Chapter 19: Madam's First Time Ironing

That evening, Ban Ban returned upstairs from the living room and found Auntie Jiang in the dressing room, spreading a white shirt on the ironing board. Steam rose in thin wisps as she carefully guided the iron along the collar, smoothing each crease.

Ban Ban watched from the doorway for a few seconds, then went in. “Auntie Jiang, let me.”

Surprised, the housekeeper looked up. “You know how to iron?”

“Yes.” Ban Ban pushed up her sleeves and took the iron. “I ironed Dad’s shirts at home. Go rest; I’ll do this one.”

Auntie Jiang looked at her and the shirt, smiled and agreed. “Be careful of the steam,” she said before leaving.

Alone, Ban Ban pressed her palm over the light, crisp white fabric. A tiny brand emblem was embroidered inside the collar. She spread the shirt flat and slowly guided the iron along its edge. Steam rose with the clean scent of cotton.

Then she stopped and looked at another shirt hanging nearby. Its cuffs were perfectly smooth and stiff, as though freshly unpacked.

She lifted the iron and deliberately pressed a bend into the sleeve at the elbow. The steam left a faint crease. Deciding it wasn’t obvious enough, she added another.

She turned the shirt over and did the same between the shoulder blades, leaving several irregular wrinkles like little handprints. As she pressed them, she muttered, “That’s for attracting women. For calling someone at midnight to rescue someone from a drinking party. For not making a clean break with your first love.”

The iron pressed down and lifted, again and again. Still not satisfied, she added a small crease at the hem. The wrinkles were spread across the fabric, inconspicuous at first glance but visible when light fell on them.

She stepped back and tilted her head to admire her work. Satisfied, she put it on a hanger at the front of the wardrobe, clapped her hands and went to the study doorway.

Ting’an sat behind his desk reading, rimless glasses on, a lamp casting warm light over the papers. She knocked on the frame. “Wen Ting’an.”

He looked up.

“I’ve ironed your shirt.” Her voice was cheerful, her mouth curved. “The white one. Will you wear it tomorrow?”

Seeing her standing there so sweetly, he felt warmth in his chest and nodded. “All right.”

“I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late.”

“Mm.”

She returned to the primary bedroom, washed and got into her pajamas. Beneath the quilt she buried her face in the pillow and chuckled. Imagining him going out in that shirt tomorrow, she rolled over and laughed a little longer before closing her eyes in satisfaction.

The next morning they ate breakfast together. Auntie Jiang had made little wontons and fried dumplings. Ban Ban blew on a wonton and ate it, glancing across the table. Ting’an drank his soup, apparently unaware of the shirt.

When he finished, he stood. “I’ll go change.”

She immediately put down her spoon and rose. “I’ll help you.”

He turned after two steps, eyebrow raised. “So diligent? Volunteering to dress your husband?”

“Yes.” She hurried after him, looking up with complete seriousness. “I want to be a competent Mrs. Wen.”

He smiled faintly. “All right.”

They entered the dressing room. Ting’an undid his pajama buttons one by one from the bottom up and draped the top over a chair, revealing his lean torso. His shoulders and back were broad and level, muscles defined without exaggeration, waist narrow, stomach flat, abdominal muscles visible in the light.

Ban Ban’s gaze traveled from his shoulders to his waist and paused at his abdomen. She took the white shirt from its hanger, shook it open and held it up while he stood bare-chested.

“You have abs,” she couldn’t help saying. “I’ve never seen you exercise.”

He slipped an arm into a sleeve. “I usually work out at noon. There’s a gym at the office.”

“Oh.” She moved around and helped him into the other sleeve.

With the shirt on his shoulders, she came around front and rose on tiptoe to reach the collar buttons. It was hard. He was so tall that even stretched to her limit, her fingers barely touched the collar, nowhere near the buttons.

“Bend down,” she said, patting his shoulder. “I can’t reach the top two.”

He looked down at her stretching, but didn’t bend. Instead he walked two steps and sat on a low stool in the center of the dressing room. Seated, he was the right height for her to reach his collar without standing on tiptoe.

She leaned in, head lowered, carefully threading the button through its hole. Her nose nearly touched his chin, her warm breaths brushing his throat.

After fastening the first button, her gaze settled on his Adam’s apple, prominent as he looked down. It moved as he swallowed. She watched for two seconds, fingers still holding the second button.

“That’s handsome too,” she said more quietly. “Can I touch it?”

His throat moved again. He looked up. Her eyes remained fixed there, fingers suspended on the button, waiting.

“No.” His voice was tighter than usual.

Her brows drooped, lips pouting, cheeks puffed. “Stingy. So stingy. You won’t even let me touch it.”

She fastened the second button and moved to the third, still complaining. “I’d only touch it once. I’m not doing anything. It’s not as if no one else has touched you. Maybe that person, Lin Sang, touched it before…”

His throat moved again. He watched her grumble, cheeks puffed and lips pursed, fumbling twice with the third button before it went through. He breathed out, took her wrist and guided her fingers to his throat.

