qingman felt utterly powerless, instinctively clutching his shirt as her legs weakened and her breath grew ragged. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she pushed against him.

It seemed like resistance, yet more like a coy refusal.

In truth, Xie Qingman was genuinely afraid.

She didn’t know that this elevator was private, accessible only to a select few with special clearance.

All she could think about was the possibility of someone pressing the button mid-descent and witnessing this scene.

Her heart raced abnormally fast.

The urge to escape grew stronger. She turned her head aside, but he caught her chin and forced her to face him again.

The light fell upon them, mostly blocked by Ye Yansheng’s frame.

Half of his face was shrouded in shadow, his cold, profound eyes carrying a trace of ruthlessness.

Feeling her struggle, he pinned her wrists above her head against the wall with one hand, and as her lips parted unconsciously, he deepened the kiss.

The motion forced her to arch her neck in response.

58, 57, 56…

The elevator numbers continued to drop. The world around them fell into such silence that she could hear only their breathing and heartbeats.

She couldn’t tell which were his and which were her own.

The stark disparity in strength left a lingering fear, making Xie Qingman instinctively want to flee.

The subtle sensations of being controlled earlier were now fermenting—shyness, terror, panic, and mild irritation intertwined into a complex web of emotions. A shiver crawled up her spine from the tailbone, compelling her to step out of the elevator just before the doors closed.

Ye Yansheng seized her wrist in a firm grip.

Standing behind her, his eyes were pitch-black, dark and deep as the ocean beneath a moonless night, reflecting nothing.

Xie Qingman.

His voice was cold and careless, yet tinged with a dangerous undercurrent of desire.

What are you running from?

Chapter 11: Intoxicated Soft Mist – Have You Ever Kissed?

Xie Qingman silently assessed their positions and distance—restrained and restraining. This posture was just one step away from being forcibly taken away. All that was missing were ropes binding her.

Hard to say, Xie Qingman gazed at him with a faint smile, her words carrying a double meaning. Surely you didn’t go to all this trouble just for my company at dinner?

She tossed the question back at him, but it sank like a stone into the sea, eliciting no response. Ye Yansheng seemed unbothered. He fastened her seatbelt, shifted gears, and started the car.

Thinking of reneging?

His expression was neutral, as if he had suppressed a hint of impatience, though it wasn’t clearly visible.

How could I dare? I’m already here.

Ye Yansheng had been expressionless, but at her words, he laughed. He remained nonchalant, yet the cold, almost ruthless sharpness in his eyes softened slightly, losing some of its edge.

—

They went to Fuyong Pavilion in Suhe Bay, a Huaiyang cuisine restaurant, and ordered its signature dishes.

The antique-style old street stood in stark contrast to the surrounding concrete and steel structures. On the pillars flanking the entrance were carved the lines: Worldly affairs drift with the flowing water, when reckoned, a fleeting dream of life. The calligraphy was fluid, with an air of untrammeled elegance.

Downstairs, someone was singing scenes from The Peony Pavilion. From the private room on the second floor, pushing open the window offered a full view of the flower corridor and the opera stage.

While waiting for the dishes, the performer on stage had just begun the melody of Circling the Earth. Xie Qingman couldn’t help but watch a little more intently:

Dreaming of orioles’ songs, chaotic time pervades, one stands in the secluded courtyard, incense burned out, embroidery threads cast aside… ¹

After listening to a few verses, she furrowed her brows slightly.

Ye Yansheng caught the subtle change in her expression and asked indifferently, Don’t like it?

It’s not that I dislike it, Xie Qingman replied without overthinking, offering an objective critique in response to his question. But her transitions and closing notes feel a bit too showy. Although it could sound more lingering, the most basic enunciation and delivery aren’t quite right. Moreover, Kunqu emphasizes melodic structure—the tune follows the words. The fixed melodies shouldn’t be so casually handled.

Ye Yansheng leaned back, his deep, sharp eyes carrying a hint of amusement. You know Kunqu?

Xie Qingman wanted to say no.

But the words never left her lips.

Meeting his half-smiling gaze, she suddenly realized her critique had been too professional. Trying to brush him off with an excuse would seem far too disingenuous.

After a moment of silence, she struck a middle ground. I’ve studied a little.

Ye Yansheng stared at her for a good ten seconds, his smile still elusive and hard to read. It seemed as if he were questioning her proficiency, yet not entirely.

He truly had a knack for controlling situations—achieving his aims with just a look.

Just like now. Xie Qingman knew full well he was provoking her, yet she couldn’t help wanting to prove herself—even though, initially, she had no intention of showing off. Compelled by his gaze, as if guided by some unseen force, she picked up the melody from the stage and sang two lines for him:

Morning flights and evening scrolls, rosy cloud emerald terrace, rain threads and wind slices, misty painted boat, brocade screen person too sees this springtime cheap… ¹

Her voice was lovely—delicate and mellifluous, like the refined water-polished tunes of Kunqu, clear as a breeze tracing snow, pure as a mountain spring rinsing jade, lingering and tender.

Outside the roseleaf raspberry, the intoxicated soft mist, though the peony is fair, how can it claim spring’s prime before its return? ¹

Ye Yansheng’s slender fingers curled slightly, tapping idly on the table.

