As soon as Fu Yanzong finished speaking, Song Linyu’s breath hitched sharply. The hand he had hovering in midair clenched unconsciously, grasping only a thread of icy chill.
In that instant, all the blood in his body seemed to freeze solid, as if someone were pouring the ice water from the glass on the table down his spine, drop by drop, until even his teeth ached with cold.
Had Fu Yanzong figured it out…?
Song Linyu’s mind raced, scrutinizing his own slip-ups while simultaneously devising a slew of contingency plans.
Unconsciously, he straightened his back, the lingering warmth and softness on his face ebbing away like the tide before he even realized it. Color drained bit by bit from his lips until only a nearly translucent pallor remained.
The room fell into a stifling silence, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner vent on the kitchen island and the scrape of Fu Yanzong’s knife across the porcelain plate.
The silver blade against the fine bone china wasn’t shrill, but each deliberate stroke cut through the quiet with crystalline clarity, slowed just enough to instinctively stir a guilty premonition in Song Linyu—as if he were on the verge of being caught. A thin sheen of sweat beaded on his palms.
The silence shattered with the crunch of cereal being crushed.
Fu Yanzong pushed his plate aside and used his spoon to pulverize the entire bowl of flakes. With a touch of childish petulance, he mashed them into the thick white yogurt, then slid the wooden bowl toward Song Linyu without looking up. “Don’t zone out. Eat first,” he said flatly.
Song Linyu snapped out of his tension in a flash. His breathing hitched briefly before he smoothed it over.
Gripping his spoon, Song Linyu curled his fingertips nervously. He still couldn’t fully relax, so he ventured cautiously, “I’m not hungry. Bro, are you upset…? If so, I’ll stay. Whatever you want to do later, I’ll keep you company—”
“Not hungry?” Fu Yanzong glanced up at him, his expression unchanged as he curved his lips into a smile and rose, shoving back his chair.
He always infused his smiles with different shades of meaning—whether it was natural charm in those soulful eyes or masterful acting, Song Linyu couldn’t tell. Either way, he read a familiar intimacy in that gaze and grin, making the earlier aloof chill feel like an illusion.
Seeing Fu Yanzong move, Song Linyu spun around in a panic, which only made it easier for Fu Yanzong to brush past him. In the aftermath, the space between them shrank to nothing.
Fu Yanzong paused and casually hooked two fingers into the open collar of Song Linyu’s shirt, slowly drawing them together to fasten it.
His eyes trailed down from the fresh hickeys mottling Song Linyu’s pale collarbone, lingering a moment before he arched a brow with unruffled amusement. “Not hungry? Then what did you eat to get so full? Yesterday’s rice-green elixir?”
“…”
Song Linyu’s face flushed crimson in an instant, his mind blanking out on the elaborate schemes swirling there moments before.
Fu Yanzong’s words too easily conjured memories of yesterday—how he’d coquettishly begged for more in Fu Yanzong’s arms, only to end up wordless, taking it all until he could do nothing but plead for mercy.
Yet Fu Yanzong delivered the line so casually. He released his hold, skirted around Song Linyu, and reached the sofa to snatch up the car keys he’d tossed on the coffee table the night before.
“Eat up, then go,” Fu Yanzong said. “Come back early.”
Song Linyu’s phone rang again—an unknown number, persistent and refusing to drop. He knew exactly who was hounding him… and it meant the matter had escalated to demand his immediate attention.
But he ignored it.
After a moment’s hesitation, Song Linyu ended the call. Fu Yanzong had already reached the walk-in closet at the end of the hallway, and without a second thought, he hurried after him.
For some reason, Song Linyu felt compelled to say something to Fu Yanzong. But face-to-face, he found himself at a loss for how to explain.
—Tell him he’d been deceiving him all this time?
—Confess he was scheming to topple Fu Yanzong’s uncle and covet the shares in his hands?
—Admit the beginning was a lie, but that he genuinely liked him now?
It sounded like a desperate joke, cobbled together at the end of his rope.
An impure motive from the start had led to this unspeakable impasse.
Song Linyu parted his lips, his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth before falling. The words churning in his chest burst like fragile bubbles at his throat, leaving him able only to utter Fu Yanzong’s name—and this one plea.
“I’m okay now,” he said. “Fu Yanzong, are you heading out? Take me with you, please.”
Fu Yanzong stood at the base of the sunken closet’s black steps, selecting a watch. The transparent display case perfectly mirrored Song Linyu’s expression from atop the stairs.
Lost, tense, fraught with unease.
