Chapter Nine: Bitter Wine in Daylight
On the next day, a meeting was held at Jishi Hall.
It was a ceremonial hall for political functions, converted from Gangcheng's old customs administration building. The walls were built of dark red brick and the windows soared high. Inside, flagstone floors paired with well-worn wooden tables in an eclectic mix of decor. The air smelled of ink and old archival paper—a scent that set everyone's nerves on edge.
Lin Mian stood quietly by Qin Zhao'an's side, dressed in a modest light-gray dress that kept her presence unobtrusive.
Seated at the front were not only officials from the Department of Foreign Affairs and the Border Inspection Bureau, but also several cultural and overseas liaison delegates. Among them was Zhao Jin; he gave Lin Mian a smile and murmured, "So today you're officially meeting everyone—Zhao'an didn't give you a heads-up?"
Lin Mian wasn't sure how to respond.
During the talks, she handled a few short segments of multi-language transcription and interpretation, her voice steady and crisp. Partway through, a delegate asked about her identity. Zhao Jin answered casually, "Family." That single word landed with the finality of a judge's gavel, sealing her status.
After the Jishi Hall meeting adjourned, the sunset over Gangcheng burned like fire. People said their goodbyes in small clusters in front of the long colonnade. As he gathered up documents, Zhao Jin gave Qin Zhao'an a friendly clap on the shoulder and said with a laugh, "I'm hosting a dinner tonight— you two lovebirds better not miss it."
"Must it be a married couple?" Lin Mian asked blandly.
"Absolutely." Zhao Jin grinned. "Otherwise how could I properly offer this toast?"
"Location?" Qin Zhao'an interjected curtly.
Zhao Jin winked at the two of them. "Old Harbor Warehouse, eight o'clock."
"I'll come later," Qin Zhao'an replied.
Now looking straight at Lin Mian, Zhao Jin added, "I'll pick you up at seven. Change into something less formal. Zhao'an sure won't remind you— that man's taste in women's fashion is still stuck at U.N. press-conference standards."
The private club, a converted Old Harbor Warehouse, was hidden away in the western end of Fanggang Alley. There was no sign out front—only a heavy wooden door studded with bronze tacks, guarded by a few dim lanterns like an old tavern from days gone by.
The architecture mimicked a French garden style, yet the interior was outfitted with an array of utilitarian security devices.
By the time Lin Mian stepped inside, some seven or eight people were already seated—mostly the same faces from that afternoon's meeting, along with a few strangers speaking in accented foreign tones. She kept her head down and slipped into a seat toward the back, yet she could still feel eyes on her from all sides, some overt, others subtle.
Zhao Jin and Lin Mian had arrived early. Zhao Jin wore a sharply tailored suit in a hue of lake blue, paired with white leather shoes. His cologne was a cool amber scent that, with one waft on the air, made him stand out unmistakably in the crowd.
He was leaning against the long table mixing a cocktail. Seeing Lin Mian approach, he let out a low whistle. "Tsk. No wonder you're the 'translator'—your look is much easier on the eyes than Zhao'an's poker face."
Lin Mian gave him a bland, side-long look.
"Don't be nervous," he said, sliding the cocktail shaker aside. "Your task tonight is simple: eat, smile, and don't get spooked by those half-politician, half-businessman monsters."
She was about to reply when a woman in a pale lavender suit emerged from the corner of the hall, dark hair coiled in a neat bun and eyes sharp as knives.
"This is Shen Qingjia," Zhao Jin introduced, lowering his voice. "She's with the diplomatic service—and Zhao'an's ex."
Lin Mian's hand tightened imperceptibly around the stem of her glass.
Shen Qingjia merely gave a faint nod. The look she leveled at Lin Mian suggested she was calculating some kind of cost-benefit ratio.
Noticing the chill in the air, Zhao Jin joked, "Hey now, don't look at each other like that. You'll scare me—I'm easily spooked."
At that moment, steady footsteps sounded at the door—Qin Zhao'an had arrived.
He wore a dark formal suit with his tie knotted tight, looking as if he'd been pulled straight from a meeting. His expression was unchanged, but his gaze paused for a split second when it swept over Lin Mian.
Zhao Jin went up to greet him, shoving a freshly mixed drink into his hand. "Relax, brother. Don't stand there looking like you're at a Puritan trial or something."
