Chapter 51: Paris – Part 2 Part 2

He began to struggle fiercely, wrenching himself free on instinct and scrambling forward to escape. His foot slipped on the edge of the poolside tile, sending him stumbling. He nearly tumbled into the water but managed to halt in a panicked, undignified sprawl right at the water’s edge.

From the rest area’s distant camera, their silhouettes appeared as blurry outlines, the play of light and shadow between them obscuring their facial expressions. The audio feed, however, remained crystal clear, allowing the audience to catch every word of their exchange.

Fu Yanzong, though, seemed utterly unconcerned.

He released his grip and tilted his head with an innocent air, as if making an offhand suggestion. “Don’t be scared, Teacher Su. Didn’t you say you’d do anything for me? This game’s not difficult—it’ll even help us get to know each other better.”

Su Tang’s breathing came in ragged gasps, his voice trembling. “…R-Really? Then… what kind of game do you want to play?”

Fu Yanzong settled back into his seat, crossing his legs leisurely and swirling the drink in his hand with lazy nonchalance. “It’s simple: we trade secrets. I tell you one, you tell me one in return. Whoever can’t keep it up gets punished. Sound fun?”

Su Tang’s throat tightened, his fingertips turning ice-cold. The man smiling at him now seemed more terrifying and unpredictable than ever before.

But he had no choice—he couldn’t back down. Not anymore. Su Tang was truly out of options.

Confessing his fling with Fu Yanzong on live camera had already been an act of burning his bridges. It had nothing to do with romance or seduction; the threat in it was all too obvious.

After all, in Fu Yanzong’s altered memories, they had indeed slept together. No matter the circumstances, Fu Yanzong ought to feel some hesitation about that.

Even if it meant being forced into a relationship, Su Tang desperately needed the points he could earn from him to advance his next plan.

Otherwise… he couldn’t bear to imagine what would become of him without his halo, without the constant adoration.

Gritting his teeth, Su Tang forced a smile after a moment. “Alright. But I can’t think of any secrets off the top of my head… What would you like to ask, Teacher Fu?”

Fu Yanzong met his gaze steadily. “Can’t think of any? Let me help you remember.”

“Su Tang—in 2021, in Paris, what exactly did you do to Song Linyu?”

The moment the year and city slipped from his lips, Su Tang’s eyes flew wide in disbelief. His pupils contracted sharply, the blood draining visibly from his face. It was as if he’d been shoved from a steaming bath into an icy vault, a sheen of cold sweat prickling across his skin.

“How do you kn—” His voice spiked, but it caught in his throat before he could finish the word, as if gripped by an invisible hand. “You and Song Linyu…? You two…?”

Fu Yanzong watched him in silence, taking a leisurely sip of the slightly bitter Tsingtao Beer from his glass.

The poolside lights cast Fu Yanzong’s handsome features into sharp relief, the shimmering reflections from the water dancing across his brows and eyes like flecks of gold confetti raining down from the heights of fame and fortune.

…Just like that day.

/

Early summer 2021. No. 9 Montaigne Avenue, Paris. Le Papillon Noir.

This striking black-marble butterfly of a building served as a top fashion house’s salon showroom by day and the premier spot for after-parties once night fell.

The hall’s lighting had been dimmed deliberately, the crystal chandeliers’ glow filtered into a warm amber hue like scattered gold leaf. It played across the hems of gowns and the lapels of tuxedos, resembling layers of intimate, lingering bruises that shifted with every movement.

In one corner, a champagne tower melted silently, beads of condensation trickling down the glasses to leave damp patches on the polished black marble floor. The air hummed with the mingled scents of cigars, perfume, and liquor—intoxicating enough to stir restlessness, yet alluring beyond measure.

It was the epitome of lavish celebrity excess.

Fu Yanzong lounged on a red-upholstered sofa in the lounge area, surrounded by a throng of admirers.

He held his champagne flute with idle disinterest, his expression a mix of bone-deep weariness and aloof detachment. His long hair fell loosely over one shoulder, catching the light in glossy, damp shades of deep brown.

The faint tear-shaped mole beneath his left eye was outlined with exquisite subtlety by the glow, as if someone had dotted it there with the tip of a pen. Staring at it too long made one inexplicably want to reach out and brush it away.

The blond boy draped over his back leaned in closer, his eyes tracing the chiseled contours of Fu Yanzong’s profile. In a playful French accent, he sighed, “My God… it’s like Paris sculpted you herself, Fu.”

The boy’s breath, laced with champagne, ghosted over Fu Yanzong’s ear as he spoke. The lilt on “sculpted” carried that quintessentially French romance.

Everyone who understood burst into laughter.

Fu Yanzong’s face remained impassive, bordering on irritated. Without thinking, he turned his gaze to the plate-glass window and the steady patter of night rain beyond.

A moment later, his phone rang.

The ringtone was distinctive—no need to check the caller ID for Fu Yanzong to know who it was.