Fu Yanzong’s gaze dropped to a black Parmigiani Fleurier, lingering motionless. Whether he was debating if it suited the day or studying the hazy reflection of Song Linyu’s face, who could say?
“Bro.”
Song Linyu called out softly again, but Fu Yanzong didn’t turn.
With unhurried fingers, he unclasped the metal buckle. The gears clicked faintly as the platinum bracelet slid down, conforming to the ridges of his wrist bones.
“Song Linyu,” he said, “go handle your own business first.”
Fu Yanzong’s voice was soft—so soft it bordered on an indistinct sigh. Song Linyu stared at him in a daze, as if he understood yet didn’t quite grasp it.
When Fu Yanzong departed, he didn’t pause again, as if he were the one with the pressing errand that day.
He took only his phone and car keys. Song Linyu had no clue if he was off to race or something else.
Instinct urged Song Linyu to chase after him with his usual nagging reminders, but his mind held only the image of Fu Yanzong at the door.
He had paused there, turning to fix Song Linyu with a deep, lingering look.
…Just that one glance.
/
Song Linyu wrapped up his affairs with ruthless efficiency. He had an undeniable gift for it. What seemed an insurmountable crisis to Ren Haoran unraveled effortlessly at his touch.
Even if others doubted this deceptively youthful man could command everything in his grasp, the irrefutable results left them no choice but to submit.
A full week’s workload was somehow compressed into a few days, freeing up time for Song Linyu to spend more with Fu Yanzong.
At ten that evening, Ren Haoran had just ushered him from the banquet to the hotel and opened the door when Song Linyu shrugged off his overcoat onto the sofa without breaking stride, heading straight into the suite to change.
Not a word in haste.
His vigorous shrug tugged at the shirt beneath, exposing a swath of bruised purple hickeys before Ren Haoran could avert his eyes.
Ren Haoran broke out in chills, eyes fixed firmly downward, wishing for instant amnesia.
Truth be told, Ren Haoran’s usual line of work involved procuring pleasures—what scenes hadn’t he witnessed, what kinks hadn’t he indulged firsthand? But Song Linyu and the “deer” of Deer Garden were worlds apart.
Ren Haoran had met Song Linyu at sixteen, summoned disdainfully by his uncle’s will.
He’d planned to fob off some cash on the naive country bumpkin, letting him squander it in a haze of vice till the end. Instead, the kid—barely grown—outmaneuvered him with ruthless precision, gutting him in a massive con.
The blow had shaken him to the core, leaving scars that still twinged.
From then on, Ren Haoran served loyally, and business flourished under his watch, rising with the tide.
He knew Song Linyu had lately gone after Fu Yanzong’s shares by playing assistant and canary. Seeing the evidence with his own eyes filled his head with nothing but awe.
To endure so long, to this degree…?
No ordinary person could pull it off.
Ren Haoran didn’t dwell long. The suite door swung open again. Song Linyu’s crisp suit had given way to a thin black cotton tee and faded jeans, leaving him looking utterly refreshed.
Even his neatly combed hair was damp, strands pitifully drooping over his impassive eyes, lending him an air of innocent vulnerability.
Through the half-open door, Ren Haoran glimpsed a scatter of accessories strewn across the bed—pricey gem cufflinks clattering on the floor, utterly ignored by Song Linyu.
Watching the poised young scion morph in seconds into a slender, fragile student, Ren Haoran shook his head in amazement. He promptly handed over the black backpack from the desk, piling on the flattery: “Boss, your disguise is flawless. As the ancients said, heaven burdens its chosen with trials to temper the will…”
“If you can’t talk right, shut up,” Song Linyu said coolly. “Read more before showing off your so-called erudition next time.”
Ren Haoran clamped his mouth shut.
He respectfully opened the door for Song Linyu, and the two of them took the elevator down from the prime real estate high-rise in Shenlan, where every inch of land cost a fortune, all the way to the parking garage.
Song Linyu’s request was for Ren Haoran to drop him off at the intersection next to Lanting Apartment. From there, he would walk the rest of the way to avoid any slip-ups.
If you were putting on a show, you might as well go all the way. Ren Haoran couldn’t help thinking that if his boss ever entered the entertainment industry, he could probably snag a Movie Emperor award.
He turned the key to start the engine, and the mechanical voice of the navigation system suddenly blared in the enclosed car. Out of the corner of his eye, Ren Haoran saw Song Linyu’s brow furrowed the whole time. His thumb hovered over the phone screen, typing out a few lines only to delete them word by word. Finally, he slammed the phone down onto his leg with a dull thud.
