Under the Cheongsam Skirt - Chapter 34

The black Chevrolet rumbled through the night, jolting over the uneven road leading away from the train station.

Zhao Ciqin and Mu Changfeng sat stiffly beside each other, an invisible chasm between them. Sensing the tension, Zhao Chengqi filled the silence with animated stories of his time in Ningcheng.

“…I was assigned to the Third Battalion—a complete disgrace of a unit. Their ammunition depot got raided and destroyed overnight, and they were publicly reprimanded. Morale was lower than a stray dog’s tail. When command sent me there for training, I was furious. Guess what happened on my first day?”

He glanced left, silently urging Akuan to engage.

Akuan, who had been pretending to be part of the car’s upholstery, forced a smile. “What happened?”

“They wiped the floor with me. Literally.” Zhao Chengqi rubbed his elbow with a wince. “Took me three days to get out of bed. Later, I found out they were all nursing grudges. They thought I was some spoiled Shanghai brat shoved into their unit by connections. I looked down on them? They looked down on me.”

His tone shifted, brightening with pride. “Now I can take three of them at once. And the Japanese? With a bit of luck, a few of us can pick them off quietly. They’d never even see it coming.”

Zhao Ciqin listened silently, her gaze fixed on the fogged window.

As they entered Shanghai’s city limits, scattered street vendors flickered past in the gloom. She raised a hand to wipe the condensation away—
—when Mu Changfeng seized her wrist.

His grip was iron, pinning her hand to the seat.

Ahead, the conversation continued, oblivious. She tried to pull free, but he only tightened his hold, his warmth searing into her skin as his fingers laced through hers.

Ten fingers. Interlocked.

Zhao Ciqin’s breath hitched.

“Akuan,” she said sharply. “Stop the car.”

The brakes screeched.

Zhao Chengqi turned just in time to see his sister fling the door open and stride into the night—Mu Changfeng right behind her, cutting her off beneath a streetlamp.

“Hey, Sis—”

Akuan yanked him back. “Young Master, don’t. They’re already divorced!”

“What?!”

Under the streetlamp, the light etched every detail into stark relief—even the gnats swirling in the air. Mu Changfeng blocked Zhao Ciqin’s path, his voice low and relentless.

“Why didn’t you tell Chengqi the truth about us?”

His presence was a blade at her throat. “You say it’s over. You could’ve made me leave. So why run?”
A pause. His hand twitched—almost reaching for hers again. “Do you still feel something for me?”

Zhao Ciqin met his gaze, eerily calm.

“Because I knew you’d follow.”

The lamplight pooled in her eyes. “Mu Changfeng, I’ve thought about what you said yesterday. It was unfair to divorce without talking to you first. But I waited too long. I couldn’t wait any more.”

Her apology should’ve soothed him. Instead, dread coiled in his chest.

“Do you remember what you asked me before we married?” she said suddenly. “When you rushed back from the south?”

Mu Changfeng went still.

“Too long ago? I’ll remind you.” Her smile was soft now, all yesterday’s ice melted away. “You asked why I married you. I couldn’t answer then—not because I didn’t know, but because I didn’t dare.”

“To outsiders, our marriage was just politics. You needed my family’s money for your army; we needed your power to secure our place in Shanghai’s business world. A transaction. But for me?” She exhaled. “There was only ever one reason. I loved you.”

Loved?

He remembered her asleep at midnight, the doodles tucked into her letters—countless fragments he’d never pieced into love.

His heart burned—then plunged into icy water as she continued:

“Without that love, there was no point in staying married.”

The night swallowed his silence.

At last, Mu Changfeng spoke. “Do you love him?”

“Yes.” She knew he meant Xu Xing. “I do. Being with him makes me happy.”

Something fractured in Mu Changfeng’s expression—loss, bitterness—before his usual detachment slammed back into place. “I see.”

“But I came today for a reason.” His voice hardened. “I need your help.”

Wind rustled the trees as he leaned closer. “You know Bill Berkeley, the French consul-general? He’s a fanatic for traditional Chinese art. He once paid a fortune for your teacher’s work. Recently, he saw your paintings at an exhibition and has been eager to meet you.”

“Tomorrow, at a banquet, he’ll finalize talks with Japan’s Nakagawa about their joint attack on Yanshan Island. I need you to distract him—just long enough for my men to eliminate Nakagawa on-site.”

His eyes were flint. “It’s dangerous. You’d be at risk. So the choice is yours, Zhao Ciqin. Yes or no.”