Chapter 7: Intimate Contact, The Bedding Is Nice

Han Rao had to admit, there were times when she genuinely admired Zhao Jichuan’s methods.

At this moment, his deep gaze rested on her face, brimming with tenderness, while the fabric beneath his hands was as thin as paper—with just a light tug, it slipped away from her skin.

Han Rao felt the man’s hand wandering, and she only sensed a chill—whether it was from the front or behind, or perhaps just a psychological sensation, she couldn’t tell. It was eerily similar to snowflakes slipping into her collar on a winter day, melting with the warmth, leaving behind a tingling coolness.

Her long lashes trembled as she closed her eyes, leaning dazedly against his chest, surrendering to his demands.

She thought, she was just a drop of poison

Water, the last remaining drop, will ultimately merge into his stream.

If someone were to ask her what she had given in this inherently unequal relationship, her answer at this moment would undoubtedly be everything.

At this very moment, she felt as though she had died and been reborn, reborn only to die again.

The once innocent Han Rao seemed to have vanished forever after undergoing her baptism.

She shattered herself completely, reassembled, and molded into who she is now—ambitious, determined to make it big.

She was determined to carve out a place for herself in this mercenary circle, no matter what it took. She wanted all those who had wronged her to come crawling back, begging on their knees.

Zhao Jichuan had neither the mood nor the obligation to care about the woman’s inner turmoil at that moment. He gripped her chin and kissed her lips, yet forcefully commanded her to keep her eyes open and look at him.

Han Rao only felt his fingertips probing in. She let out a muffled groan, trembling as she opened her eyes and met the man’s gaze.

She gently curved her lips, struggling to wrap her arms around his neck, pressing her face against his chest, as docile as a kitten, her breath warm against his skin. “Hold me, please?”

Zhao Jichuan was pleased by her and withdrew his hand, then directly scooped her up in his arms.

Until he held her in his arms, he realized how light she was.

Almost without thinking, he blurted out, “How much do you weigh?”

Han Rao smiled playfully and reached out to touch his chin. “President Zhao, didn’t you know? A girl’s weight is private.”

Zhao Jichuan lowered his gaze to look at her. The woman’s eyes were gentle, her hair slightly disheveled and clinging to her forehead.

Han Rao pursed her lips slightly and said with a hint of pride, “Height 168, weight 95.”

This was indeed something she could be proud of—since entering the industry, her weight had consistently fluctuated between 94 and 96 pounds, never exceeding 100. Even during the four years she was blacklisted, with no roles to film, she never indulged in overeating and maintained a regular fitness routine.

Zhao Jichuan pinned her down on the bed, examining her body—indeed, her figure was well-proportioned, with not an ounce of excess fat around her waist and abdomen, yet all the right curves were perfectly intact.

He hooked his arm under her knees, then heard her whisper mysteriously with childlike glee, “But I’ll tell you a secret—I’m actually 170 cm tall. I deliberately reported myself as 2 cm shorter back then. My agent said being too tall would make it hard to find male co-stars.”

This time, Zhao Jichuan was genuinely amused by her. With a click, he unbuckled his belt and quipped sarcastically, “As if you’ve had any roles to act alongside these past two years.”

Han Rao’s smile froze on her face. She was certain he couldn’t be a good lover—his words were laced with venom, utterly incapable of providing any emotional comfort.

Don’t you know it’s all just a show? You always pour cold water on her.

But then again, he was the one paying, so she could just bear with it if she had to.

Moreover, maintaining a purely transactional relationship between them was already ideal—bringing up love and affection was nothing short of a fantasy.

Han Rao only felt her legs being parted apart. Probably to distract her attention, she said, “So now I have to thank you. If it weren’t for you, I still wouldn’t have any roles to play.”

As soon as Han Rao finished speaking, she felt herself suddenly suspended in midair, like a stranded fish. With every movement he made, offering her a drop of sweet rain, she desperately sought more, until finally trembling, she burst into tears.

Zhao Jichuan didn’t have particularly cruel preferences that demanded making her cry, yet at this moment he found her sobs exceptionally melodious.

The man kissed her lips while raising a hand to caress her heart. “Uncomfortable?”

Han Rao shook her head repeatedly before nodding—it wasn’t discomfort, but overwhelming pleasure.

Yet she felt too ashamed to admit she’d been driven to tears by ecstasy.

