Song Yuzhang: Chapter 125 - Love Story
Chapter 125: Love Story
The Song family had quite a collection of wine. Since it was all part of Song Zhenqiao’s inheritance, Song Yuzhang drank without the slightest pang of regret. He casually fetched two bottles of red wine from the cellar, opened them, and said, “Have you eaten yet? Drinking on an empty stomach isn’t too good.”
Nie Qingyun hadn’t expected him to still be so attentive and gentlemanly at a moment like this, and for an instant, shame welled up in her.
Back when Song Yuzhang was indebted to her family, how rude she had been to him—every bit of breeding thrown to the dogs.
Song Yuzhang had the servants bring in some light snacks. He had already eaten enough at the International Hotel, but hearing the servants say that Nie Qingyun had waited for him for several hours, he guessed she probably hadn’t had dinner.
He poured some wine into a glass. The liquid was a deep red, its fragrance rich. He slid the filled glass toward Nie Qingyun, then poured himself half a glass as well.
Nie Qingyun picked up the glass and, without a word, downed it in one go.
Song Yuzhang raised his brows slightly. “Sister Qingyun…”
Her arm paused midair. She took the bottle herself and poured a large glass full, lifted it, and gulped down two more mouthfuls before saying, “That’s refreshing!”
Song Yuzhang chuckled. “Chasing a moment’s thrill like this—you’ll be suffering from a headache tomorrow.”
“Then let it ache. Opportunities like this don’t come often anyway.”
She thought of the old days, drinking and dancing all night with classmates. It felt as if that had all happened in another lifetime.
After another sip, she looked at Song Yuzhang. “Was that the railway engineer who writes you love letters, the one who came back with you just now?”
Song Yuzhang set his glass on his knee, half-smiling as he looked at her. “Sister Qingyun, are you checking up on me again?”
She shook her head. “I have no right to. No one has the right to control anyone else. We all belong to ourselves, and only manage ourselves.”
He lowered his gaze to the wine in his glass. “Well said.”
Nie Qingyun gave a small smile. “When I wanted to control you before, it was because I lost my head. I was grieving. I despised Song Mingzhao—him giving up his life for my brother still wasn’t enough for me. I was filled with hatred, with nowhere to put it, so I turned it on you.”
She took another sip. Sitting on the sofa, leaning lightly against the armrest, her hair spilled down like gleaming threads. “I knew I shouldn’t hate you, but sometimes people can’t even control themselves.”
She turned her head suddenly toward him, sitting across in a chair. “No—that’s not it. I wanted to drink with you, to hear you talk. Not for you to hear me complain. Come, say something.”
Song Yuzhang laughed. “Me? Say what?”
“Say you’ve been wronged. Say you’ve suffered…” She shrugged slightly, lifted the glass again and drank deeply of the cool wine. “Say that for our Nie family’s sake, you’ve had to sacrifice your bond with Meng Tingjing…”
The room was quiet, only the ticking clock filling the silence. Song Yuzhang sat still, reflecting on her words.
Wronged? Suffered? He couldn’t really say so.
He rubbed the rim of his glass. “I used to think feelings and interests should be kept separate, so one could remain guiltless. But later I realized, if you want to live without guilt, then you’re the only one who suffers. I was never some perfect man.” He lifted his gaze and smiled faintly at her. “So then—better to let others suffer.”
Nie Qingyun stared blankly, lost for a while. At last she turned her face away and asked tentatively, “Yuzhang, was it that we pressed you too hard…?”
He gave a low laugh, his expression full of mirth, then straightened his features. “No.”
Rising with his glass in hand, he said, “It was I who pressed myself too hard.”
The richer he became, the more he clung to dignity, to emotion. Day by day he lived under heavier burdens, cautious of every step, to the point he scarcely recognized himself.
Taking another sip, he turned his face slightly, one hand in his pocket. The crystal chandelier cast sharp light against the dark floorboards, the reflection brightening his face. With a refined smile, he said, “Sister Qingyun, do you now feel that your family owes me?”
She froze again. “I…I don’t know.”
Debts of gratitude and favor are the hardest to settle. Best never to incur them. Once entangled, who owes whom depends only on each person’s standpoint.
He sipped once more, the wine staining his lips a deeper shade. “Yinbing loved me very much. Tingjing as well.”