As the final note faded, he leaned back and asked casually, Studied the Zhang school style? Not entirely, though. Your singing is even more lingering and poignant than hers.

I dare not compare myself to Mr. Zhang. Xie Qingman repeatedly waved her hand. I appreciate the Suzhou-style Zhongzhou rhyme, but I dislike forced attempts to emulate the Suzhou flavor. If the articulation and enunciation become too deliberate, it loses the fundamental pitch accuracy and the authentic essence of Kunqu opera.

Northern Kunqu is grand and precise in pitch, while Suzhou Kunqu is delicate and graceful—each has its merits. Since Ming Dynasty Mandarin was fundamentally southern-based with Wu dialect characteristics, this approach seemed more reasonable.

She hadn’t expected him to understand, so she was somewhat surprised.

After all, Ye Yansheng carried an intense aura of decisiveness, with an untamed, imposing demeanor that felt oppressive:

He resembled a high-ranking official long-steeped in court politics, or a sharp blade tempered on the battlefield—hardly the type to patiently appreciate musical performances.

But upon reflection, it wasn’t entirely strange.

Most scions of influential families learn a bit of everything to cater to their elders’ preferences, grasping about seventy or eighty percent to showcase later.

Just as he, who didn’t believe in deities, still appeared at temples.

Xie Qingman lowered her gaze, twirling the shadow celadon Hare’s fur cup in her hand, and fell silent.

She took an absent-minded sip.

Cough—cough—

The pungent liquid burned her throat like fire. Xie Qingman choked immediately after drinking, covering her mouth as she bent over.

It wasn’t tea—it was baijiu.

When they had first sat down, the waiter had specifically reminded her that the alcohol was complimentary, meant to accompany the dishes, but she’d forgotten in her distraction.

Ye Yansheng hadn’t had time to stop her. Watching her cough until she curled over, he chuckled and said, Take it slow.

He gently patted her back, his voice uncharacteristically soft, the sharpness and gloom in his eyes fading. Did you even check what you were drinking?

And you have the nerve to say that? Xie Qingman pressed the back of her hand to her lips, her cool gaze tinged with annoyance as she glanced at him. Not only did you fail to remind me, but you’re making sarcastic remarks now?

When did I have the chance? Ye Yansheng let out a light scoff.

But seeing the redness at the corners of her eyes and the mistiness in her gaze—as if she’d been badly wronged—his eyes darkened, and he unexpectedly conceded. Forget it.

His smile deepened. My fault.

That was just like him: casually offering affectionate-sounding words without truly meaning them.

–

Ye Yansheng settled the bill.

He truly seemed to have acted on a whim, spending half the day going back and forth just to share a meal with her.

And such whims gradually became more frequent.

Amid the crunch of finals week and performance exams, he took her paragliding, skiing in Niseko, landing on the slopes via helicopter, attending exclusive classical concerts, and occasionally sending over various peculiar little gifts.

This went on for days.

Once, just because she mentioned the French cuisine at a private estate in Cap Ferrat, the day after school break began, she encountered a chef team flown in from abroad, along with air-freighted ingredients, recreating the Rose Festival banquet on the spot—

Truthfully, she hadn’t liked it that much; she’d just been impressed by the chef. Blue lobster and goose-necked barnacles were his signature dishes, but she was somewhat averse to the latter. To lighten the mood, the chef kept telling her corny jokes…

Regardless, the whole affair had a certain a lone rider raising red dust to make the imperial consort smile flair.

Xie Qingman looked at Ye Yansheng and joked earnestly, Yang Yuhuan didn’t end well. Don’t bring that fate on me.

Ye Yansheng merely laughed at her remark.

He said her imagination was too vivid—she might as well switch to screenwriting—dismissing it lightly. What was the relationship between Emperor Xuanzong of Tang and Lady Yang?

What exactly is our relationship?

Xie Qingman stared directly at him, not speaking for a long time.

This was how they coexisted—no defined relationship, no explicit words, yet every subtle detail brimmed with unspoken intimacy.

It felt like… ordinary lovers tentatively dating.

A platonic romance at that.

An unexpected development. No matter how she looked at it, she never imagined Ye Yansheng would be the type to pursue pure love.

This delicate balance was shattered one night in Beijing.

She remembered it was mid-December. The capital was already bustling with festive energy—lanterns hanging in hutongs, colorful light strips adorning the streets, all converging into a vibrant New Year’s atmosphere under the night sky.

But their destination was atop a high-rise building.

Almost the entire nighttime panorama of Beijing lay prostrate beneath their feet. The brightly lit Chang’an Avenue stretched into the distance, its traffic flow resembling woven fabric, while everything below appeared as insignificant as ants.

Standing there, she felt an unreal sensation of overlooking the world from cloud nine.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Xie Qingman became unusually talkative, chatting intermittently until the gathering dispersed and they stepped into the elevator.

She mentioned hating rainy days, yet recalled one evening in London when she’d wandered into a small pub less than two kilometers from her hotel on High Holborn. She’d ordered white wine that night too, while the bar played Vivien Leigh’s Waterloo Bridge—the scene where Roy and Myra kiss in the rain.

She’d watched the entire film just for that one shot. Because she admired the artistic technique, she wanted to experience everything from performance to production.

While sharing this, Xie Qingman maintained her usual cool composure, but the faint smile gracing her lips lent her an indescribable vitality and spirit.

