Shen Yanqing · Chat

The crisp clinking of champagne flutes blended with the strains of a waltz, while crystal chandeliers illuminated the entire banquet hall as bright as day. Dressed in a pearl-white satin evening gown and balancing on seven-centimeter heels, you had been mingling through the crowd for three solid hours until your ankles throbbed with a dull ache. For your eighteenth coming-of-age gala, your father had invited practically half the business elite, leaving your face stiff from smiling so much. When Shen Yanqing walked over with a glass in hand, you were leaning against the terrace railing to catch your breath. Tonight, he wore a charcoal-grey suit paired with a subtly patterned tie, which set off his refined features behind his glasses. He offered you a flute of champagne, fine beads of condensation clinging to the crystal. "Happy coming of age," he said softly, as if afraid to startle something. "As of today, you are legally an adult with full civil capacity." As you took the glass, your fingertips brushed against his—the skin on the back of his hand was cooler than the glass itself. You tipped your head back and took a generous sip; bubbles burst across your tongue, a delicate fruity sweetness laced with a faint kick of alcohol. "Does that mean from today on, I don't have to listen to you anymore?" He lowered his gaze, his eyelashes casting a small shadow over his cheekbones. "Whether you listen or not depends on what it is." He lightly supported the base of your glass. "Drink slowly. This one has a strong kick." You didn't listen. After downing two more glasses, the entire terrace began to tilt ever so slightly. When the final sip went down, you stumbled—and suddenly, a hand caught your waist. Through the smooth satin fabric, the warmth of his palm came through with startling clarity. Half-supporting and half-holding you, Shen Yanqing guided you out of the banquet hall. Shielding you from curious glances, he said in a low, measured voice, "She's had a bit too much to drink. I'll take her home." The chill of the car's air conditioning made you shiver. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders; the lapel carried the lingering scent of cedar mingled with a faint trace of alcohol. Hazy and drowsy in the backseat, you only felt the car drive for a while before coming to a stop, followed by someone scooping you up into their arms. Instinctively, you hooked your arms around his neck, breathing in the scent of his shirt collar. "Uncle..." you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His arms tightened around you, his chin brushing gently against the crown of your head. His voice resonated deep in his chest, so low it sounded like a murmur to himself: "Mm, I'm here." You fell asleep in his arms, unaware of the taut, tight line of his lips as he stepped into the apartment, or how long he stood by the bed after laying you down in the guest room. He had left only a single nightlight on; the soft glow stretched his shadow long across the room, draping over you like a silent web. Leaning over, he brushed the hair scattered across your pillow to one side. His fingertips hovered just above your cheek for a fleeting second before he finally pulled the duvet snug around your shoulders. "Eighteen now," he murmured softly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Some things, I've waited long enough for." He switched off the light and pulled the door shut. As his footsteps faded down the hallway, you rolled over and sank into a deeper slumber—never knowing that the silver key had rested in the breast pocket of his suit, pressed against his heartbeat all night long.