“Yinbing was one who never bowed to anything. Tingjing, the same.”
“For either of them to back down even once is nearly impossible.”
“That day, leaving the city, Yinbing kept urging me to return, but I refused. I was waiting to see if he would ever yield.”
He turned slightly, leaning on the stair’s wooden post. “Don’t misunderstand—not begging in words, but in action. Believe it or not, even if Tingjing hadn’t come after us, Yinbing would have obediently led the convoy back to the city.”
“When Tingjing showed up, truth be told, I was surprised. He isn’t like Yinbing—he values pride and dignity more than life itself. Yet he truly did lower his head. I think he’s never bowed to anyone in his entire life…”
Song Yuzhang shook his head, swirling the wine in his glass. “He doesn’t understand me, but I understand him. For him, that was harder than taking a bullet for me.”
Meng Tingjing could bow once, but only once. After that, it was severed, clean cut. The meaning was clear.
There had been affection, yes. But there are things in this world more important than affection.
For Meng Tingjing, so it was. For him, too.
Nie Xueping had given his life for him, true. But if Nie Xueping had been given a choice—live and accompany Nie Bonian for a lifetime, or die for him—Song Yuzhang believed he would have chosen the former without hesitation.
So what is love? Love is a spark, brief and dazzling. He had always understood this, which was why he kept seeking new sparks. Nie Xueping’s death had thrown his thoughts into disarray, but now it was time to set his world back in order again.
“Before, I didn’t want to make use of people’s feelings. Later I realized I was just being too stubborn. To be honest,” Song Yuzhang turned back and gave Nie Qingyun a faint smile, “feelings, once you put them to use—are more handy than anything else.”
Nie Qingyun pressed her lips together, her eyes widening slightly as she looked at him.
Suddenly, she realized—Song Yuzhang truly was outstanding. Outstanding to the point of being frightening.
“Sister Qingyun, I think you ought to feel relieved for Xueping. He died swiftly, without having to suffer endlessly because of me.”
Song Yuzhang turned his face aside, lifted his glass, and took a light sip. The corner of his mouth curved upward with a graceful arc that made Nie Qingyun’s heart leap wildly. She stood up, her foot twisting slightly, “Yuzhang, you…” She steadied herself on the sofa, dizzy with drink.
With his back to her, Song Yuzhang said, “Sister Qingyun, go back. If you came to comfort me, it’s not necessary. I haven’t lived all the way to this point just to receive sympathy.”
Before the New Year, Song Qiyuan had made a big profit in the stock market. The capital had been drawn from the bank by Song Yuzhang. He returned the principal to the vault, but along with the profits in U.S. dollars, he kept some aside as capital for further stock trading.
Song Yuzhang let his fingers brush across the neat stacks of bills, the crisp sound sharp in the air, carrying with it the faint smell of ink.
The feeling of counting money was naturally beyond compare. He said, “Third Brother, you really don’t need to be in such a rush to return it. The larger the principal, the stronger your confidence, and the greater the gains.”
Song Qiyuan said, “Keeping the principal always makes me uneasy. Back when Father was shifting funds to speculate in stocks and bonds, he made some profits at first. But then his appetite only grew, and that gambler’s mindset is no good. I’d rather keep things steady. With you in the bank, and bonds and railroads all flourishing, as long as I don’t drag things down, being able to help in small ways is already enough.”
Song Yuzhang hadn’t expected Song Qiyuan’s temperament to change so completely. The once free-spirited, rakish Third Young Master Song had all but vanished.
Before he knew it, Song Qiyuan had been ushered into the car by Song Yuzhang.
“I still need to go back and check the accounts.”
“Skipping the books for one day won’t cause any trouble,” Song Yuzhang got in the car and patted him lightly on the thigh. “Third Brother, take a rest. We’re both too worn out.”
Hearing this, Song Qiyuan suddenly felt the weight of his exhaustion.
Ever since Song Zhenqiao’s death, he hadn’t lived a single easy day. Not that he complained—he felt that the ease and leisure of his first twenty-some years had already used up a lifetime’s share. Now hardship was only right. Good fortune shouldn’t belong all to one man.
He was tired, yet his energy had always been forced to remain abundant. It had to be—looking after his brothers, maintaining a household of servants, working at the bank, speculating in stocks… he was too busy to have any leisure.
