Song Yuzhang: Chapter 135 - Long Time No See
Chapter 135: Long Time No See
Song Yuzhang had been attending banquets back-to-back for three days straight. Some were genuinely cordial, while others were clearly laced with ulterior motives. As the newly appointed chairman of the Chamber of Commerce, his current glory was only surface-deep; in truth, the weight on his shoulders was immense. Yet he never let that pressure show—his words were witty, his manner calm and poised. Even members of the Meng faction began to feel uneasy, almost suspecting that they had fallen into one of Song Yuzhang’s traps.
After seeing him off, they scurried back to Meng Tingjing like wild ducks returning to their nest. Meng Tingjing’s composure was no less commanding than Song Yuzhang’s. With just a few steady words, he gave everyone a sense of reassurance. Soon, they were gathered around him, chattering away, plotting both openly and secretly—all schemes aimed squarely at Song Yuzhang. They were determined to bring down this “flower-like” chairman, to ruin his reputation completely. No matter how handsome he was, it didn’t matter—he was blocking their way, and to spare him out of pity would be tantamount to throwing away their own lives.
Meng Tingjing listened in silence, his face expressionless but his mind seething with irritation. What kind of nonsense are they spouting? His palms itched—he had half a mind to slap a few of them—but he had no legitimate reason to do so. Song Yuzhang was, after all, their political rival now, and plotting against him was only natural.
“Enough,” Meng Tingjing said, raising his hand. “There’s no rush. We have time. Go home—spring’s almost here, and there’s still plenty to do.”
“That’s right,” someone chimed in. “Once spring starts, the higher-ups will want grain. The old chairman never had to worry—he sold grain himself. At worst, he’d lose a little. But I wonder where this new Chairman Song will find his supply?”
“There’s plenty of foreign currency sitting in the banks,” another replied. “If all else fails, he can just buy at a high price.”
Their words, mixed with sly smiles, spawned one cunning plot after another. The inner hall was like a great cauldron of conspiracy, and the air was thick with venomous schemes.
Meng Tingjing forced himself to endure it a while longer. He couldn’t just stand up and leave, nor could he lash out without cause. Instead, his eyes drifted away impatiently—and landed on the chaise lounge by the window.
“Enough!”
The sudden roar shattered their increasingly intricate plotting like a stone smashing glass.
His expression was cold, his cheeks faintly flushed. Seeing the bewildered, uneasy looks on their faces, he forced out, “It’s late. Go get some rest.”
Meng Tingjing ruled over his followers with sheer willpower and the force of his personality. They were long accustomed to his unpredictable moods, so they obediently shuffled out under that strange, heavy atmosphere.
Once the room was empty, Meng Tingjing’s anger flared to the surface. He shouted for a servant.
When one entered, Meng Tingjing barked, “Bring me a candle.”
The candle was quickly fetched—a thick white one. The servant lit it, puzzled as to why he wanted a candle in a hall already wired with electric lights.
The orange flame flickered in Meng Tingjing’s pupils, dancing like an evil spirit, stirring the fire that was already raging in his chest. He snatched the candle from the servant and strode forward so abruptly that the flame leaned back with the motion.
He brought the candle dangerously close to the chaise lounge—the same one Song Yuzhang had once lain on. The flame wavered as though refusing to touch the silken surface. Meng Tingjing’s eyes burned like the flame itself. A drop of hot wax suddenly fell, and without thinking—truly without thinking—he caught it in his bare palm.
The servant gasped.
“What are you yelling for?”
Meng Tingjing frowned and clenched his fist.
He wasn’t made of iron—the molten wax instantly blistered his palm. The pain twisted his face out of shape.
And then, suddenly, he felt an absurd contradiction within himself.
He couldn’t bring himself to destroy even a couch that Song Yuzhang had once slept on—yet he was locked in a life-and-death struggle with the man himself.
What was he fighting for, really?
“Take that,” Meng Tingjing said, pointing at the chaise lounge, “and move it to my courtyard.”
—
Song Yuzhang was reclining lazily on a chaise lounge—
The very same one from Nie Xueping’s room.
After the grand banquet, he preferred staying at the Nie residence. He never managed his own household and had little interest in doing so. His servants at the Song residence had grown lazy under his indulgence, whereas the Nie household was different—Nie Mao, the butler, was meticulous and reliable. To call him merely competent would be an insult; he was devoted to his masters, extending that same care even to Song Yuzhang.
Whenever Song Yuzhang came, Nie Mao always had everything prepared: hot water, sobering tea, a late-night snack—whatever Song Yuzhang needed to recover comfortably from his drunken evenings. Thanks to this, Song Yuzhang could spend the night resting soundly and appear refreshed the next morning, ready for another day at the bank or another round of business socializing.
He didn’t mind such social obligations—he’d once made his living through them—but now that his life held more than just business, such engagements had begun to feel like a burden.
When Nie Mao entered carrying sobering tea, Song Yuzhang was already asleep.
“Fifth Young Master Song, wake up—Fifth Young Master Song?”
Before he could call again, a large hand landed on his shoulder.
