After her twenty-seventh birthday passed, an oily-smooth string of sandalwood Buddhist beads appeared on Yan Hanxie's left wrist.
One hundred and eight beads, each perfectly round and even, hanging with a heavy weight that made her pale wrist appear even more striking.
At the same time, the standard lunch in the president's office quietly changed into various exquisite vegetarian dishes. From golden soup jade tofu to matsutake quinoa cups, the aroma was still enticing, yet there was not the slightest trace of meat.
Occasionally, a faint scent of sandalwood drifted from the twenty-eighth floor, blending with the circulating air of the central air conditioning, completely out of place among the smell of coffee and printer paper.
The news spread like ink dropped into clear water, quickly diffusing throughout the company.
"President Yan has… seen through the mortal world?"
"I heard she even went to Jing'an Temple last week to offer a perpetual lamp. A big donation."
"No wonder her temper has improved lately. That day I submitted my report late and she only said, 'Pay attention next time.'"
In the break room, Li Wei from the marketing department lowered his voice. The small spoon in his hand clinked lightly against the coffee cup as he stirred.
"Last time I went in to report something, I personally saw a copy of the Diamond Sutra beside her computer. The traditional thread-bound vertical edition!"
Everyone clicked their tongues in amazement. After all, this young female CEO was famous for being decisive and strict in her demands.
Her current demeanor created far too much contrast.
Thus, the idea that "President Yan had converted to Buddhism" gradually became an unspoken consensus throughout the entire company.
Even the few pots of greenery at the entrance of the president's office seemed to carry a hint of Zen.
Only Zong Yi made no comment about it.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds of the director's office, cutting alternating stripes of light and shadow across the reports on her desk.
Holding a fountain pen, her fingertips were steady as concise and sharp annotations fell beside rows of numbers and clauses.
The air conditioner sent out a constant temperature breeze, yet it could not disperse the faint irritation in her heart.
The hands of the watch moved one tick at a time. When the sky outside the window was finally dyed with a faint orange hue, she closed the last document and rubbed the space between her brows.
Her phone screen lit up at the perfect moment.
There was no name attached—only an address, pinpointing a members-only bar in the city center.
Two additional words were attached.
"Come over."
Zong Yi stared at the line of text for two seconds, locked the screen, and stood up.
As she passed the full-length mirror, she caught sight of her own meticulous shirt and suit pants. She casually tucked a loose strand of hair that had slipped out of her bun behind her ear.
Her face showed little expression. She was still that calm, self-controlled, highly capable young director personally promoted by President Yan.
The bar was hidden at the end of a quiet road shaded by plane trees, its storefront low-key.
When she pushed open the heavy wooden door, loud music and shouting voices did not rush toward her. Instead, soft jazz flowed through the air. The lighting was dim, and the booths were private.
The waiter clearly recognized her. He nodded slightly and led her past the bar counter toward a semicircular booth at the very back.
Yan Hanxie was there.
She was no longer wearing the neat business suit she had worn during the day. Instead, she had changed into a black silk shirt. Two buttons at the collar were undone, revealing a section of collarbone.
Her sleeves were casually rolled up to her elbows. The eye-catching string of sandalwood Buddhist beads hung loosely on her left wrist. As she swirled the ice sphere in her glass, the beads lightly knocked against the wall of the crystal whisky glass again and again.
One bottle on the table was already empty, and another was half gone.
The ambiguous lighting slid across her slightly flushed profile, across the bridge of her straight nose, and finally settled into her eyes—eyes that were now misty with alcohol yet still seemed bottomless.
When she saw Zong Yi enter, Yan Hanxie's lips curved slightly.
It was not the usual polite or intimidating smile she wore at work, but something lazy, bold, and openly aggressive.
She picked up a clean glass and pushed it over. Amber liquid poured in, ice clinking crisply.
"You're here?" Her voice was a little hoarse—softer than during the day, yet more tormenting. "Have a drink with me."
Zong Yi sat down across from her but did not touch the glass.
"President Yan, the board of directors' quarterly report meeting is tomorrow morning at nine-thirty."
"So?" Yan Hanxie leaned forward.
The strong scent of alcohol mixed with the cool fragrance of her perfume instantly invaded the air around Zong Yi.
Her elbow rested on the table as she supported her chin. Her gaze seemed hooked as it slid from Zong Yi's slightly furrowed brows to her tightly pressed lips, and finally to the shirt collar buttoned all the way to the top.
"Director Zong," she lowered her voice, her breath brushing past Zong Yi's ear, "are you reminding me… or worrying about me?"
Zong Yi's body tensed almost imperceptibly for a moment before relaxing again. She leaned back against the sofa, creating a small distance.
"A reminder," she said calmly, in a strictly professional tone. "I've already sent the meeting materials to your email. The key sections are highlighted."
Yan Hanxie laughed softly, her chest vibrating.
She did not reply. Instead, she picked up her own glass and took a large drink, her throat moving as she swallowed.
Then she set the glass down and suddenly reached out—not for the glass, but toward the back of Zong Yi's neck.
Her slightly cool fingers carried the smooth dampness of whisky as they brushed against her skin.
Zong Yi did not move.
The string of sandalwood beads pressed down with them—solid and slightly hard. The wood warmed by the wearer's body temperature pressed against the sensitive back of her neck, its presence impossible to ignore.
The beads softly knocked together, producing an extremely faint dull sound.