And he figured Song Yuzhang was much the same as him.
Exhausting themselves completely—that was simply their lot.
Song Qiyuan slapped Yuzhang’s leg in turn. “All right, then today let’s truly rest for once.”
The two went to White Tower. Xiao Fengxian’s fame was rising ever higher—both upstairs and downstairs were packed full, and only because of Song Yuzhang’s influence did she clear two seats for them in the main hall. The upstairs private rooms were already taken by other powerful patrons.
Once they sat down, Song Qiyuan said, “Didn’t think Liao Tiandong was telling the truth. Xiao Fengxian really does show you such favor.”
Song Yuzhang said, “He’s a very interesting person.”
Cracking a peanut, Song Qiyuan sighed, “A pity Xiao Yuxian doesn’t sing anymore. Otherwise, together with Xiao Fengxian, they’d be the twin jewels of White Tower.”
“He’s gone off to live the life he wanted. Not necessarily a bad thing,” Song Yuzhang said. “Didn’t Xiao Yuxian return to his hometown? Where is his hometown, anyway?”
Munching peanuts, Song Qiyuan shook his head. “That I truly don’t know. Later we can ask some of the old troupe members—they should know.”
“Forget it, I was just asking casually.”
They chatted idly, entirely unrelated to banking, the conversation meandering lazily. When the gongs finally struck, they fell silent, listening intently to Xiao Fengxian’s performance.
His art shone through his emotion, deeply moving, and when he finished the hall burst into cheers, rewards pouring in.
Having received his favor, Song Yuzhang immediately had people buy flowers and send tips.
Xiao Fengxian came out from backstage, still in splendid costume, and walked down to the main hall.
That itself was a rare sight at White Tower. Usually, he only went upstairs to the private rooms to thank patrons; those seated downstairs normally didn’t have such fortune.
“Third Young Master, Fifth Young Master.”
He bowed to them, smiling brightly. “It’s been so long since you last came to hear me sing—I thought you’d forgotten me.”
Seeing him so lively and cheerful, Song Yuzhang felt his own heart lighten. With a soft smile he said, “How could anyone forget the finest voice in Haizhou?”
“Hmph, I don’t believe you. Fifth Young Master, you only know how to coax me.”
“Then tell me—does my coaxing make you happy or not?”
Xiao Fengxian gave a playful shove to his chest. Song Yuzhang caught his hand, and with a sudden pull, Xiao Fengxian let out a startled cry as he landed gracefully in Song Yuzhang’s arms.
At once the whole hall erupted in cheers and teasing shouts.
Sitting beside him, Song Qiyuan quickly averted his eyes. Though he, too, had once supported Xiao Yuxian, it was always in a proper, restrained way—not with the bold indulgence of Song Yuzhang.
Xiao Fengxian was a little surprised at first, but soon adapted with ease, settling naturally into his lap, arms looping around Song Yuzhang’s neck. In a playful pout he said, “Fifth Young Master, you’re so awful.”
Song Yuzhang laughed. “Awful? Then why don’t you get down?”
“Who else has the fortune to sit on Fifth Young Master’s lap? You pulled me up to sit here, so don’t think about chasing me off today.”
Xiao Fengxian was good at playing along. He lingered and nuzzled in Song Yuzhang’s arms for a long while, and before leaving he planted a kiss with his red lips on his face, then leaned close to his ear to whisper something before finally getting up.
After Xiao Fengxian left, Song Qiyuan slapped Song Yuzhang’s thigh. “What did he say?”
Song Yuzhang crooked a finger at him. Song Qiyuan leaned in, only to hear him say, “He said he doesn’t love men, but for my sake, he’s willing to bend and yield.”
The words made Song Qiyuan’s ears go numb; he nearly jumped out of his seat.
Seeing his reaction, Song Yuzhang leaned back in his chair and laughed with obvious mischief.
“You believed it?” Song Yuzhang chuckled. “I didn’t even take it seriously, and you did?”
Song Qiyuan shot him a glare. “You shouldn’t joke about that.”
After resting a while, Xiao Fengxian came out again to sing the second half. When he finished, Song Yuzhang rewarded him again. Naturally, Xiao Fengxian came over to express his thanks, and this time it was even rowdier than before—he went straight to sit on Song Yuzhang’s lap the moment he came up.