“Go on. Once.”

She stopped talking and looked up, eyes bright. “Really?”

He closed his eyes and nodded. She gently laid her forefinger against the warm protrusion. It shifted slightly as he swallowed. She rubbed it back and forth twice, feeling its firmness and slight give, the pulse beneath his skin.

“That’s fun.”

He opened his eyes and took her wrist away. Standing, he towered two heads above her, warmth barely contained in his gaze. He quickly finished buttoning his shirt and put on his jacket, never noticing that the shirt looked different.

“I’m going to the office.”

She watched, still smiling from touching his throat. “All right, go.”

He went downstairs. At the entryway, changing shoes, he touched his throat; the warmth of her fingertip seemed to remain. He breathed out and left.

In the car he started the engine, one hand on the wheel, the other rubbing his brow. Glancing at his reflection, he looked helpless. “Such a tease,” he murmured, then drove off.

By the office his usual composure had returned. The elevator opened to his secretary waiting with a folder.

“Good morning, Mr. Wen.”

“Morning.”

“The regular meeting is at nine thirty. The materials are on your desk. Also, Ms. Lin from Sheng’an confirmed the cooperation meeting for three this afternoon.”

“Understood.” He hung up his jacket, adjusted his collar and leafed through the folder. “Prepare for the meeting.”

“Yes.”

In the small inner room, he tugged his shirt hem before a full-length mirror. He noticed a faint crease at one elbow, then the same on the other sleeve. He rubbed them and decided it was no great matter. It was her first time ironing; naturally she lacked practice.

He went to the conference room. More than a dozen people were already seated, the projector on, some reading documents. He took the head seat, set down his folder and leaned slightly sideways to look at the data on screen.

The marketing director beside him kept glancing at his clothes. Ting’an ignored it and read on. The finance director opposite also looked several times, gaze moving from his face to his shoulder and back. He looked around and saw more than one person watching him with subtle curiosity.

“Let’s begin.”

During the meeting, he turned pages and leaned sideways for documents. Their gazes followed each movement as if watching something rare. He didn’t know that each time he turned, the wrinkles between his shoulder blades stretched more visibly, like two little dark clouds on the white fabric.

At the end, the marketing director followed him to the door, looked as if he wanted to speak, then left without saying anything.

Back in his office, Ting’an drank water and reviewed points marked in the minutes. His secretary spoke from the doorway. “Mr. Wen, Lin Sang, the Sheng’an Real Estate partner, changed the time. She’ll be here in half an hour.”

His hand stopped turning the page. He set down his pen and leaned back. “From now on, have Li Cheng handle all Sheng’an matters. They don’t need to come through me.”

The secretary paused, then nodded. “I’ll tell Li Cheng.”

She turned to leave, hesitated and looked back, choosing her words. “Would you like to change your shirt?”

He looked up. “Why?”

Her gaze moved between his shoulders and cuffs. “The back is all wrinkled.”

Puzzled, he stood and went to the floor-to-ceiling glass by the wall. He turned sideways to examine his reflection. The wrinkles behind his shoulders were clear, especially conspicuous against the white fabric. He extended his arms to inspect the sleeves, then turned again. A quiet laugh escaped him.

So that was why she’d been so helpful. She’d been up to mischief.

He remembered her sweet expression in the study doorway when she’d said she’d ironed his shirt, and her serious offer to help him dress that morning. He stood looking at the wrinkles for a long time, smiling.

The secretary watched, subtly shaken. In five years working for him, she’d never seen him laugh at a mistake like this. Before, he’d have changed a wrinkled shirt at once and been displeased. He paid close attention to clothing, especially with many clients visiting today. Now he smiled at his reflection, the line at his eye deepening.

He lowered his arms and turned, expression returning to normal, though his voice held unmistakable warmth. “It’s all right. Madam was learning to iron for the first time; she isn’t very practiced yet.”

The secretary opened her mouth, acknowledged him and left. Walking back to her desk, she felt lightheaded, the image replaying: Mr. Wen looking at the wrinkled back of his shirt and smiling as he explained that Madam was learning to iron.

She drank tea to steady herself, then quietly told the person beside her, “Mr. Wen wore the shirt Madam ironed wrinkled to work today, and he’s in a very good mood.”

That afternoon the story spread quietly through the company, from the secretaries’ office to marketing, then finance, rippling outward. Mr. Wen hadn’t changed the wrinkled shirt. He’d said it was Madam’s first time learning. He wore it all day, even to cooperation meetings.

When Ting’an returned to his office that evening, he opened the door more lightly than usual. A message from Ban Ban had arrived an hour before: “Coming home for dinner?”

He replied, “Yes.” Then he looked again at the crease on his sleeve and rubbed it gently. The fabric had softened from a day’s wear, the crease fainter but still distinct.

He pocketed his phone, took his jacket and left.