Song Linyu had been calm and composed even on the way to deal with a troublesome rival, but now his face showed uncharacteristic panic. His already pale lips were pressed thin and white, his teeth grinding a deep mark into the soft flesh. It startled Ren Haoran so much that he found himself holding his breath.
After a while, Ren Haoran ventured cautiously, “Boss, did something big happen? Did they discover our plan?”
It took a long moment before Song Linyu forced out a quiet reply. “…Bro hasn’t replied to me.”
His voice was soft and hoarse. He clutched the phone in his lap, the screen still lit up with a dense stack of green chat bubbles that made Ren Haoran’s eyes swim.
Song Linyu lowered his lashes, his fingertip absently rubbing the cool edge of the phone as he murmured, almost to himself, “Is he mad at me?”
“…”
Ren Haoran desperately wanted to ask if this was really a bigger deal than having to concede three percentage points. Why did his boss look so utterly distraught?
But considering that his boss always had his reasons, Ren Haoran tactfully advised, “Maybe Fu Yanzong is just busy. When I’m swamped, I often forget to reply to messages all day. It’s not a big deal.”
Song Linyu ignored him and kept his head down, waiting stubbornly for Fu Yanzong’s reply like a statue carved from stone.
The car sped through the empty night streets and soon reached the destination. Ren Haoran pulled up the parking brake, got out, and opened the door for Song Linyu, revealing half of his pale profile shrouded in darkness.
A moment later, Song Linyu stiffly pocketed his phone and stepped out.
It had rained that night, leaving deep puddles on the ground. His foot splashed into one, sending an icy spray up his pant leg. The rough fabric clung wetly to his skin, stirring an unsettling irritation.
Song Linyu suddenly turned back to Ren Haoran. “Do I still smell like smoke?”
“No, no,” Ren Haoran assured him. “You changed clothes and had the windows down with the wind blowing for so long—even a whole pack’s worth of smell would be gone by now. And you only took a few shallow puffs. You can’t smell it at all.”
Song Linyu paused. He had been about to leave, but for some reason, he hesitated before asking again, “Do I seem really annoying?”
“…?” Ren Haoran widened his eyes dramatically. “Boss, whoever told you that is an idiot. They should donate their eyes.”
“I mean compared to the guys who work under you. Like that Little Yuan… Who do you think Fu Yanzong would prefer?”
Only then did Ren Haoran realize Song Linyu was referring to the “young masters” from Deer Garden under his command. Honestly, if Song Linyu hadn’t brought it up, he might have forgotten all about Lin Zhiyuan—the one who’d been thoroughly thrashed for daring to lay hands on Fu Yanzong.
Ren Haoran burst out laughing and said with genuine sincerity, “How can you even compare yourself to them?”
Song Linyu gazed at him quietly, but the words didn’t seem to flatter or comfort him. After a moment, he looked away—whether in self-mockery or something else—and let out a faint, soft laugh. Offhandedly, he murmured, “Is that so?”
…But in front of Fu Yanzong, I’m really no different from them, am I?
With that thought, Song Linyu lost patience for talking to Ren Haoran. He stepped back over the curb and crossed the empty street toward the opposite side.
Song Linyu walked quietly to the apartment building with his backpack, ready to swipe his card and take the elevator home. But in the second before entering, some vague intuition made him look up at the windows overhead.
They were pitch black, no lights on, meaning no one was inside.
Song Linyu froze. He stopped in his tracks, pulled out his phone again, and opened the chat with Fu Yanzong.
pesce: “Bro, are you still busy? It’s so late and you’re not back yet. Do you need me to pick you up?”
“Are you in some kind of trouble right now…? Sorry, I’m just a little worried. I don’t mean to bother you, but could you reply to me?”
The cold, sticky water clung to Song Linyu’s fingertips and soaked through his clothes. The late-night wind froze his skin red, especially since he was dressed so thinly. Even his damp lashes were rimed with frost.
Yet he stood there motionless, patiently waiting for Fu Yanzong’s response as if he couldn’t feel a thing.
/
Three in the morning.
Ren Haoran, passed out amid a tangle of men and women, was jolted awake by a shrill phone ring. Irritated, he shoved them aside, fumbled for his phone, and answered gruffly, “Who is it?”
“Come pick me up at the intersection.”
Song Linyu’s voice carried a calm chill that pierced his ear, snapping him instantly awake. He nodded quickly and said, “Got it.”
But halfway to the car, Ren Haoran realized something was off. He opened the door and asked, puzzled, “Didn’t you go home already?”
Why was he out here again?
No one answered.
All that remained was the steady beep of the busy tone.
Song Linyu had hung up.