Ye Yansheng watched her intently, the corner of his mouth quirking up while his eyes remained unreadable.

Any kissing scenes?

Xie Qingman let out a soft ah.

Though he seemed casual, as if the question held no particular meaning, her mind still short-circuited momentarily.

Then belatedly, she realized he was asking about her own situation—she was attending the second round of auditions tomorrow for Reaching the Pinnacle, the historical drama series.

Only two people occupied the elevator.

The atmosphere grew subtle, surrounding sounds seeming to fade into the distance.

Serious historical dramas usually don’t include them… Xie Qingman’s voice gradually softened, and certainly not during auditions. Besides, I haven’t even secured the role yet.

A peculiar expression flickered across Ye Yansheng’s eyes and brows.

It had been an offhand question, but watching her gaze drift away and her earlobes flush pink, a mischievous and almost childish curiosity stirred within him.

He suddenly felt like teasing her.

And so he leaned slightly toward her.

The movement was subtle, but their height difference created an undeniable sense of oppression. Ever been kissed? he asked.

Xie Qingman’s lips parted slightly.

She wanted to say no, yet found herself inexplicably unable to form the words.

In her momentary daze, Ye Yansheng advanced another step.

She instinctively retreated, only for her back to meet the elevator wall—trapped in a dead end with nowhere left to withdraw.

Xie Qingman’s slender spine stiffened slightly. She looked at him, her voice unconsciously rising an octave: Ye Yansheng.

He stood too close.

What’s wrong? Ye Yansheng’s voice dropped low, tinged with amused laughter and utterly lacking seriousness, Afraid I’ll devour you?

There was something dangerously magnetic about him.

Then, retracting his languid and frivolous demeanor, he straightened up as if nothing had happened, perfectly proper.

Yet her cheeks still burned.

The distance between him and her was unnervingly close. His jet-black pupils darkened, the gaze he cast carrying such aggression that its oppressive force left her nearly immobilized.

It felt like a question, yet was delivered with unyielding dominance.

Too much time had passed, leaving some memories blurred.

She couldn’t recall whether there had been any coercion on his part then, nor whether she had silently consented or merely yielded half-heartedly. She didn’t even know what expression she had worn at that moment.

She only remembered that after a brief standoff, she whispered two words: The surveillance.

Ye Yansheng let out a soft chuckle, his gaze cold, yet his eyes darkened with intensity.

Without another word, he pressed the button for the lowest floor and, as if reading her mind, raised a hand to cover the surveillance camera.

The moment the elevator doors closed, he gripped her chin, lowered his head, and captured her lips, stealing her breath entirely.

As the elevator began its descent, silence enveloped them once more.

Beyond the towering buildings, the city lights glittered—vibrant yet cold, casting a lavish but sterile glow.

Inside the sealed elevator, they sank deeper, as if cut off from time and space, leaving only the two of them.

No one could witness the intimacy of this moment.

The weightlessness of the descent was almost eclipsed by other sensations. Xie Qingman felt utterly powerless, instinctively clutching his shirt as her legs weakened and her breath grew ragged. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she pushed against him.

It seemed like resistance, yet more like a coy refusal.

In truth, Xie Qingman was genuinely afraid.

She didn’t know that this elevator was private, accessible only to a select few with special clearance.

All she could think about was the possibility of someone pressing the button mid-descent and witnessing this scene.

Her heart raced abnormally fast.

The urge to escape grew stronger. She turned her head aside, but he caught her chin and forced her to face him again.

The light fell upon them, mostly blocked by Ye Yansheng’s frame.

Half of his face was shrouded in shadow, his cold, profound eyes carrying a trace of ruthlessness.

Feeling her struggle, he pinned her wrists above her head against the wall with one hand, and as her lips parted unconsciously, he deepened the kiss.

The motion forced her to arch her neck in response.

58, 57, 56…

The elevator numbers continued to drop. The world around them fell into such silence that she could hear only their breathing and heartbeats.

She couldn’t tell which were his and which were her own.

The stark disparity in strength left a lingering fear, making Xie Qingman instinctively want to flee.

The subtle sensations of being controlled earlier were now fermenting—shyness, terror, panic, and mild irritation intertwined into a complex web of emotions. A shiver crawled up her spine from the tailbone, compelling her to step out of the elevator just before the doors closed.

Ye Yansheng seized her wrist in a firm grip.

Standing behind her, his eyes were pitch-black, dark and deep as the ocean beneath a moonless night, reflecting nothing.

Xie Qingman.

His voice was cold and careless, yet tinged with a dangerous undercurrent of desire.

What are you running from?

Chapter 11: Intoxicated Soft Mist – Have You Ever Kissed?

Xie Qingman silently assessed their positions and distance—restrained and restraining. This posture was just one step away from being forcibly taken away. All that was missing were ropes binding her.

Hard to say, Xie Qingman gazed at him with a faint smile, her words carrying a double meaning. Surely you didn’t go to all this trouble just for my company at dinner?

She tossed the question back at him, but it sank like a stone into the sea, eliciting no response. Ye Yansheng seemed unbothered. He fastened her seatbelt, shifted gears, and started the car.

Thinking of reneging?

His expression was neutral, as if he had suppressed a hint of impatience, though it wasn’t clearly visible.

