Chapter 2 : Miss

Ye Qinghe’s appearance twisted Zhou Weichuan’s expression into something almost theatrical.
The wine glass in his hand trembled, and half its red contents splashed onto his chest.
“Ah… f*ck.”
He likely wanted to curse louder, sensing the woman’s timing was disastrously inconvenient.

With Qi Yuanhan present, he swallowed his words, hastily wiping the red stain on his bath towel.
“Yuanhan, let me explain…” Zhou Weichuan’s voice was strained, hollow.

But when Qi Yuanhan fixed her gaze on him, waiting, he faltered.
Liars’ eyes dart like startled fish.
Qi Yuanhan studied Zhou Weichuan’s, but he couldn’t meet her stare, only ruffling his hair nervously.
His face flickered through emotions like a neon sign, endlessly captivating.

“This is Ye Qinghe. She’s, uh, my relative.”
After a man strays, this is the standard line for introducing a mistress—predictable, almost routine.
Yet, a man and woman alone in a room, barely clothed, made this “cousin” seem rather extraordinary.

Qi Yuanhan turned her attention to Ye Qinghe.
Ye Qinghe was far calmer than Zhou Weichuan, a faint smile playing on her lips.
Qi Yuanhan asked, “What kind of relative?”

“She’s… she’s from my mother’s side.”
Zhou Weichuan pressed on, “By family rank, she’s our cousin. She showed up unexpectedly today. I was just about to call you.”
Qi Yuanhan said nothing, her expression growing stiller.

Zhou Weichuan, flustered, grumbled, “I knew this would happen. Good thing I texted you, just a step too late. I was planning to pick you up, but I got tied up… Ugh, this is my mother’s fault, sending someone over out of nowhere, just f*cking stirring trouble. She can’t sit still.”
Qi Yuanhan nodded, her face unreadable.

Zhou Weichuan couldn’t gauge her thoughts, so he kept talking, kept probing.
He craved a clear “I believe you” from her lips.
But reality defied him.

Qi Yuanhan didn’t erupt in anger or poke holes in his story.
She listened quietly, like an observer at a play.
She let him ramble, amused by how Zhou Weichuan, to cover his infidelity, threw his own parents under the bus.
It was, frankly, quite entertaining.

Their conversation dragged until eleven o’clock.
Zhou Weichuan’s words looped, repetitive and lulling, like a sleep aid.
Qi Yuanhan yawned, her eyelids heavy.

“Sleepy? Should we head to bed?”
Zhou Weichuan saw a chance to usher Ye Qinghe out.
But Qi Yuanhan rose and left the bedroom first.

At the door, she glanced back.
Her eyes found Ye Qinghe.
Ye Qinghe had been silent, standing quietly in a corner, fingers resting on the bed’s handrail.

She didn’t need to draw attention—her presence was undeniable.
It was as if she could’ve stayed still to avoid this mess, yet she chose to play her part in this adultery drama.
Qi Yuanhan’s gaze traced from Ye Qinghe’s damp hair to the light white nightdress she wore.

It was an ordinary design, the kind that wouldn’t sell in a Macy’s, yet Ye Qinghe made it exude allure.
Ye Qinghe smiled and said, “Sister.”
Qi Yuanhan remarked, “You look pretty good in my clothes.”

Zhou Weichuan’s face cracked, as if split down the middle.
He stammered, scratching his ears, “I… I don’t know how that happened. I was showering. Must be a coincidence, same style…”
Before he could finish, Qi Yuanhan shut the side bedroom door.

That night, Zhou Weichuan was doomed to sleeplessness.
No cousin, however close, would casually wear her sister-in-law’s nightdress, would she?

Morning came, and Qi Yuanhan finished washing up.
Stepping out, she found Zhou Weichuan slumped on the sofa, clutching a pillow, head bobbing as he dozed.
He still wore yesterday’s bath towel, looking utterly pathetic.

At the sound of her steps, he stirred, bleary-eyed, stubble shadowing his chin—a sign of a restless, anxious night.
Zhou Weichuan touched his face, opened his mouth, then hesitated.
Bringing up yesterday would be a minefield.

