Chapter 15 : Kick her

Zhou Weichuan pushed open the bedroom door, lingering at the threshold, muttering, “I heard she came in—where is she?”
Fang Tianhan, at the bar, didn’t enter, “Probably playing volleyball with my wife. The beach is packed. Why hover over your wife? Scared she’ll run off?”
Zhou Weichuan retreated, leaving the door ajar, eyes fixed on the bedroom.

Their earlier talk was guarded; now, alone, they spoke freely.
Fang Tianhan said, “The project isn’t hers to block forever. If it stalls too long, it’ll rot—pollution will force the government to step in. She can’t hold it then.”
A long-abandoned Island Project would trigger state intervention, making Qin Jialan’s resistance illegal—Fang Tianhan aimed to force her to sell.

He schemed confidently, “Your acquisition is a done deal. Draft a follow-up plan for the government, I’ll smooth things over, and the project’s yours.”
Zhou Weichuan cautioned, “One thing—my funds go to the project holder. The money hits your wife’s account.”
Fang Tianhan, assured, said, “No worries. I’m divorcing her. Route the funds to a private equity firm—she’ll be cut out.”

“Divorce?” Zhou Weichuan eyed him, skeptical.
Fang Tianhan nodded, “We’re done. If she hadn’t clung to the contract, I’d have left ages ago.”
Zhou Weichuan, gripping his glass, exhaled heavily, “Divorce makes reconciliation tough.”
“Reconcile? Who’d want that?” Fang Tianhan scoffed.

Zhou Weichuan’s brow tightened, disliking the topic, “You’re leaving her nothing? That’s harsh.”
“Harsh?” Fang Tianhan adjusted his glasses, sneering, “If she wasn’t ruthless, she wouldn’t hoard the project. I’m just turning the tables.”
Zhou Weichuan said, “Her company’s hers. You drain the funds, she’ll go bankrupt, facing massive penalties. Qin’s a major group—bankruptcy leaves her ruined.”
Fang Tianhan’s cold laugh relished the thought.

Zhou Weichuan stated facts, uninterested in their marital mess or stopping Fang Tianhan.
They clinked glasses, sealing their deal.
Zhou Weichuan pressed, “Is my wife really with yours? Call and check.”
Fang Tianhan resisted, “You’re married, yet you act like you’re dating.”

“You don’t get it—call,” Zhou Weichuan urged.
Fang Tianhan knew better—Zhou Weichuan’s possessiveness was suffocating, chasing his own flings while obsessing over his wife’s loyalty.
Bound by business, Fang Tianhan didn’t push back.

Outside, the curtains hid them as long as the men talked.
Ye Qinghe’s hand gripped Qi Yuanhan’s waist, the pool below alive with laughing tourists—one glance up could spot them.
Ye Qinghe whispered, “Relax, it’s one-way glass…”
“Click—”

The door creaked open; their breaths froze, Ye Qinghe’s pulse quickening as she held Qi Yuanhan tighter.
Zhou Weichuan’s steps echoed—he rummaged through the closet, lifted the sheets, then neared the window.
“Hey, what’re you hunting? Think your wife’s hiding someone?” Fang Tianhan called from the doorway.
“I heard voices,” Zhou Weichuan said, stopping by the half-open curtain.

Qi Yuanhan sensed him inches away, barely a meter.
Ye Qinghe, brazen, tightened her embrace despite the flimsy curtain, their wetsuits—still damp from the sea—clinging together.
A woman’s scent filled the cramped space, threatening to spill out.
Qi Yuanhan’s mind numbed, her body trembling.

If Zhou Weichuan caught them, would she expose his affair with Ye Qinghe? Or stride out, saying, “Look, your mistress is seducing me”?
After an eternity, Ye Qinghe patted her back, soothingly.
Qi Yuanhan snapped back, “Scared?” Ye Qinghe asked.
Sweat beaded her forehead; she blinked hard, “They gone?”

Ye Qinghe hummed, then, as Qi Yuanhan doubted, added, “Maybe not.”
Qi Yuanhan glared.
Ye Qinghe, smirking, nodded downward; Qi Yuanhan followed her gaze—Zhou Weichuan was below, by the pool, staring up, locking eyes with her.
For three seconds, her heart pounded in sync.

She shut her eyes, slipping from the curtains; Ye Qinghe followed, “Mad?”
Qi Yuanhan, silent, ears buzzing, head spinning, grabbed clothes to shed the sticky wetsuit, “Don’t do that again. I don’t like it.”
Ye Qinghe didn’t agree or refuse, asking, “That feeling… you really didn’t like it?”
Her smiling eyes pierced Qi Yuanhan’s chest, tapping her heart.

Qi Yuanhan, unable to control her, dropped it—no one tamed a mistress like Ye Qinghe, not patrons, not wives.
She was a wild horse, untamable.
Her racing heart didn’t settle by night.

Zhou Weichuan called to check on her, skipping his afternoon visit; Qi Yuanhan, steady, pretended ignorance about her stolen meds, chatting briefly before hanging up.
Her laptop on her knees, she typed—gibberish filled the screen, her mind restless, barren of ideas, irritated.
The night breeze stirred the curtains; her gaze drifted, recalling the afternoon’s charged moment.

If they’d been caught… everything lost.
Ye Qinghe, at the bed’s edge, fiddled with her camera, calm, as if the afternoon’s fervor had faded.
Qi Yuanhan’s anger simmered.
“Want a copy? I’ll send it on WeChat,” Ye Qinghe said, about to look up when Qi Yuanhan’s foot pressed her shoulder.

Furious, Qi Yuanhan kicked, hitting Ye Qinghe’s shoulder squarely.
Ye Qinghe grabbed her leg; Qi Yuanhan, enraged, kicked again with the other, aiming to topple her.
Ye Qinghe, unsteady, crashed to the floor, yanking Qi Yuanhan’s leg, pulling her from the bed’s edge to the mattress.
Sitting up, Ye Qinghe meant to rise, but the angle—Qi Yuanhan sprawled—felt provocative.

Confused, she asked, “What did I do? Why kick me?”
Qi Yuanhan’s face was icy, her expression fierce.
Ye Qinghe, unhurt and unfazed, sniffed—Qi Yuanhan’s nightdress was… distracting.