Morning had already flooded the street with cars; a chorus of honks pecked at sleep like restless sparrows. Tang Coco eased her eyes open. A chandelier hung above like a frozen cascade of gold, and wine-red wallpaper pooled along the walls like spilled merlot. A faint rose scent drifted, soft as dew.
What is…?
Drowsiness clung like fog. She tried to sit up—then felt weight pinning her, warm as a quilt. She turned, and the haze snapped away like a paper screen.
Beside her, a beauty in burgundy sleepwear had her in a full-on bear hug, one sleek leg draped over her like moonlight. The woman was Mu Qingcheng.
Holy— what— how am I sleeping here?
The thought flared like a startled bird. Her squirming stirred Mu Qingcheng awake.
Mmm~ ah~ you’re up~
Mu’s eyes narrowed lazily, her voice smooth as warm silk.
What’s going on? Why am I here?
Tang Coco met that face and felt her heart ripple, like wind over a pond. Mu looked impossibly tempting. She swallowed it back and aimed for business.
You drank too much last night~ I had no choice but to let you crash here.
Mu spoke, arms and leg never lifting, holding Tang Coco like a porcelain doll.
Uh… can you let go first…
Another second and I might melt, Tang Coco thought, heat rising like steam.
Come on, it’s comfy, isn’t it?
…
It was—she couldn’t deny it—cozy as a warm nest. But she barely knew Mu Qingcheng, and although the night was a blur, she was sure she hadn’t been that drunk. She braced and sat up, breaking the hold like slipping out of a net. Then she froze. Her skin was porcelain-pale in nothing but underwear, and Mu lay curled beside her like a red-petaled rose. The visual jolt struck like cold rain.
Tang Coco slid out of bed and found her clothes, fingers quick as sparrows. She dressed and moved for the door—then stopped. She had no idea where the bathroom was. Heat flushed her cheeks like wine; no way she’d ask and get laughed out of the room. So she darted to the kitchen from last night and splashed her face with cold water, clear as mountain spring.
All of this played across Mu Qingcheng’s eyes like a lantern show.
Heh~ this is too good. So cute. Finally, something amusing…
A smile touched her lips, light as a crescent moon.
Ten minutes later, Tang Coco tiptoed back into the room.
Hey! What… what did you do last night?
Her gaze locked on Mu, sharp as an arrow.
Nothing~ You were drunk. What could I do~
Mu blinked, all innocence, eyes bright as jade.
Impossible! I wasn’t—forget it… drop it.
Anger fizzled in her chest like a spent spark. She let it go.
All right, we’re good then? Let’s eat. You’re on today—lunch is your signature dish.
Mu knew not to rush her plan, so she shifted the topic like turning a fan.
Okay. Fine.
Work steadied Tang Coco like a hand on the shoulder. She agreed without fuss.
That morning, Mu Qingcheng held a meeting. The weekend special was the focus; service staff had to spread the word like ringing bells.
Today we debut our hotel’s exclusive signature dish, “Age of Allure,” led by our newly hired master chef. Welcome to taste.
New bait drew a bigger school. At noon, many guests ordered “Age of Allure,” though only four portions would be served. Anticipation rose like a tide; everyone wanted to see what kind of art would land on the table.
Under that rising hum, the dish finally appeared like a reveal on stage. Eight servers flowed through the back corridor like a small procession, two to a square wooden tray. A round porcelain plate sat atop, rim etched with floral patterns like vines on jade. A domed lid covered the heart of it, keeping secrets under a silver moon.
With careful hands, they set the plate down and lifted the lid.
Gasps lifted like a breeze. Inside lay a vista. Clear broth spread as a pale-blue lake under spring sky; bean paste and vegetables shaped the land and trees like a miniature garden. In the lake’s heart, a figure stood—a girl in a green skirt, carved with patient hands, holding a white parasol that veiled her face like a drifting cloud. Fresh steam rose in wisps, thin as incense, gifting the dish a hush of mystery.
It looked like a poem, but its ingredients were humble: egg soup, bean paste, cabbage—market-fare. Under Tang Coco’s touch, simple parts sang like a well-tuned guqin. Flavor bloomed. No one would guess the bones were so plain.
The new dish caught every eye like a paper kite in a clear sky. Four portions weren’t many, but the ripple was enough. The four tables who tasted it sang praise without end, voices bright as bells. Those who missed out yearned to try, and a few status-heavy guests booked next week on the spot. Exactly what Mu Qingcheng wanted.
Tang Coco didn’t know all that. After grinding through the lunch rush, she headed straight to Mu Qingcheng’s office, calm as a cat that trusts its claws. She believed in her craft, so she waited there. Soon, Mu walked in like a breeze through a screen door.
Good work. I knew I picked right. Now I’m going to keep you close~
…
Tang Coco’s face darkened like a storm cloud. It felt like Li Muyan had nudged her into a pit.
Can I go now?
Sure. Or one more drink before you leave?
No. You drink.
She pulled out her phone and called Li Muyan, urgency thumping like drums—just in case Mu sprang another trick.
Haha~ fine. Next week, just come straight in.
Mm.
Mu gave her a soft smile, light as tea steam, then turned to the desk to tidy papers.
At four, Li Muyan finally arrived. Tang Coco opened the door and slid into the Porsche, metal gleaming like a fish scale.
Yo, how was it? Last night go smoothly?
Li smiled, teasing, like tossing pebbles into a pond. Tang Coco’s irritation rose, sure Li had seen this coming.
Of course. Great. Extra comfy.
Tang met her head-on, defiant as a cat with raised tail.
That so? Then you’d better thank me properly.
Sure. No problem. I’ll “thank” you real good.
She bit down on “thank” like cracking a nut. Li heard the promise of payback and just grinned, unbothered. She drove them back to the villa, the road unspooling ahead like a long silk ribbon.
