Overflowing Jealousy

Mo Zhicheng drained his glass of red wine in a single gulp.

"Cheers, President Mo!"

President Mo—such a title carried a hint of subtle distance. She lowered her eyelids slightly, but every shifting nuance of her expression had already fallen into his watchful eyes.

Ling Lan only cast a sideways glance at him, nodding slightly without saying much. The man politely handed his champagne flute to a waiter. With Leng Tingyu standing right between them, a delicate and tense atmosphere was brewing among the three of them, ready to unfold.

This banquet was the highest courtesy extended by KM's headquarters to its Chinese guests, and its sheer extravagance went without saying. Ling Lan was well aware that most Englishmen possessed an inherent aloofness in their bones, so to host Mo Zhicheng with such supreme hospitality spoke volumes about his current social standing.

Only then did Ling Lan realize that if she had not attended in a resplendent gown tonight, she truly would have become a laughingstock. In that moment, she felt a surge of gratitude toward Leng Tingyu.

Before long, Alan Johnson, the Executive CEO of the KM Group, approached with a graceful stride. The man, around fifty years of age, wore a sharp, impeccably tailored tailcoat. Englishmen were renowned worldwide for their gentlemanly etiquette, a trait particularly pronounced in upper-class society. Upon meeting Mo Zhicheng, Mr. Alan's gaze naturally drifted toward his female companion. Leng Tingyu's attire for the evening accentuated the unique, gentle grace and reserved temperament of an oriental woman to absolute perfection. Mr. Alan offered a humorous and sincere compliment, to which Leng Tingyu responded with a radiant, charming smile and words of gratitude. Her melodious voice and poised demeanor instantly made her the focal point of the banquet.

Ling Lan stood quietly behind them, listening to the fluent back-and-forth conversation. In that instant, she wished she understood nothing at all. A talented man and a stunning woman—a match made in heaven. She lowered her gaze, hearing Mo Zhicheng say with a calm smile, "Whatever it may be, we are the best partners."

***

Amidst the clinking of glasses and a dazzling array of gourmet food, the guests took their seats. Ling Lan sat beside Leng Tingyu at the long dining table, where seductive roses were arranged in perfect order—red like blazing fire, pink like evening clouds, and white with a pure, elegant grace.

The banquet consisted of four courses, carefully curated with a balance of vegetables, fruits, fish, and meat: fish and shrimp terrine served with green pea coulis, French papal consommé, prime steak, and chocolate mousse. Ling Lan gazed at the meticulously crafted delicacies before her, yet none of it could rival the comforting, homely warmth of a simple home-cooked meal.

She cast a sideways glance at the man and woman beside her. They had been chatting and laughing continuously, clinking glasses and sipping their drinks. Watching the slight upward curve of his lips—so different from his usual polite, external smile, carrying instead a touch of genuine warmth—it seemed as though being with Leng Tingyu allowed him to finally lower his long-held guard. Their crystal glasses touched lightly, producing a crisp, clear chime.

Leng Tingyu whispered, "Cheers, best partner." She had never imagined he would refer to them as the best partners in public, but... Tingyu took a delicate sip, secretly wishing that one day, "partner" would transform into "sweetheart."

That quiet declaration still reached Ling Lan's ears, and a flicker of panic could not escape the depths of her eyes. She picked up her wine glass. The rich, mellow aroma of the wine spread through her chest, yet it failed to suppress that hollow, sinking sensation.

From the corner of her eye, she kept catching glimpses of him and that woman, suddenly finding the exquisite delicacies utterly tasteless.

"Isn't steak with Madeira sauce your absolute favorite?" Leng Tingyu leaned over slightly, asking in a low voice, "How come I haven't seen you touch it?"

Observant as ever, she had noticed that he had barely used his cutlery throughout the dinner, though driven by the enthusiastic hospitality of their hosts, he had consumed quite a bit of champagne.

Mo Zhicheng set down his wine glass, lightly holding the stem and swirling the liquid absentmindedly. His deep, unfathomable gaze fixed upon the blossoming roses before him as he murmured, "What was liked in the past is not necessarily liked now."

As his voice trailed off, he turned his head and cast a profound, meaningful look at Leng Tingyu. His gaze bypassed her graceful profile, yet lingered intangibly on the woman sitting beside her.

That woman had also picked up her wine glass, turning her body slightly to proactively toast the blond, blue-eyed man beside her. Mo Zhicheng fell into a listless trance.

"Zhicheng," Leng Tingyu called out softly, noticing his absent-minded expression. "Zhicheng," she followed his line of sight and realized his dazed gaze was fixed entirely on that woman. Leng Tingyu froze. "Brother Zhicheng?"

Only then did Mo Zhicheng snap back to reality, offering Leng Tingyu a faint, responsive smile. However, the moment he averted his gaze, the smile on his lips vanished instantly. His expression darkened. He picked up his wine glass and drained it in a single upward tilt. The burning liquor scorched his throat. The fiery red dress she wore effortlessly outshone all the surrounding blooms; she was the most alluring, seductive red rose of all. Yet, wearing something so revealing—just who was she dressing up for?!

Ling Lan set her glass down heavily with a stifled heart.

*What was liked in the past is not necessarily liked now!*

Hearing the man's words made her heart tighten inexplicably once more. If not for the presence of the crowd, she doubted she would have found the courage to keep holding herself together. Thus, she could only force a disguised smile, pretending everything was fine as she exchanged pleasantries and drank with others. Would that make her feel a little better inside?