He’d already ignored countless calls from Song Linyu over the past few days, and this one was no different. But the insistent chime drew too much attention. After a brief silence, Fu Yanzong stood and accepted the call.

“…Ge.”

Song Linyu’s voice came through stiff and muffled, as if he hadn’t expected the quick pickup. He paused in surprise before hesitating, “You—”

“I’m really pissed off right now, so I don’t want to see you.”

Fu Yanzong stated it bluntly. There was a few seconds of silence on the other end before he let out a soft, self-mocking laugh, the sound mingling with the rain tapping against the Paris windowpanes. “Scratch that—even if I wanted to, I couldn’t anyway. Song Linyu, whatever it is, wait until I get back. Let’s both cool off for a bit.”

Ji Cheng, standing a short distance away, glanced silently at Fu Yanzong’s expression and knew exactly who was on the line. He could tell they were still fighting.

Otherwise, Fu Yanzong never would have put him on a plane straight here while leaving his ever-present little assistant back in Shenlan.

What Ji Cheng didn’t realize, however, was that the “pitiful little assistant” he pitied was currently leaning against the railing of the second-floor circular walkway. From afar, he watched the scene unfold, staring in silence at the now-disconnected call on his phone.

Song Linyu arrived very late.

His original flight had been canceled due to the storm, stranding most passengers at the airport to spend the night or rebook. Song Linyu had made a few calls and barely managed to snag a flight that could still take off. By the time he landed, night had fallen over Paris.

Even in business class, the turbulence had made sleep impossible, leaving faint shadows under his eyes.

But Song Linyu skipped the hotel entirely, hailing a cab straight to the venue. To him, shoving aside his workload and jetting across twelve time zones was nothing if it meant getting here.

Because Song Linyu wanted to come clean with Fu Yanzong.

He refused to keep living in his web of lies, letting Fu Yanzong suffer in heartbreak. Even if the truth sparked a fight, at least Song Linyu could apologize from the heart—without spinning yet more deceptions to cover it up.

Song Linyu’s attempt at reconciliation was clumsy and awkward. He gazed at Fu Yanzong, who was drawing so many admiring looks, and drew in a deep breath. Rather than calling, his fingertips hesitated repeatedly along the edge of his phone before he sent another message.

“Bro, can we meet?”

“I’m right here at Le Papillon Noir. Can we meet? I have something to say to you. Really.”

The instant Fu Yanzong read those words, his breath hitched.

He immediately raised his eyes and scanned the entire hall, but that familiar face was nowhere to be seen. He lowered his head and sent a reply to Song Linyu. Five minutes passed, however, with no response.

The second song had begun in the dance hall—a lively yet faintly melancholic classical waltz titled The Forgotten Waltz. Its soaring piano notes rippled through the venue like wind stirring the surface of a pond.

Earlier, Fu Yanzong had promised this second dance to Anna, the younger daughter of Lady Sophie, proprietor of Maison Lévant.

She wore a burgundy velvet gown, its hem flaring like a rose blooming under the night sky, and glided lightly toward Fu Yanzong with her dance steps.

Fu Yanzong clutched his phone, the once-cool metal now warmed by his palm. Without a second thought, he leaned down slightly and said to the girl, a touch of apology in his voice:

“I’m sorry, Anna. I have an important meeting right now, so—”

Anna arched an eyebrow, intrigued, and cut him off. “That’s odd. If it’s so important, surely you would have gotten the message before our appointment?”

“. . . No.”

The girl tilted her head, her expression laced with teasing. “Then it must be something personal. I’m amazed that anyone could convince a gentleman like you to break a promise to a lady for a last-minute rendezvous. Dear Fu, that person must mean a great deal to you.”

Fu Yanzong let out a helpless sigh and conceded, “You’re always so perceptive.”

“That explains why you’ve been so distracted all evening,” she said, flashing a radiant smile. “Where is she? I’d love to meet her.”

“He . . . I don’t know.” Fu Yanzong’s brows knitted together. The person who had just texted him moments ago had gone silent.

He pulled up the messaging screen again and, after a brief hesitation, dialed Song Linyu’s number.

The call connected at once, and Fu Yanzong nearly expected him to answer—but after two rings, it cut off.

A deliberate rejection.

Anna watched the call end. Though startled by the pronoun Fu Yanzong had used, she offered a kind word. “Don’t fret. Your sweetheart just needs a little time to overcome his shyness. Why not give him a moment to collect his thoughts? My mother always jokes that love isn’t like dancing—you don’t miss a beat and wait for the next round.”

“You love him, so you’re willing to stay right there and wait.”

Amid the lilting music, the girl regarded Fu Yanzong with a playful smile and extended her hand. “But I’ve been looking forward to this dance all night. Before your sweetheart gets back to you, may I borrow a bit of your time for one dance?”

Fu Yanzong fell silent. He tilted his head back and surveyed the serene interior, a nagging sense that something was wrong gnawing at him.

Just then, the strings climbed to a soaring high note.