But no matter how she disguised or evaded, she couldn’t escape his hawk-like gaze.

Zhao Jichuan chuckled softly, gently pinching her delicate cheek as he carefully kissed away the tears on her face. He found her truly satisfying—whether above or below, she was so overflowing.

Han Rao’s gaze was clear yet gradually blurred, drop by drop, tears rolling onto the pristine white sheets.

She looked at the man who appeared gentler under the dim light, then slowly turned her head away and closed her eyes.

That night, amidst the undulating waves of pleasure and pain, she suddenly recalled a play she had performed during her sophomore year finals—*Sunrise* by Mr. Cao Yu, in which she played the role of Chen Bailu. Though their group had only performed a segment of the play, she had watched Chen Hao’s version of *Sunrise* over and over again.

She sympathized with and adored the character Chen Bailu, loving her frankness, her magnanimity, and her myriad charms..

The line that left the deepest impression on her was: “But the money I obtained came at the cost of sacrificing my most precious possession.”

Han Rao thought, she seemed to be the same way.

Yet it seemed different, because she had actually experienced pleasure in bed—a kind of joy she had never known before.

Han Rao’s mind was in a daze, so she simply let herself drown in the sea of desire, no longer dwelling on anything else.

By the time it was over, Han Rao’s voice was hoarse from crying. The window in the room was open, and she faintly heard the patter of rain outside.

She thought, this rain had finally come after all.

Zhao Jichuan released his grip on her waist, took out a cigarette, and placed it between his lips. Before lighting it, he tilted his head slightly to glance at her and politely asked if she minded him smoking.

Han Rao propped her chin on her hand, watching him with a smile as she shook her head.

She gazed longingly as he lit the cigarette, exhaling plumes of smoke that blurred the contours of his face.

Truth be told, she wanted to smoke one too, but she quickly dismissed the thought. She didn’t want to imitate him, nor did she want him disrupting her own way of life—even in something as trivial as a post-coital cigarette.

Han Rao lay quietly on the bed, listening to the sound of rain and greedily inhaling the scent of smoke in the room.

He was a man of refined tastes, preferring to insert a piece of agarwood into his tobacco when smoking, so the aroma in the room was pleasant and gradually overpowered the ambiguous atmosphere.

Perhaps the environment was too quiet. Zhao Jichuan glanced at her and casually struck up a conversation to ease the tension.

“Did you settle things with the company?” he asked.

Han Rao nodded lightly, then shook her head. During dinner, he had scolded her for not discussing work matters, and now he was bringing it up himself. Truly, rules are made by the wealthy—everything depends on his mood.

Since he brought it up, she naturally had to follow his lead. She pursed her lips, seemingly wrestling with her thoughts, then asked him, “If I wanted to sue the company, would you help me?”

He raised his eyes curiously, reaching out to lightly tap the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray, signaling for her to continue.

Han Rao tugged the corner of the quilt higher, covering herself more. “I think the penalty fee is a bit steep. Logically speaking, I shouldn’t have to pay this much.”

She never ruled out the possibility that the bloodsucking company was deliberately trying to screw her over.

“How long would the lawsuit take?” he asked her, his eyes filled with inquiry.

Han Rao: “Maybe over a year?” She wasn’t entirely sure. She had only entertained the idea, briefly looked it up online, and hadn’t yet consulted a lawyer—that’s why she came to seek his opinion.

Perhaps it was because they had just been so in sync that he was in a good mood, and for once, he spoke to her with the tone of an elder, wise and profound.

“Han Rao, some things should be calculated for optimal profit. The energy you spend on lawsuits could very well affect your future schedule, your work progress, even your reputation. Han Rao, some money isn’t worth measuring against the cost of time—do you understand?”

“Of course, as for how to choose in the end, that’s up to you.”

Zhao Jichuan gave her a faint smile, crushed the cigarette butt in the ashtray, then pulled up his pants and walked straight to the bathroom.

Han Rao gazed at his smooth contours, let out a soft sigh, then greedily inhaled the lingering sandalwood scent in the air before slowly closing her eyes.

Later she realized, this was actually the first lesson Zhao Jichuan had taught her.

　　-

The advantage of a suite is that it has more than one bathroom. After resting, Han Rao found a room to clean up without worrying about running into Zhao Jichuan again.