Just then, Lin Mian suddenly sensed a gaze shoot toward her from the side.
She turned and saw Lu Yuan at the bar, raising his glass to her with a gentle smile. Tonight he wore a white dress shirt and light gray trousers, and under the lamplight he appeared warm and easygoing.
"I'm basically co-hosting tonight," he said. "Lin Mian, you came at just the right time."
For a moment, Lin Mian found herself a bit distracted.
Three men, three different scents: Zhao Jin, with his amber-wood cologne—like a blend of nightclub and armory; Lu Yuan, with a minty cedar hint—light as first snow melting into water; and Qin Zhao'an, standing off to the side in silence, wearing no fragrance at all yet emanating an unmistakable metallic chill.
Lin Mian picked up her glass and took a small sip.
One banquet, three converging gazes—she stood at the center of the storm.
"Miss Lin." Zhao Jin appeared at her side and set a glass in front of her. "Tonight is your official debut. Have a drink — we're not leaving until you're drunk."
"I'm not much of a drinker," she said softly, lifting her eyes to him.
"Just think of yourself as both our interpreter and the newbie representative tonight, alright?" His voice carried a chuckle, but his tone left no room for refusal.
Before Lin Mian could touch the glass, a hand reached over and slid it away.
Qin Zhao'an had come up beside her, speaking calmly. "She's not drinking."
Zhao Jin threw up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright—I see who wears the pants around here."
Laughter rose around them, and the atmosphere grew hazy with drink.
Midway through the dinner, the guests drifted into scattered conversations. An overseas affairs delegate pulled Lin Mian aside, quietly asking her about translations for a few conference terms, then steering the topic toward her work history.
"Where were you posted before?" the man asked. His tone was friendly, but the edge in his question was sharp.
Lin Mian smiled politely. "I always worked behind the scenes in project support."
He arched an eyebrow, skeptical. "Someone with your kind of background… that's a rarity."
She lowered her gaze and offered no further explanation.
At some point a glass of wine had appeared in front of her.
She was about to push it aside when a low murmur sounded by her ear: "Stay and sit a while." She turned—Qin Zhao'an.
He sat by the window, a floor-length bamboo curtain behind him and light shimmering like ripples on water. He was still impeccably dressed, expression cool and composed, though a hint of alcohol had darkened his eyes.
Lin Mian hesitated a moment, but in the end she walked over and sat down across from him. Qin Zhao'an didn't speak immediately; he only lowered his gaze, fingertips idly tracing the rim of the ceramic cup on the table. A bit of warmth still clung to the cup's edge.
The silence between them was uncanny.
"You were very cooperative tonight," he finally said, voice level.
Lin Mian looked at him. "It was all your arrangement."
"So you complied." He lifted his eyes to hers. "You're always like that—going with the flow."
"Would you rather I had resisted?"
"I don't expect anything of you." He said it softly, yet there was a weight to his words, like the thud of a closing door.
Lin Mian fell quiet. After a long pause, he asked in a low voice, "Why didn't you refuse today?"
"Did you give me a choice?" she returned.
He lowered his eyes, as if laughing at himself. "I thought you would at least try to put up a fight."
Lin Mian gripped the hem of her skirt. "What is it you actually want me to do?"
His gaze remained steady and silent. He did not answer.
Beyond their little alcove came the distant clink of glasses and lively chatter. Suddenly Qin Zhao'an asked, "Do you remember where you first saw me?"
Lin Mian started, then instinctively shook her head.
"In the border inspection hall," he said quietly. "You were wearing a gray coat, sitting in the corner without saying a word. You were copying out a translation at the time, and your hand was shaking badly."
Lin Mian's heart gave a quick, disordered thump. She had no memory of ever encountering Qin Zhao'an before that night.
"Were you sleepwalking?" she murmured, bewildered.
Qin Zhao'an ignored her question. "I never imagined it would turn out to be you," he said. "Even less did I expect that you still haven't recognized me."
Her lips parted, but she found herself unable to say anything.
He rose to his feet, picked up his cup, and looked down at her. "We'll talk after we go back."
Then he walked off, leaving Lin Mian sitting there in a daze, feeling waves of hot and cold washing over her. In her mind, fragments of images began to surface—fragments of things she had believed she never experienced, now emerging quietly.
This dinner hadn't laid bare any secrets, yet it had unfolded like a long-orchestrated stratagem.