The whole White Tower was as lively as New Year’s. Xiao Fengxian stole the show, and some of the crowd even got carried away, personally escorting Song Yuzhang to his car. Song Qiyuan was already inside, the car door wide open, when Xiao Fengxian bent down and kissed Song Yuzhang’s cheek, leaving a pair of symmetrical lipstick marks on his face.
Inside the car, pressed against the window, Song Qiyuan looked thoroughly uncomfortable.
Once the driver pulled away, he immediately threw a handkerchief at Song Yuzhang. “Wipe it off at once—what kind of sight is this!”
His tone carried a trace of brotherly scolding. Song Yuzhang took the handkerchief, wiped his face clean, then suddenly pressed it against Song Qiyuan’s face. “Smell it—doesn’t Xiao Fengxian’s lipstick smell nice?”
Song Qiyuan was nearly driven mad with anger.
Seeing his strong reaction, Song Yuzhang grew curious. “Third Brother, don’t tell me you’re still virgin?”
Wiping his face with the back of his hand, Song Qiyuan gave him another sharp look. “So what if I am? Is that not allowed?”
Song Yuzhang slowly nodded. “It’s fine for me. I just worry about whether you can manage.”
“Get lost—”
When they returned to the Song residence, they had just entered when a servant came to say that a Mr. Yu had stopped by and left a letter for Song Yuzhang.
Song Yuzhang took the letter and gave a casual “Oh.”
There weren’t many people with the surname Yu in Haizhou, and Song Qiyuan quickly remembered. “Didn’t Liu Chu say that railroad engineer is pursuing you?”
“Railroad engineer?” Song Yuzhang tore open the envelope, smiling. “He’s an engineer, yes—but don’t put it like that.”
“So it’s true?” Song Qiyuan was shocked.
Song Yuzhang nodded leisurely. “Of course.”
“He’s quite an interesting man.” Song Yuzhang sat down on the sofa with the letter in hand. “I’ll introduce you sometime. He’s a top talent—studied in England, Germany, Moscow. If there’s a chance, I’d like to bring him under my wing.”
“Huh?”
Song Qiyuan sat down beside him. “But… he studied finance?”
Song Yuzhang shook his head. “Engineering.”
“Then what use is he in a bank?” Song Qiyuan laughed.
Spreading the letter open, Song Yuzhang began reading slowly from top to bottom. With a hint of languor, he said, “Who says we can only run a bank?”
Song Qiyuan froze. “Something else?”
“A bank is a money pouch. Holding on to it and just counting money—what’s the fun in that? Sure, money breeds money, but don’t you think having some industries in our own hands feels more secure?”
Finishing the letter, Song Yuzhang tossed it aside, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. After a smooth drag, he glanced at the thoughtful Song Qiyuan and smiled. “We’ve got resources, money, and talent. What can’t we achieve?”
“Resources?”
“That huge mine—it’s such trouble to keep hauling back and forth.” He waved his cigarette, pale smoke curling into the air. Speaking unhurriedly, he said, “Why not let me handle it for them? Then they won’t need to beg anyone else. Isn’t that better?”
The New Year atmosphere in Haizhou grew ever stronger, and the bank was already dressed up for the season. When Yu Feiyu came by and saw the bright red decorations, he felt a surprising warmth. When Song Yuzhang came downstairs, he wore a camel-colored overcoat, a navy suit inside, crisp white shirt, and matching tie. From head to toe, he was impeccable, and Yu Feiyu found himself struck by him once again.
“Feiyu.”
Song Yuzhang greeted him with a smile.
After Yu Feiyu’s return, he and Song Yuzhang had shared a couple of meals and met several times to discuss business. At their last meeting, Song Yuzhang had begun calling him by name. Yu Feiyu was so startled at the time, as if it weren’t his own name, that he stood dumbfounded on the spot.
“President Song.”
Yu Feiyu still addressed him like that, feeling that the title of banker suited Song Yuzhang perfectly.
They agreed to see a film together—a foreign one, the hottest release of the moment. On screen, the hero and heroine loved each other to the point of life and death. Yu Feiyu was deeply moved, while Song Yuzhang could barely suppress his yawns—though he didn’t really yawn, just let his lashes droop half-shut, looking drowsy.