How could I dare? I’m already here.

Ye Yansheng had been expressionless, but at her words, he laughed. He remained nonchalant, yet the cold, almost ruthless sharpness in his eyes softened slightly, losing some of its edge.

—

They went to Fuyong Pavilion in Suhe Bay, a Huaiyang cuisine restaurant, and ordered its signature dishes.

The antique-style old street stood in stark contrast to the surrounding concrete and steel structures. On the pillars flanking the entrance were carved the lines: Worldly affairs drift with the flowing water, when reckoned, a fleeting dream of life. The calligraphy was fluid, with an air of untrammeled elegance.

Downstairs, someone was singing scenes from The Peony Pavilion. From the private room on the second floor, pushing open the window offered a full view of the flower corridor and the opera stage.

While waiting for the dishes, the performer on stage had just begun the melody of Circling the Earth. Xie Qingman couldn’t help but watch a little more intently:

Dreaming of orioles’ songs, chaotic time pervades, one stands in the secluded courtyard, incense burned out, embroidery threads cast aside… ¹

After listening to a few verses, she furrowed her brows slightly.

Ye Yansheng caught the subtle change in her expression and asked indifferently, Don’t like it?

It’s not that I dislike it, Xie Qingman replied without overthinking, offering an objective critique in response to his question. But her transitions and closing notes feel a bit too showy. Although it could sound more lingering, the most basic enunciation and delivery aren’t quite right. Moreover, Kunqu emphasizes melodic structure—the tune follows the words. The fixed melodies shouldn’t be so casually handled.

Ye Yansheng leaned back, his deep, sharp eyes carrying a hint of amusement. You know Kunqu?

Xie Qingman wanted to say no.

But the words never left her lips.

Meeting his half-smiling gaze, she suddenly realized her critique had been too professional. Trying to brush him off with an excuse would seem far too disingenuous.

After a moment of silence, she struck a middle ground. I’ve studied a little.

Ye Yansheng stared at her for a good ten seconds, his smile still elusive and hard to read. It seemed as if he were questioning her proficiency, yet not entirely.

He truly had a knack for controlling situations—achieving his aims with just a look.

Just like now. Xie Qingman knew full well he was provoking her, yet she couldn’t help wanting to prove herself—even though, initially, she had no intention of showing off. Compelled by his gaze, as if guided by some unseen force, she picked up the melody from the stage and sang two lines for him:

Morning flights and evening scrolls, rosy cloud emerald terrace, rain threads and wind slices, misty painted boat, brocade screen person too sees this springtime cheap… ¹

Her voice was lovely—delicate and mellifluous, like the refined water-polished tunes of Kunqu, clear as a breeze tracing snow, pure as a mountain spring rinsing jade, lingering and tender.

Outside the roseleaf raspberry, the intoxicated soft mist, though the peony is fair, how can it claim spring’s prime before its return? ¹

Ye Yansheng’s slender fingers curled slightly, tapping idly on the table.

As the final note faded, he leaned back and asked casually, Studied the Zhang school style? Not entirely, though. Your singing is even more lingering and poignant than hers.

I dare not compare myself to Mr. Zhang. Xie Qingman repeatedly waved her hand. I appreciate the Suzhou-style Zhongzhou rhyme, but I dislike forced attempts to emulate the Suzhou flavor. If the articulation and enunciation become too deliberate, it loses the fundamental pitch accuracy and the authentic essence of Kunqu opera.

Northern Kunqu is grand and precise in pitch, while Suzhou Kunqu is delicate and graceful—each has its merits. Since Ming Dynasty Mandarin was fundamentally southern-based with Wu dialect characteristics, this approach seemed more reasonable.

She hadn’t expected him to understand, so she was somewhat surprised.

After all, Ye Yansheng carried an intense aura of decisiveness, with an untamed, imposing demeanor that felt oppressive:

He resembled a high-ranking official long-steeped in court politics, or a sharp blade tempered on the battlefield—hardly the type to patiently appreciate musical performances.

But upon reflection, it wasn’t entirely strange.

Most scions of influential families learn a bit of everything to cater to their elders’ preferences, grasping about seventy or eighty percent to showcase later.

Just as he, who didn’t believe in deities, still appeared at temples.

Xie Qingman lowered her gaze, twirling the shadow celadon Hare’s fur cup in her hand, and fell silent.

She took an absent-minded sip.

Cough—cough—

The pungent liquid burned her throat like fire. Xie Qingman choked immediately after drinking, covering her mouth as she bent over.

It wasn’t tea—it was baijiu.

When they had first sat down, the waiter had specifically reminded her that the alcohol was complimentary, meant to accompany the dishes, but she’d forgotten in her distraction.

Ye Yansheng hadn’t had time to stop her. Watching her cough until she curled over, he chuckled and said, Take it slow.

He gently patted her back, his voice uncharacteristically soft, the sharpness and gloom in his eyes fading. Did you even check what you were drinking?

And you have the nerve to say that? Xie Qingman pressed the back of her hand to her lips, her cool gaze tinged with annoyance as she glanced at him. Not only did you fail to remind me, but you’re making sarcastic remarks now?

When did I have the chance? Ye Yansheng let out a light scoff.

But seeing the redness at the corners of her eyes and the mistiness in her gaze—as if she’d been badly wronged—his eyes darkened, and he unexpectedly conceded. Forget it.