The best course was to ignore it, let it fade, erase Qi Yuanhan’s doubts.
He forced a smile.
“You’re up? Should I make breakfast?”

Qi Yuanhan nodded.
“The housekeeper and staff aren’t here.”
Zhou Weichuan slapped the back of his neck, watching her closely as he spoke.

“If you hadn’t mentioned it, I’d have forgotten. The nanny and housekeeper went to the old house. My mother’s short on help. I’ll call her later to send them back…”
Qi Yuanhan poured a glass of water and sipped it.

Zhou Weichuan scrambled off the sofa, bustling to the first-floor kitchen to prepare breakfast.
When it was ready, he personally brought it to the dining room.
It was the weekend—no work today.

Qi Yuanhan lounged on the sofa, flipping through a Vogue magazine.
Then Ye Qinghe appeared, descending the second-floor corridor with light, elegant steps, like a vision from a bygone era, wrapped in a fragrant breeze.
It hit Qi Yuanhan then—Zhou Weichuan had brought his mistress home.

They sat at the dining table: Zhou Weichuan at the head, Qi Yuanhan and Ye Qinghe across from each other.
Seeing Qi Yuanhan join them, Zhou Weichuan assumed she bought his story.
He called Ye Qinghe “cousin” warmly, reiterating the explanation he’d rehearsed all night.

He described Ye Qinghe as a distant relative, even urging Qi Yuanhan to call her “cousin” too.
Pfft.
Unbeknownst to him, beneath the table laden with his carefully prepared dishes, his mistress’s toes were grazing his wife’s calf, circling slowly.

At first, Qi Yuanhan didn’t react, assuming Ye Qinghe meant to flirt with Zhou Weichuan.
She pulled her leg back, leaving the space under the table to them.
But the foot pursued her, lifting her trouser leg, creeping upward.

Qi Yuanhan looked up at the woman across from her.
Ye Qinghe ate calmly, her upper body still, betraying nothing.
Without lifting the tablecloth, her actions below were invisible.

Qi Yuanhan tested, “Ye Qinghe?”
“Hmm?”
Ye Qinghe met her gaze, but her toes tightened briefly on Qi Yuanhan’s calf.

Zhou Weichuan, seated between them, glanced at both, slightly dazed.
A smug smile tugged at his lips, as if he were watching two women vie for his favor.
“What’s up with you two?” he asked softly, as if tasked with soothing them.

“Nothing.”
Qi Yuanhan lowered her head, resuming her meal.
The foot brushed her leg once more, then retreated.

After the meal, Zhou Weichuan cleared the table eagerly.
Qi Yuanhan settled on the sofa, watching TV.
Ye Qinghe joined her.

She wore a red cheongsam, the color striking against her skin.
Her hair was pinned up, loose curls framing her temples, effortlessly enchanting.
Her long legs crossed, the slit of her dress revealing pale, toned thighs—stunningly beautiful.

Her feet drew the eye first, pink and delicate against the white floor, as if rippling water with each step.
Zhou Weichuan returned with a fruit plate, setting it on the coffee table and squeezing between them.
“Baby, let’s have Qinghe stay the night. It’s been ages since we last saw her. Remember when she visited before we got married…?”

Qi Yuanhan said, “If you want her to stay, she can stay.”
Zhou Weichuan’s reminiscing was just an attempt to plant false memories.
Qi Yuanhan had no recollection and no interest in listening.

Her eyes stayed on the TV.
The show was engaging—a Hong Kong drama.
In it, a mistress confessed to the wife that she was a lesbian.

The wife replied, “Really?”
The mistress nodded.
Then the wife pinned her against the wall, kissing her fiercely, cradling her face, lost in a deep, passionate French kiss.

The mistress stared back, bewildered.
Zhou Weichuan scoffed, grabbing the remote and switching channels.
“What kind of trash is this? I’ll find something better for you.”