Once the film began, Yu Feiyu asked, “Too boring, isn’t it?”
Song Yuzhang stepped out of the warmth of the crowd. “It is indeed.”
Yu Feiyu scratched his head. “Sorry, I thought you’d like it.”
“Me?” Song Yuzhang glanced at him. “You thought I’d enjoy these love stories?”
Yu Feiyu was a little surprised, because Song Yuzhang’s tone carried a cold, smiling indifference, tinged with faint disdain.
“Uh, I don’t know,” Yu Feiyu shifted the hand that was tucked into his coat pocket and lifted the coat slightly. He looked at Song Yuzhang with openness. “To be honest, I don’t really understand you, President Song.”
“That’s as it should be.”
Song Yuzhang walked forward at an easy pace. “Because I’ve never given you the chance to understand me.”
Following behind, Yu Feiyu noticed the strip of wrist showing between Song Yuzhang’s coat and glove—so pale it was dazzling. He admitted to himself that he was utterly captivated by him.
A man with the face and temperament of a dream-lover was already more than enough to ensnare him. Add a touch of mystery, and it became irresistible.
Yu Feiyu felt he had fallen completely in love, headlong, so deep it was suffocating.
“President Song, are you going to the opera again?”
Yu Feiyu leaned on the car door, bending down to ask.
“Yes,” Song Yuzhang smiled. “Xiao Fengxian saved me a seat.”
Song Yuzhang had been promoting Xiao Fengxian, and now in Haizhou the performer was becoming well known. This didn’t shock or repel Yu Feiyu; he had seen enough abroad to know that patronizing an actor was hardly remarkable. As long as one wasn’t committing murder or arson, it wasn’t worth fussing over—after all, some serial killers abroad even had admirers.
“Can you take me along?” Yu Feiyu asked.
Song Yuzhang propped his face with two fingers, looked at Yu Feiyu for a moment, then flicked his fingers toward the car interior. “Get in.”
The moment Song Yuzhang arrived in the private room, Xiao Fengxian rushed over. He hadn’t yet fully dressed in costume, still a delicate and handsome youth. Seeing Song Yuzhang, he immediately flung himself into his arms. “Fifth Young Master, I’ve missed you so much.”
Song Yuzhang patted his shoulder with one hand. “Let me introduce you—Mr. Yu.”
Xiao Fengxian turned to see the tall Yu Feiyu and beamed. “Master Yu.”
Yu Feiyu felt awkward and rubbed his nose. “Just call me Mr. Yu.”
Xiao Fengxian instantly corrected himself. “Alright, Mr. Yu.”
They sat down. Xiao Fengxian immediately perched on Song Yuzhang’s lap again, speaking to him in a spoiled, lilting voice. Song Yuzhang answered with a smiling ease, and before leaving, Xiao Fengxian planted a kiss on his face.
Yu Feiyu watched the whole time. Even after Xiao Fengxian left, his gaze lingered on Song Yuzhang’s face.
“What are you looking at?” Song Yuzhang drawled lazily.
Yu Feiyu hesitated for a long while, then lowered his head, embarrassed.
Song Yuzhang glanced at him. “Feiyu, just say it.”
Yu Feiyu stayed silent, waited a while longer, then rested his arm on the tea table, leaning slightly closer. Lowering his voice, he asked, “Is this your type?”
Song Yuzhang rested his own arm on the tea table, level with Yu Feiyu, leaned in slightly, and whispered, “Anything that makes me happy—I like.”
Yu Feiyu’s eyes flickered, falling on Song Yuzhang’s lips. The lip lines were faint, the curve elegant and sharp, but the fullness of the lower lip softened the severity.
Yu Feiyu smiled. “You always smile when you see me. Does that mean you’re happy?”
Song Yuzhang did smile then, his lips curving with elegant ease. “Happy, yes—but not happy enough.”
“Then how should I work harder?”
Song Yuzhang drew back his arm, lounged into his chair, crossed one leg, and folded his hands across his stomach. “That’s something you’ll have to figure out for yourself.”
To Yu Feiyu, Song Yuzhang felt full of contradictions—constantly shifting, sometimes displaying two utterly opposite qualities at once, leaving one lost in a maze.
Yu Feiyu barely paid attention to the opera, his eyes fixed on Song Yuzhang.