His smile deepened. My fault.

That was just like him: casually offering affectionate-sounding words without truly meaning them.

–

Ye Yansheng settled the bill.

He truly seemed to have acted on a whim, spending half the day going back and forth just to share a meal with her.

And such whims gradually became more frequent.

Amid the crunch of finals week and performance exams, he took her paragliding, skiing in Niseko, landing on the slopes via helicopter, attending exclusive classical concerts, and occasionally sending over various peculiar little gifts.

This went on for days.

Once, just because she mentioned the French cuisine at a private estate in Cap Ferrat, the day after school break began, she encountered a chef team flown in from abroad, along with air-freighted ingredients, recreating the Rose Festival banquet on the spot—

Truthfully, she hadn’t liked it that much; she’d just been impressed by the chef. Blue lobster and goose-necked barnacles were his signature dishes, but she was somewhat averse to the latter. To lighten the mood, the chef kept telling her corny jokes…

Regardless, the whole affair had a certain a lone rider raising red dust to make the imperial consort smile flair.

Xie Qingman looked at Ye Yansheng and joked earnestly, Yang Yuhuan didn’t end well. Don’t bring that fate on me.

Ye Yansheng merely laughed at her remark.

He said her imagination was too vivid—she might as well switch to screenwriting—dismissing it lightly. What was the relationship between Emperor Xuanzong of Tang and Lady Yang?

What exactly is our relationship?

Xie Qingman stared directly at him, not speaking for a long time.

This was how they coexisted—no defined relationship, no explicit words, yet every subtle detail brimmed with unspoken intimacy.

It felt like… ordinary lovers tentatively dating.

A platonic romance at that.

An unexpected development. No matter how she looked at it, she never imagined Ye Yansheng would be the type to pursue pure love.

This delicate balance was shattered one night in Beijing.

She remembered it was mid-December. The capital was already bustling with festive energy—lanterns hanging in hutongs, colorful light strips adorning the streets, all converging into a vibrant New Year’s atmosphere under the night sky.

But their destination was atop a high-rise building.

Almost the entire nighttime panorama of Beijing lay prostrate beneath their feet. The brightly lit Chang’an Avenue stretched into the distance, its traffic flow resembling woven fabric, while everything below appeared as insignificant as ants.

Standing there, she felt an unreal sensation of overlooking the world from cloud nine.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Xie Qingman became unusually talkative, chatting intermittently until the gathering dispersed and they stepped into the elevator.

She mentioned hating rainy days, yet recalled one evening in London when she’d wandered into a small pub less than two kilometers from her hotel on High Holborn. She’d ordered white wine that night too, while the bar played Vivien Leigh’s Waterloo Bridge—the scene where Roy and Myra kiss in the rain.

She’d watched the entire film just for that one shot. Because she admired the artistic technique, she wanted to experience everything from performance to production.

While sharing this, Xie Qingman maintained her usual cool composure, but the faint smile gracing her lips lent her an indescribable vitality and spirit.

Ye Yansheng watched her intently, the corner of his mouth quirking up while his eyes remained unreadable.

Any kissing scenes?

Xie Qingman let out a soft ah.

Though he seemed casual, as if the question held no particular meaning, her mind still short-circuited momentarily.

Then belatedly, she realized he was asking about her own situation—she was attending the second round of auditions tomorrow for Reaching the Pinnacle, the historical drama series.

Only two people occupied the elevator.

The atmosphere grew subtle, surrounding sounds seeming to fade into the distance.

Serious historical dramas usually don’t include them… Xie Qingman’s voice gradually softened, and certainly not during auditions. Besides, I haven’t even secured the role yet.

A peculiar expression flickered across Ye Yansheng’s eyes and brows.

It had been an offhand question, but watching her gaze drift away and her earlobes flush pink, a mischievous and almost childish curiosity stirred within him.

He suddenly felt like teasing her.

And so he leaned slightly toward her.

The movement was subtle, but their height difference created an undeniable sense of oppression. Ever been kissed? he asked.

Xie Qingman’s lips parted slightly.

She wanted to say no, yet found herself inexplicably unable to form the words.

In her momentary daze, Ye Yansheng advanced another step.

She instinctively retreated, only for her back to meet the elevator wall—trapped in a dead end with nowhere left to withdraw.

Xie Qingman’s slender spine stiffened slightly. She looked at him, her voice unconsciously rising an octave: Ye Yansheng.

He stood too close.

What’s wrong? Ye Yansheng’s voice dropped low, tinged with amused laughter and utterly lacking seriousness, Afraid I’ll devour you?

There was something dangerously magnetic about him.

Then, retracting his languid and frivolous demeanor, he straightened up as if nothing had happened, perfectly proper.

Yet her cheeks still burned.

The distance between him and her was unnervingly close. His jet-black pupils darkened, the gaze he cast carrying such aggression that its oppressive force left her nearly immobilized.

It felt like a question, yet was delivered with unyielding dominance.

Too much time had passed, leaving some memories blurred.

She couldn’t recall whether there had been any coercion on his part then, nor whether she had silently consented or merely yielded half-heartedly. She didn’t even know what expression she had worn at that moment.

She only remembered that after a brief standoff, she whispered two words: The surveillance.