Qi Yuanhan had actually enjoyed it—the premise was fresh.
All afternoon, whenever Qi Yuanhan and Ye Qinghe were alone, Zhou Weichuan swooped in, terrified of being exposed.
His frantic efforts to cover his tracks were comical, almost absurd.

The three of them spent the afternoon on the sofa, watching financial news.
The host dissected promising stocks, rising sectors, and upcoming national policies.
By evening, Ye Qinghe was set to stay overnight.

Her slender frame barely supported the thin fabric of her clothes, her chest subtly pronounced.
She took Qi Yuanhan’s nightdress—the same one from yesterday, still unreturned—and headed for the bathroom.
Zhou Weichuan’s eyes lingered, his desire evident, but he played serious.

“Isn’t that the same style as your sister… your sister-in-law’s clothes? Wear something else.”
“Then what should I wear?” Ye Qinghe asked.

Zhou Weichuan blurted, “One of my shirts?”
Ye Qinghe shook her head, glancing at Qi Yuanhan, who held the nightdress, about to enter the bathroom.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Should I wear sister’s?”

A skilled mistress knows how to ignite desire effortlessly.
She leaned against the wall, smiling at Qi Yuanhan.
Zhou Weichuan’s eyes shifted, hungry.

Yesterday’s incident had been abrupt, unsatisfying.
Now he craved a redo.
“Yuanhan, lend her something. My clothes aren’t quite right for her.”

Qi Yuanhan fetched a new nightdress and handed it over.
Ye Qinghe took it, her arm brushing Qi Yuanhan’s shoulder lightly.
Objectively, Ye Qinghe was undeniably captivating.

Her allure wasn’t cheap or tawdry, but refined—like a high-fashion model with a world-weary elegance, envied and admired.
She was like Monica Bellucci in Malèna, striding into a small town in seductive heels, her every movement intoxicating, even the breeze stirred by her hair mesmerizing.

The sound of running water echoed from the bathroom, a steady whoosh.
Outside, the two stood in silence, unsure what they were waiting for.
Qi Yuanhan glanced at Zhou Weichuan, then headed to the side bedroom’s bathroom.

She didn’t strain to hear what happened outside.
Zhou Weichuan had brought his mistress home but lacked the nerve to act further.
He was already half-paralyzed with fear.

Qi Yuanhan took her medication and drifted off quickly.
A sudden knock knock knock jolted her awake.

She’d been sleeping deeply, her head throbbing, reluctant to rise.
But the knocking persisted, rhythmic and relentless, like taps on her forehead.
Finally, Qi Yuanhan dragged herself out of bed.

She didn’t bother with the light, fumbling for the doorknob in the dark.
The hallway was pitch black, her sleepy eyes barely open, unable to make out the figure.

Then a soft, fragrant scent enveloped her—a woman’s warmth.
Ye Qinghe reached out, pulling her into an embrace, like a scene from the noon drama, but reversed: the mistress holding the wife.
It was so sudden that Qi Yuanhan forgot to resist.

The lemony scent of her post-shower skin invaded, overwhelming Qi Yuanhan’s senses.
She stepped back.
Ye Qinghe was quick, one hand steadying her waist, the other hooking the doorknob.

With a soft click, the door shut, plunging the room into total darkness.
The house’s soundproofing was flawless, muffling all noise.
Ye Qinghe drew closer, her breath warm on Qi Yuanhan’s face.

As she leaned in, her lips inched toward Qi Yuanhan’s.
Qi Yuanhan stumbled back onto the bed, her mind—momentarily sharpening—scattering again.
Her lips parted, breaths coming in soft, stifled gasps.

Ye Qinghe knelt beside her, fingers gliding up the hem of Qi Yuanhan’s skirt, brushing bare skin.
She whispered in her ear, “Do you want a woman?”

[TL Note: The original text used onomatopoeia like “哗哗” (hua hua) for running water and “咚咚咚” (dong dong dong) for knocking, which were adapted to English equivalents (“whoosh” and “knock knock knock”) to maintain the sensory effect. The term “foxy” was used to capture Ye Qinghe’s alluring yet sophisticated charm, avoiding a direct translation of any Chinese idiom for natural flow.]