Yet, no one knew the agonizing pain gripping her heart—a pain so sharp, so deep.

When she stole another quiet glance at the man, seeing his rigid, cold profile outlined against the bright white lights, a wave of bitterness surged up her throat.

Caught in the middle, Tingyu looked at Ling Lan with a trace of perplexity. At the moment their gazes intersected, Ling Lan quickly masked her vulnerability with a smile, as if she had been caught in the act.

Tingyu's brow furrowed slightly. She stared at the golden liquid rippling within the walls of her glass, catching its lustrous sheen. It felt as though something had slammed violently against her heart, leaving a lingering sense of suffocation that slowly crept over her entire body. That sensation was akin to watching something that originally belonged to you inadvertently slip away to become someone else's possession!

***

After dinner, the dance floor beside the banquet hall was filled with the haunting, melancholic strains of the tango masterpiece, *Por Una Cabeza*. This piece was the ultimate representative of Argentine tango and a melody universally recognized and deeply cherished by music lovers around the world.

*Por Una Cabeza*—"just a head's length away"—profoundly interpreted the exquisite art of playing hard to get, of advance and retreat, of hesitation and surrender.

In the center of the dance floor, the fountain transformed its columns of water tirelessly to the elegant rhythm, bursting into sparkling, crystalline sprays.

The gentlemen present eagerly sought out partners and stepped onto the dance floor with the music. Couples spun gracefully and intertwined, abandoning themselves to a passionate tango.

Ling Lan had stopped following Leng Tingyu after dinner, wandering alone and aimlessly around the banquet hall. Next to the champagne fountain, roses were piled high, their delicate petals glistening with tiny, translucent dewdrops. They bloomed in a riot of colorful splendor, contending in beauty with myriad postures and a lingering fragrance, yet carrying an air of proud independence. Only then did Ling Lan realize that the rose was England's national flower.

Feeling listless, she plucked a rose petal, watching its juice smear across her palm like fresh blood. Out of sheer boredom, she used the plucked petals to trace the shape of a heart on the pristine white tablecloth. She smiled faintly. Just then, Jack, the assistant director of the MK company, walked up to her and invited her to dance. Caught completely off guard, Ling Lan was flustered. She had grown quite close to Jack through the course of this exhibition project, but she hurriedly declined the invitation, mostly because she genuinely did not know how to dance ballroom dances.

Jack smiled. "Rose..." His blue eyes were as pure and clear as the sky. He gestured to her crimson dress for the evening, which made her look just like a rose competing for attention, then looked down at the complete heart shape she had pieced together on the tablecloth. Speaking in slightly accented Mandarin, he said, "Hiding here all by yourself, trying to conceal your beauty. Come on, Rose!"

When Jack reached out his hand to invite her once more, Ling Lan smiled and gently refused again.

Because he was not *her* Jack! She suddenly remembered the most widely circulated quote from *Titanic*: "You jump, I jump"—to live and die together, sharing the same fate. That was roughly what it meant.

Suddenly, she sensed a sharp, piercing gaze flash from not far away. Glancing past Jack's shoulder, she unintentionally saw Mo Zhicheng reaching out and forcefully pulling Leng Tingyu into the dance floor. The woman's skirt flared out in a graceful, flowing arc as the man grabbed one of her hands and elegantly looped his other arm around her slender waist.

Standing a head taller than Leng Tingyu, his powerful, athletic physique seemed to envelop the woman entirely. The smile on Ling Lan's face vanished instantly, and even her gaze froze completely.

She watched their nimble footsteps; their breathtakingly envied silhouettes seemed to fit together to absolute perfection. This match made in heaven looked like a shining star in the luxurious ballroom.

Leng Tingyu's heart hammered like a drum against her ribs due to Mo Zhicheng's sudden action, dyeing her cheeks a rosy blush. Lowering her face, she could already smell the faint, alluring scent of the man's cologne lingering around the tip of her nose—a scent that was exquisitely pleasant and yet utterly heart-palpitating.

She felt the formidable strength in his waist pulling her directly into his embrace. Her heart raced faster and faster, spiraling into a chaotic flutter as she quietly raised her head to gaze up at Mo Zhicheng.

The man looked down, a charming smile curving the corners of his lips. Fearing she would drown in it if she looked any longer, she kept her gaze steady, only to notice a fleeting moment of distraction in his eyes.

Ye Ling Lan stood frozen in place. Following her line of sight, Jack caught sight of the intimately entwined couple on the dance floor and teased with a smile, "They really are a perfect match!" Spoken in fluent English, it sounded like the ultimate irony, ringing in her ears as deafening as a thunderclap.

A perfect match—yes, a terribly perfect match. She let out a desolate, bitter laugh, staring blankly as the man leaned down close to the woman's ear. She had no idea what they were saying, but both of them wore smiles. In an intimate embrace, they danced with light steps. From this angle, he seemed to brush against the woman's cheek ever so lightly, as if gently kissing her face, her temple, and even more intimately, kissing Leng Tingyu's earlobe.

Ling Lan felt a suffocating wave of tears and a sharp, piercing pain churn deep within her chest, forcefully suppressed inside her body. It felt as if she had suffered a violent impact, sealed off by a vacuum where all sounds vanished into a heavy, hollow silence.

The elegant melody felt like the resounding climax of a tragedy, permeating the luxurious ballroom like the immense, mournful wail of a low-pitched cello.