Ye Yansheng let out a soft chuckle, his gaze cold, yet his eyes darkened with intensity.

Without another word, he pressed the button for the lowest floor and, as if reading her mind, raised a hand to cover the surveillance camera.

The moment the elevator doors closed, he gripped her chin, lowered his head, and captured her lips, stealing her breath entirely.

As the elevator began its descent, silence enveloped them once more.

Beyond the towering buildings, the city lights glittered—vibrant yet cold, casting a lavish but sterile glow.

Inside the sealed elevator, they sank deeper, as if cut off from time and space, leaving only the two of them.

No one could witness the intimacy of this moment.

The weightlessness of the descent was almost eclipsed by other sensations. Xie Qingman felt utterly powerless, instinctively clutching his shirt as her legs weakened and her breath grew ragged. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she pushed against him.

It seemed like resistance, yet more like a coy refusal.

In truth, Xie Qingman was genuinely afraid.

She didn’t know that this elevator was private, accessible only to a select few with special clearance.

All she could think about was the possibility of someone pressing the button mid-descent and witnessing this scene.

Her heart raced abnormally fast.

The urge to escape grew stronger. She turned her head aside, but he caught her chin and forced her to face him again.

The light fell upon them, mostly blocked by Ye Yansheng’s frame.

Half of his face was shrouded in shadow, his cold, profound eyes carrying a trace of ruthlessness.

Feeling her struggle, he pinned her wrists above her head against the wall with one hand, and as her lips parted unconsciously, he deepened the kiss.

The motion forced her to arch her neck in response.

58, 57, 56…

The elevator numbers continued to drop. The world around them fell into such silence that she could hear only their breathing and heartbeats.

She couldn’t tell which were his and which were her own.

The stark disparity in strength left a lingering fear, making Xie Qingman instinctively want to flee.

The subtle sensations of being controlled earlier were now fermenting—shyness, terror, panic, and mild irritation intertwined into a complex web of emotions. A shiver crawled up her spine from the tailbone, compelling her to step out of the elevator just before the doors closed.

Ye Yansheng seized her wrist in a firm grip.

Standing behind her, his eyes were pitch-black, dark and deep as the ocean beneath a moonless night, reflecting nothing.

Xie Qingman.

His voice was cold and careless, yet tinged with a dangerous undercurrent of desire.

What are you running from?

Chapter 11: Intoxicated Soft Mist – Have You Ever Kissed?

Xie Qingman silently assessed their positions and distance—restrained and restraining. This posture was just one step away from being forcibly taken away. All that was missing were ropes binding her.

Hard to say, Xie Qingman gazed at him with a faint smile, her words carrying a double meaning. Surely you didn’t go to all this trouble just for my company at dinner?

She tossed the question back at him, but it sank like a stone into the sea, eliciting no response. Ye Yansheng seemed unbothered. He fastened her seatbelt, shifted gears, and started the car.

Thinking of reneging?

His expression was neutral, as if he had suppressed a hint of impatience, though it wasn’t clearly visible.

How could I dare? I’m already here.

Ye Yansheng had been expressionless, but at her words, he laughed. He remained nonchalant, yet the cold, almost ruthless sharpness in his eyes softened slightly, losing some of its edge.

—

They went to Fuyong Pavilion in Suhe Bay, a Huaiyang cuisine restaurant, and ordered its signature dishes.

The antique-style old street stood in stark contrast to the surrounding concrete and steel structures. On the pillars flanking the entrance were carved the lines: Worldly affairs drift with the flowing water, when reckoned, a fleeting dream of life. The calligraphy was fluid, with an air of untrammeled elegance.

Downstairs, someone was singing scenes from The Peony Pavilion. From the private room on the second floor, pushing open the window offered a full view of the flower corridor and the opera stage.

While waiting for the dishes, the performer on stage had just begun the melody of Circling the Earth. Xie Qingman couldn’t help but watch a little more intently:

Dreaming of orioles’ songs, chaotic time pervades, one stands in the secluded courtyard, incense burned out, embroidery threads cast aside… ¹

After listening to a few verses, she furrowed her brows slightly.

Ye Yansheng caught the subtle change in her expression and asked indifferently, Don’t like it?

It’s not that I dislike it, Xie Qingman replied without overthinking, offering an objective critique in response to his question. But her transitions and closing notes feel a bit too showy. Although it could sound more lingering, the most basic enunciation and delivery aren’t quite right. Moreover, Kunqu emphasizes melodic structure—the tune follows the words. The fixed melodies shouldn’t be so casually handled.

Ye Yansheng leaned back, his deep, sharp eyes carrying a hint of amusement. You know Kunqu?

Xie Qingman wanted to say no.

But the words never left her lips.

Meeting his half-smiling gaze, she suddenly realized her critique had been too professional. Trying to brush him off with an excuse would seem far too disingenuous.

After a moment of silence, she struck a middle ground. I’ve studied a little.

Ye Yansheng stared at her for a good ten seconds, his smile still elusive and hard to read. It seemed as if he were questioning her proficiency, yet not entirely.

He truly had a knack for controlling situations—achieving his aims with just a look.