Song Yuzhang was like a still painting—an ink-brush portrait, detailed, precise, with strokes as cool and restrained as his aura. Without such control, it would be impossible to depict that chilling air about him.
Yet when his lashes trembled, or when his lips curved upward, gentleness like flowing water under moonlight spilled out into the room, softening the hearts of those around him.
Yu Feiyu’s romances usually ended quickly—the more he saw someone, the faster his feelings died. But this time was the opposite: the more he saw of Song Yuzhang, the deeper his fascination grew.
When Xiao Fengxian came up after performing again, he pouted for another kiss. But Song Yuzhang stopped him. “Don’t cover my face in red.”
Xiao Fengxian teased, “What, last time you said it smelled nice.”
Song Yuzhang replied, “Believe less of what men say.”
Xiao Fengxian burst into laughter. “Fifth Young Master, you’re really something. That’s what I like about you.”
Song Yuzhang pretended to look surprised. “Not because of my looks?”
Sitting in his lap, Xiao Fengxian laughed so hard his whole body shook. Song Yuzhang turned his head toward Yu Feiyu. “See? Even he knows to kiss me and cheer me up. How come you don’t?”
Xiao Fengxian looked at Yu Feiyu, who showed a flash of surprise in his eyes, followed by rare embarrassment.
Xiao Fengxian teased with a grin, “Mr. Yu, Fifth Young Master’s face isn’t for just anyone to kiss. If you won’t, I will.”
With that, he kissed Song Yuzhang’s left cheek, leaving a red lip mark.
On Song Yuzhang’s handsome face, the imprint stood out immediately.
After a moment’s hesitation, Yu Feiyu leaned over and brushed his lips lightly against Song Yuzhang’s right cheek—so fleeting it barely carried any sensation.
Xiao Fengxian laughed so hard her whole body trembled like flowers in the wind. “Mr. Yu, you call this family affection?”
Song Yuzhang stroked Xiao Fengxian’s back. “Well said. Come, let’s show him what a real kiss looks like.”
Yu Feiyu stared dumbfounded as Xiao Fengxian leaned in and pressed his red lips onto Song Yuzhang’s mouth.
Xiao Fengxian knew how to kiss, and Song Yuzhang was his match in skill. Yu Feiyu could only watch as their pink tongues tangled and parted again, carrying with them a damp trace of intimacy. He was transfixed. By the time they were done, Song Yuzhang’s lips were already flushed red. He glanced at Yu Feiyu with a look half there, half not. “Did you learn anything?”
Yu Feiyu wasn’t inexperienced—he had seen much abroad where customs were far more open than at home. Even so, Song Yuzhang unsettled him. The redness of his lips and tongue made him seem like a seductive specter, a ghost that fed on flesh.
Xiao Fengxian left. Song Yuzhang took out a handkerchief to wipe away the lip rouge smeared on his mouth. Yu Feiyu stared blankly at him, then suddenly said, “You don’t seem very happy.”
Song Yuzhang dabbed at his lips and lifted his eyes at him. “Oh? And why do you think that?”
“I can’t explain. Just a feeling.”
“Feeling? I thought women’s intuition was the one to trust.”
“I only hope my intuition is wrong.”
Song Yuzhang rubbed at the red marks on his face. “Your intuition is right. I just thought he was amusing. But now, I prefer stronger, taller men.”
Yu Feiyu replied, “Yet I don’t think you like me either.”
Song Yuzhang gave a soft laugh. “Earning my affection is very difficult.” He raised his brows and fixed him with those dark, jet-black eyes. “You might have to risk your life.”
Yu Feiyu returned to the cotton mill—he lived in a dormitory there. His head felt heavy and dizzy. Never before had he fallen for someone so quickly, as if he had been shoved off a cliff, plunged into weightlessness so intense it nearly turned the world upside down.
He lay in bed for half a day, and by the next morning he truly was burning with fever—quite badly. He was an important man, so the factory immediately called a doctor and reported the matter to Meng Tingjing.
Meng Tingjing asked, “Did you get a doctor?”
“Yes, yes, we found a foreign doctor.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said it’s just a cold and a fever.”
“Understood.” Meng Tingjing held a scroll in his hands, a unique manuscript. He was halfway through reading it. “Send people to take good care of him.”