Yan Hanxie's fingers rested against the beads as the pads of her fingers slowly rubbed the roots of Zong Yi's hair at the back of her neck. The strength was controlled just right—somewhere between comfort and restraint.
"Director Zong," Yan Hanxie leaned even closer, almost touching her cheek. Her alcohol-scented lips brushed faintly against the tip of Zong Yi's ear as warm breath carried her whisper into it, word by word.
"Tell me… would it be alright if I broke a precept tonight?"
At that moment, the bar's music switched to another song.
The deep bass line sounded like a heartbeat.
Zong Yi lowered her eyes. Her gaze fell on the hem of her shirt, which had been casually pinned under one corner of Yan Hanxie's other hand.
The smooth fabric had wrinkled.
She raised her hand and pinched that piece of fabric with two fingers, pulling it outward steadily and firmly.
"President Yan," she said. Her movements did not stop, and her voice carried no emotion, merely stating a fact, "this is already the tenth time you've 'broken a precept' this month."
Finally, the hem of her shirt slid free from under Yan Hanxie's hand and returned to its smooth state.
Only then did Zong Yi raise her eyes, her gaze directly meeting the other woman's eyes at close range.
Those eyes were blurred with intoxication, yet clearly reflected Zong Yi's own face—calm to the point of rigidity.
Her gaze lowered slightly, landing on the string of sandalwood beads gently swaying with Yan Hanxie's movement. Under the dim light, the beads emitted a warm luster.
"And besides," Zong Yi paused. A faint, almost imperceptible hint of subtle sarcasm finally mixed into her tone.
"Does Buddha know you use consecrated ritual objects to tie people's wrists?"
Last time, in this same private booth, Yan Hanxie had drunk too much and lost her restraint. She had removed this very string of beads and insisted on wrapping it around Zong Yi's wrist, saying she wanted to test what it felt like to be tied with a "consecrated rope."
At the time, Zong Yi said nothing.
But early the next morning, she had neatly placed the expensive string of Buddhist beads—along with the thin cord that had been snapped—on the desk in the president's office.
Yan Hanxie froze for a moment after hearing this.
Then it was as if she had heard something extremely amusing. Her shoulders shook as laughter burst from her throat, growing louder and louder, even drawing glances from people at the distant bar counter.
She laughed until a bit of physiological moisture gathered at the corners of her eyes. She wiped it away with her fingertips.
When she looked at Zong Yi again, the naked aggressiveness had been softened by laughter, yet something deeper burned silently beneath it.
"Zong Yi, ah Zong Yi," she said her name slowly, her tone drawn out, sticky with drunkenness yet carrying a strange appreciation. "You are always so…" She seemed to search for the right word.
"…such a killjoy."
Zong Yi did not answer.
She simply looked at her quietly, as if observing a problem that refused to follow logic yet had to be handled.
Yan Hanxie laughed enough. She leaned back again into the soft sofa and picked up her glass, finishing the remaining whisky in one gulp.
The ice sphere struck the bottom of the glass with a clear clink.
She placed the empty glass back on the table. Her fingers absentmindedly moved the Buddhist beads on her wrist, one after another.
"I'll look at the board materials when I get back," she said again. The drunkenness in her voice seemed slightly restrained now, yet her gaze still firmly locked onto Zong Yi.
"Right now, take me home."
It was not a question. It was a demand.
Zong Yi silently stood up.
Yan Hanxie stood up as well. Her steps were slightly unsteady, and very naturally, she leaned half of her weight against Zong Yi.
Arm brushed against arm, their body temperatures passing through the fabric of their clothes.
The sandalwood beads brushed against the back of Zong Yi's hand, slightly cool.
The night wind outside the bar carried the chill of early autumn.
Yan Hanxie seemed a little more awake, but she still leaned against Zong Yi.
The designated driver had already brought the car to the entrance. It was Yan Hanxie's black sedan, with smooth lines, quietly lurking in the night.
Zong Yi opened the rear door and raised her hand to shield the top of the doorframe.
At the moment Yan Hanxie bent down to sit inside, she suddenly reached out and grabbed Zong Yi's wrist before she had time to pull it back.
The grip was not light.
"Get in," she said. Her eyes shone astonishingly bright in the dim interior light of the car. "This is work."
Zong Yi lowered her gaze and looked at the fingers gripping her wrist. The neatly trimmed nails were coated with clear polish, reflecting a faint light in the shadows.
The string of Buddhist beads pressed against her skin, the wooden texture clearly perceptible.
After pausing for two seconds, Zong Yi bent down and sat in the back seat.
The door closed, shutting out the neon lights and noise of the street.
Inside the car lingered a faint scent of leather and an even lighter fragrance belonging to Yan Hanxie.
The driver smoothly started the car and merged into the nighttime traffic.
Yan Hanxie released her hand, but her body still leaned sideways, her head almost resting on Zong Yi's shoulder.
Her eyes were closed, and her breathing gradually became even and long, as if she had truly fallen asleep.
Only the faint sound of her fingers moving the Buddhist beads could be heard in the quiet car cabin—once, and then again, never stopping.
Zong Yi sat upright, her gaze fixed on the dazzling stream of streetlights rapidly retreating outside the window.
The place on her wrist that had just been held seemed to still retain a trace of warmth and pressure, as well as the cold, hard sensation of those sandalwood beads.
Her face still showed almost no expression.
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