Just like now. Xie Qingman knew full well he was provoking her, yet she couldn’t help wanting to prove herself—even though, initially, she had no intention of showing off. Compelled by his gaze, as if guided by some unseen force, she picked up the melody from the stage and sang two lines for him:

Morning flights and evening scrolls, rosy cloud emerald terrace, rain threads and wind slices, misty painted boat, brocade screen person too sees this springtime cheap… ¹

Her voice was lovely—delicate and mellifluous, like the refined water-polished tunes of Kunqu, clear as a breeze tracing snow, pure as a mountain spring rinsing jade, lingering and tender.

Outside the roseleaf raspberry, the intoxicated soft mist, though the peony is fair, how can it claim spring’s prime before its return? ¹

Ye Yansheng’s slender fingers curled slightly, tapping idly on the table.

As the final note faded, he leaned back and asked casually, Studied the Zhang school style? Not entirely, though. Your singing is even more lingering and poignant than hers.

I dare not compare myself to Mr. Zhang. Xie Qingman repeatedly waved her hand. I appreciate the Suzhou-style Zhongzhou rhyme, but I dislike forced attempts to emulate the Suzhou flavor. If the articulation and enunciation become too deliberate, it loses the fundamental pitch accuracy and the authentic essence of Kunqu opera.

Northern Kunqu is grand and precise in pitch, while Suzhou Kunqu is delicate and graceful—each has its merits. Since Ming Dynasty Mandarin was fundamentally southern-based with Wu dialect characteristics, this approach seemed more reasonable.

She hadn’t expected him to understand, so she was somewhat surprised.

After all, Ye Yansheng carried an intense aura of decisiveness, with an untamed, imposing demeanor that felt oppressive:

He resembled a high-ranking official long-steeped in court politics, or a sharp blade tempered on the battlefield—hardly the type to patiently appreciate musical performances.

But upon reflection, it wasn’t entirely strange.

Most scions of influential families learn a bit of everything to cater to their elders’ preferences, grasping about seventy or eighty percent to showcase later.

Just as he, who didn’t believe in deities, still appeared at temples.

Xie Qingman lowered her gaze, twirling the shadow celadon Hare’s fur cup in her hand, and fell silent.

She took an absent-minded sip.

Cough—cough—

The pungent liquid burned her throat like fire. Xie Qingman choked immediately after drinking, covering her mouth as she bent over.

It wasn’t tea—it was baijiu.

When they had first sat down, the waiter had specifically reminded her that the alcohol was complimentary, meant to accompany the dishes, but she’d forgotten in her distraction.

Ye Yansheng hadn’t had time to stop her. Watching her cough until she curled over, he chuckled and said, Take it slow.

He gently patted her back, his voice uncharacteristically soft, the sharpness and gloom in his eyes fading. Did you even check what you were drinking?

And you have the nerve to say that? Xie Qingman pressed the back of her hand to her lips, her cool gaze tinged with annoyance as she glanced at him. Not only did you fail to remind me, but you’re making sarcastic remarks now?

When did I have the chance? Ye Yansheng let out a light scoff.

But seeing the redness at the corners of her eyes and the mistiness in her gaze—as if she’d been badly wronged—his eyes darkened, and he unexpectedly conceded. Forget it.

His smile deepened. My fault.

That was just like him: casually offering affectionate-sounding words without truly meaning them.

–

Ye Yansheng settled the bill.

He truly seemed to have acted on a whim, spending half the day going back and forth just to share a meal with her.

And such whims gradually became more frequent.

Amid the crunch of finals week and performance exams, he took her paragliding, skiing in Niseko, landing on the slopes via helicopter, attending exclusive classical concerts, and occasionally sending over various peculiar little gifts.

This went on for days.

Once, just because she mentioned the French cuisine at a private estate in Cap Ferrat, the day after school break began, she encountered a chef team flown in from abroad, along with air-freighted ingredients, recreating the Rose Festival banquet on the spot—

Truthfully, she hadn’t liked it that much; she’d just been impressed by the chef. Blue lobster and goose-necked barnacles were his signature dishes, but she was somewhat averse to the latter. To lighten the mood, the chef kept telling her corny jokes…

Regardless, the whole affair had a certain a lone rider raising red dust to make the imperial consort smile flair.

Xie Qingman looked at Ye Yansheng and joked earnestly, Yang Yuhuan didn’t end well. Don’t bring that fate on me.

Ye Yansheng merely laughed at her remark.

He said her imagination was too vivid—she might as well switch to screenwriting—dismissing it lightly. What was the relationship between Emperor Xuanzong of Tang and Lady Yang?

What exactly is our relationship?

Xie Qingman stared directly at him, not speaking for a long time.

This was how they coexisted—no defined relationship, no explicit words, yet every subtle detail brimmed with unspoken intimacy.

It felt like… ordinary lovers tentatively dating.

A platonic romance at that.

An unexpected development. No matter how she looked at it, she never imagined Ye Yansheng would be the type to pursue pure love.

This delicate balance was shattered one night in Beijing.

She remembered it was mid-December. The capital was already bustling with festive energy—lanterns hanging in hutongs, colorful light strips adorning the streets, all converging into a vibrant New Year’s atmosphere under the night sky.

But their destination was atop a high-rise building.

Almost the entire nighttime panorama of Beijing lay prostrate beneath their feet. The brightly lit Chang’an Avenue stretched into the distance, its traffic flow resembling woven fabric, while everything below appeared as insignificant as ants.