The thought of bathing together was something she couldn’t even imagine—too embarrassing. She’d probably cringe so hard her toes curled, with nowhere safe to rest her gaze.

She felt that the phrase “strangers under the bed” perfectly captured the nature of their relationship.

She examined her figure carefully in the bathroom mirror, her fair skin slightly flushed from the heat. She raised her hand to cover the finger marks left by Zhao Jichuan on her waist, then tilted her body to check her back—her shoulder blades poised like butterfly wings, unmarked.

She sighed; Zhao Jichuan’s bedding was decent enough, not leaving her any trouble.

Han Rao finished her shower and freshened up, lazily stepping out with damp hair wrapped in a bathrobe. She picked up the bag that had been tossed on the carpet, rummaged through it for her phone, and instinctively glanced through all her social media apps. She opened Weibo, skimmed through the entertainment hot searches—nothing major like who divorced whom or who was exposed in a new relationship—and exited with disinterest.

Suddenly, a text message popped up on her phone. She opened it and saw a string of numbers—only then did she realize it was her penalty fee.

She froze for a moment, a strange feeling welling up inside her.

She didn’t know why Sun Hao happened to transfer the money at this exact moment—perhaps it was just a coincidence. But it brutally tore away the disguise in her heart, revealing that everything she had gained came from the man who had just been in bed with her.

Han Rao suppressed these sentimental thoughts and instinctively counted the zeros from front to back to confirm the amount was correct before turning off her phone screen.

After all, this money has to be paid back to the company—it’s not hers to keep, and she can’t hold onto it for long.

Han Rao tossed her phone aside and, with a casual glance, realized Zhao Jichuan had emerged unnoticed at some point, his gaze clear and fixed on her with keen interest.

He had already changed into clean clothes—a crisp shirt and dress pants. Han Rao lowered her gaze, feeling that he had returned to his usual aloof and restrained demeanor. This version of him was difficult to communicate with.

She didn’t say anything more, just pointed at her damp hair before returning to the bathroom to blow-dry it.

After drying her hair, Han Rao picked up the dress that had been thrown on the floor, intending to change and leave. But when she looked down, she realized the stitching at the hem had been torn by him.

She vaguely recalled hearing the sound of fabric tearing, but her attention was entirely elsewhere at the time, so she paid no mind to it.

Han Rao examined the skirt—it was already short, and wearing it out like this was definitely not an option. She bit her lip and decided to call the front desk to request a sewing kit be sent up.

Han Rao took the needle and thread and sat on the sofa to mend her skirt when Zhao Jichuan finally realized she was leaving.

He lazily sat beside her, lowering his gaze to watch her stitching technique, feeling somewhat guilty, and slowly said, “Leave tomorrow. I’ll have someone send you a dress.”

Han Rao wasn’t particularly skilled at needlework, nor did she care much for such things. After all, the thread was black and so was the skirt—she just needed to stitch up the torn part well enough to get by at home.

“I’d better go back.” She tugged at the thread, and the needle accidentally slipped from her fingers, falling onto the carpet.

She wasn’t accustomed to sleeping at his place—this space didn’t belong to her, and she would suffer insomnia.

Zhao Jichuan watched as she bent down to pick up the needle again, holding it up to thread the string. Perhaps it was because the light was too dim—no matter how long she tried, she couldn’t get the thread through.

Zhao Jichuan really thought she was quite stubborn. He stood up and turned on a light. “I’ll have someone take you back.”

The lights came on, and Han Rao successfully threaded the needle in her hand. She paused her movements, looked up sincerely, and said, “I can go by myself, no need to trouble you.”

She thought, he must be sending the driver Wang Jie to take her.

Workers understand workers; Wang Jie definitely wouldn’t want to deal with this at this hour.

Zhao Jichuan seemed to have glimpsed her inner thoughts and found her utterly helpless. Fortunately, he was in a good mood today, and after all, he owed her an apology for ruining her clothes.

He stood up in front of her, his shadow enveloping her. Lost in thought, she accidentally pricked herself with the needle and let out a soft “hiss.”

Han Rao gave him a somewhat reproachful look. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t have had to endure this needle prick.

She knew her technique wasn’t good, so she focused with all her might, but he kept leaning in to distract her.

Zhao Jichuan looked at her coquettish little expression and said, “I’ll personally take you there.”

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