“Yes.”
The subordinate was about to leave when Meng Tingjing happened to glance at him and saw him smiling.
“What are you laughing at?”
Meng Tingjing was not the kind of master who invited careless laughter. He knew this well, and the sight of the inexplicable grin put him in a foul mood.
The man jumped at the icy tone, quickly suppressing his smile and answering obediently, “It’s… it’s what Mr. Yu said. It was funny.”
“Funny?”
“When the doctor came to see him, Mr. Yu said there was no need—he already knew what illness he had.” The man couldn’t hold back a grin. “He said it was lovesickness…”
Meng Tingjing’s hand clenched the scroll tight. His rocking chair froze. At first the man chuckled, but the oppressive silence soon struck him. He didn’t usually come to the Meng residence and knew little of what happened here. Those who lived in the household never gossiped—anyone who let slip a word might literally lose their tongue. The man began to tremble under the suffocating air.
“Get out.”
The words were soft, yet they sent him fleeing in terror.
Suddenly, a tearing sound rang in Meng Tingjing’s hand. He looked down and saw that in his grip he had ripped a page of the fragile manuscript. Staring closely, he realized he had torn the character “忍” (endure) in half.
Slap—
The book slammed onto the table.
Meng Tingjing rose and strode into the inner room.
The tea inside was cold. He poured himself a cup and sipped slowly. After finishing one, he poured another. Just then, someone else entered. “Second Master, something has happened.”
Meng Tingjing’s voice was cold. “What is it?”
The man hesitated. In an instant, cold tea splashed at his feet. He jumped like he had been whipped and blurted out nervously, “The eldest son-in-law was making clothes for Zhang Wuyun, and the young mistress caught them. The young mistress fainted.”
Song Jincheng had made a fortune in stocks recently. With money in hand, he began to try restoring the life of the eldest young master of the Song family—one part of that being the upkeep of a mistress’s residence.
Running into Meng Sushan had been the last thing he expected. He was traditional at heart—never one to abandon wife for concubine—so he had deliberately chosen a tailor Meng Sushan rarely visited. Unfortunately, her usual tailor had gone home to visit family, and so, by chance, she came there that day and found them together.
Zhang Wuyun was nineteen, a newly risen starlet. Fame had come quickly, and with it, a temper. When she saw Song Jincheng abandon her to comfort his wife, she grew furious and started shouting. Her shrill voice cut the air, and Song Jincheng, unable to quiet her, tried to scold her in hushed tones. Their quarrel escalated until Meng Sushan collapsed.
By the time Meng Tingjing entered the small courtyard, Meng Sushan had already woken. Her face was pale. Song Jincheng sat at her bedside, murmuring apologies. Meng Sushan’s expression was faint and distant, her lashes trembling as if tears might fall but never did.
“Sushan, you know me. In my heart, you are always first. Don’t worry—I’ll make her pay. Don’t be upset, your health is fragile. I can’t bear it when you’re sick… after all our years together…”
Song Jincheng broke off when he heard footsteps. He turned his head, forcing a strained smile. “Tingjing, you’re here. Ah, to think our family troubles have even disturbed you—it’s truly…”
Meng Tingjing stood with his hands behind his back, gazing at him in silence.
Song Jincheng felt a twinge of guilt—only a twinge. After all, Meng Tingjing was a man too; surely he could understand.
But Meng Tingjing shifted his eyes to the half-reclining Meng Sushan.
She raised her gaze, and her eyes shimmered faintly with tears.
Meng Tingjing turned his face away. Song Jincheng offered another apology: “It’s all my fault…”
Before the words had left his mouth, a kick sent him flying.
The force of the blow was hard to gauge, but Song Jincheng’s body sailed two or three meters before crashing to the floor, blood gushing from his mouth in violent spurts.
The hall went deathly silent. Even breathing stopped.
Meng Tingjing turned to the stunned Meng Sushan and said slowly, “Is this the kind of trash you still choose to love?”
When Song Yuzhang returned to the Song residence, he noticed a familiar black car parked by the gate. A man quickly stepped out, hurried to the trunk, and, with another, dragged out a person and dumped him on the ground before driving off.
As Song Yuzhang approached, he saw the man lying there with his chest soaked in blood—Song Jincheng.
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