Standing there, she felt an unreal sensation of overlooking the world from cloud nine.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, but Xie Qingman became unusually talkative, chatting intermittently until the gathering dispersed and they stepped into the elevator.

She mentioned hating rainy days, yet recalled one evening in London when she’d wandered into a small pub less than two kilometers from her hotel on High Holborn. She’d ordered white wine that night too, while the bar played Vivien Leigh’s Waterloo Bridge—the scene where Roy and Myra kiss in the rain.

She’d watched the entire film just for that one shot. Because she admired the artistic technique, she wanted to experience everything from performance to production.

While sharing this, Xie Qingman maintained her usual cool composure, but the faint smile gracing her lips lent her an indescribable vitality and spirit.

Ye Yansheng watched her intently, the corner of his mouth quirking up while his eyes remained unreadable.

Any kissing scenes?

Xie Qingman let out a soft ah.

Though he seemed casual, as if the question held no particular meaning, her mind still short-circuited momentarily.

Then belatedly, she realized he was asking about her own situation—she was attending the second round of auditions tomorrow for Reaching the Pinnacle, the historical drama series.

Only two people occupied the elevator.

The atmosphere grew subtle, surrounding sounds seeming to fade into the distance.

Serious historical dramas usually don’t include them… Xie Qingman’s voice gradually softened, and certainly not during auditions. Besides, I haven’t even secured the role yet.

A peculiar expression flickered across Ye Yansheng’s eyes and brows.

It had been an offhand question, but watching her gaze drift away and her earlobes flush pink, a mischievous and almost childish curiosity stirred within him.

He suddenly felt like teasing her.

And so he leaned slightly toward her.

The movement was subtle, but their height difference created an undeniable sense of oppression. Ever been kissed? he asked.

Xie Qingman’s lips parted slightly.

She wanted to say no, yet found herself inexplicably unable to form the words.

In her momentary daze, Ye Yansheng advanced another step.

She instinctively retreated, only for her back to meet the elevator wall—trapped in a dead end with nowhere left to withdraw.

Xie Qingman’s slender spine stiffened slightly. She looked at him, her voice unconsciously rising an octave: Ye Yansheng.

He stood too close.

What’s wrong? Ye Yansheng’s voice dropped low, tinged with amused laughter and utterly lacking seriousness, Afraid I’ll devour you?

There was something dangerously magnetic about him.

Then, retracting his languid and frivolous demeanor, he straightened up as if nothing had happened, perfectly proper.

Yet her cheeks still burned.

The distance between him and her was unnervingly close. His jet-black pupils darkened, the gaze he cast carrying such aggression that its oppressive force left her nearly immobilized.

It felt like a question, yet was delivered with unyielding dominance.

Too much time had passed, leaving some memories blurred.

She couldn’t recall whether there had been any coercion on his part then, nor whether she had silently consented or merely yielded half-heartedly. She didn’t even know what expression she had worn at that moment.

She only remembered that after a brief standoff, she whispered two words: The surveillance.

Ye Yansheng let out a soft chuckle, his gaze cold, yet his eyes darkened with intensity.

Without another word, he pressed the button for the lowest floor and, as if reading her mind, raised a hand to cover the surveillance camera.

The moment the elevator doors closed, he gripped her chin, lowered his head, and captured her lips, stealing her breath entirely.

As the elevator began its descent, silence enveloped them once more.

Beyond the towering buildings, the city lights glittered—vibrant yet cold, casting a lavish but sterile glow.

Inside the sealed elevator, they sank deeper, as if cut off from time and space, leaving only the two of them.

No one could witness the intimacy of this moment.

The weightlessness of the descent was almost eclipsed by other sensations. Xie Qingman felt utterly powerless, instinctively clutching his shirt as her legs weakened and her breath grew ragged. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she pushed against him.

It seemed like resistance, yet more like a coy refusal.

In truth, Xie Qingman was genuinely afraid.

She didn’t know that this elevator was private, accessible only to a select few with special clearance.

All she could think about was the possibility of someone pressing the button mid-descent and witnessing this scene.

Her heart raced abnormally fast.

The urge to escape grew stronger. She turned her head aside, but he caught her chin and forced her to face him again.

The light fell upon them, mostly blocked by Ye Yansheng’s frame.

Half of his face was shrouded in shadow, his cold, profound eyes carrying a trace of ruthlessness.

Feeling her struggle, he pinned her wrists above her head against the wall with one hand, and as her lips parted unconsciously, he deepened the kiss.

The motion forced her to arch her neck in response.

58, 57, 56…

The elevator numbers continued to drop. The world around them fell into such silence that she could hear only their breathing and heartbeats.

She couldn’t tell which were his and which were her own.

The stark disparity in strength left a lingering fear, making Xie Qingman instinctively want to flee.

The subtle sensations of being controlled earlier were now fermenting—shyness, terror, panic, and mild irritation intertwined into a complex web of emotions. A shiver crawled up her spine from the tailbone, compelling her to step out of the elevator just before the doors closed.

Ye Yansheng seized her wrist in a firm grip.

Standing behind her, his eyes were pitch-black, dark and deep as the ocean beneath a moonless night, reflecting nothing.

Xie Qingman.

His voice was cold and careless, yet tinged with a dangerous undercurrent of desire.

What are you running from?