“Let him sleep.”
Nie Mao chuckled softly. “If he sleeps like that, he’ll have a terrible headache in the morning. Better to wake him up—have him drink, eat, wash up—then he’ll sleep soundly.”
Nie Yinbing understood the reasoning, but seeing Song Yuzhang asleep, he couldn’t bring himself to disturb him.
After a moment’s hesitation, he waved for Nie Mao to go ahead. Nie Mao couldn’t help but smile—it was as though Nie Yinbing were making some momentous decision.
Sure enough, once awakened, Song Yuzhang frowned in discomfort—it hadn’t been a restful sleep. Nie Mao efficiently tended to him: wiping his face, serving tea, offering a light bowl of noodles, and preparing a bath.
By the time Song Yuzhang emerged from the bathroom, he was drowsy again. The moment he touched the bed, he fell back into slumber.
Nie Mao looked at him kindly and added another note to his list of concerns. “We should find a good masseur for Fifth Young Master Song—to loosen his meridians. It’ll be easier on his liver.”
Nie Yinbing murmured, “Mm.”
After tidying up, Nie Mao said, “Second Master, please look after him for a while.”
Nie Yinbing hesitated briefly, then agreed.
He stayed in Nie Xueping’s room, sitting by Song Yuzhang’s bedside for a while before standing up to turn off the crystal chandelier.
When the light went out, the room was plunged into complete darkness.
Nie Yinbing sat back down and watched Song Yuzhang quietly in the dark.
His eyes were unafraid of the dark. During those six months apart, he had hired so many painters, yet not one could capture Song Yuzhang’s likeness. The best painter was his own mind, his own heart. Song Yuzhang’s image was carved deep into his memory — even without light, he could still see him clearly.
The Nie residence was large, with many guest rooms, each one kept spotless. But whenever Song Yuzhang came, he never chose to stay in any of them; he always slept in Nie Xueping’s room.
Nie Qingyun took comfort in this. She believed it meant that Song Yuzhang still thought of Nie Xueping. She had long since let go of her resentment toward him — and his gesture of sentimentality, however small, was a quiet relief to her.
But in Nie Yinbing’s eyes, Song Yuzhang was not reminiscing about Nie Xueping. This was merely his way of drawing a clear line between them.
Nie Yinbing thought: There’s no need for that. I understand Song Yuzhang’s heart.
He doesn’t want me — not before, and not now.
But Nie Yinbing no longer dared to push him.
Around midnight, Nie Yinbing quietly left the room. The moment he was gone, Song Yuzhang slowly opened his eyes. His curled lashes fluttered wearily as he turned over, again and again, before finally switching on the wall lamp.
He sat up, still wrapped in the quilt, half-reclined as he opened Madame Bovary.
His English had improved steadily — necessity had made him learn faster — but reading a novel that long was still a challenge. Each page was half-understood, yet that was fine; there was its own kind of pleasure in partial understanding. It allowed him to guess, to imagine, to reshape the story — perhaps to make it more tragic, perhaps more beautiful. To turn a definite story into a mystery — how delightful.
As he turned a page with his finger, he suddenly noticed a line encircled in gold thread.
He mouthed the sentence twice, stunned — it felt almost like fate. Every single word in that sentence, he happened to know.
“But you will forget me, as one forgets a shadow.”
Song Yuzhang traced the beautiful words with his fingertip, then closed the book. He lay back down, dimmed the lamp, and quickly fell asleep.
—
Yu Feiyu’s congratulations and farewell came almost at the same time.
When Song Yuzhang stepped out of the restaurant, he saw Yu Feiyu from afar, standing by the roadside.
The weather had grown warm, and Yu Feiyu was dressed lightly again. He wasn’t showing off — his body simply ran hot.
Song Yuzhang hadn’t drunk much that night. After saying goodbye to the others, he crossed the street toward Yu Feiyu.
Yu Feiyu smiled brightly, a little shyly. “I’ve been wanting to congratulate you, but you’ve been so busy — and my factory’s been hectic too. I couldn’t find a good time to see you. I’ll be off in a few days to work on the railway. If I didn’t come today, I might not get the chance again for months.”
Hearing his simple, straightforward words, Song Yuzhang felt an ease he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Compared to the tangled web of people and politics around him, Yu Feiyu was like clear spring water — pure, transparent, and unpretentious. He knew the ways of the world but wasn’t tainted by them. That was Yu Feiyu’s gift.
Out of the corner of his eye, Song Yuzhang noticed the Nie family’s car.
Tonight he had faced everything alone — and emerged triumphant. Without getting drunk, without losing control. He turned back to Yu Feiyu, clapped him on the arm, and said with a smile, “Come on, let’s go to my place. We’ll have a proper talk.”
Yu Feiyu hadn’t expected that his farewell with Song Yuzhang would end up in bed.
At first, their conversation was entirely proper. Song Yuzhang asked which section of the railway would be built first, and whether he was confident about it. Yu Feiyu answered in detail, and the talk had almost turned businesslike. But Song Yuzhang’s gaze on him grew softer and softer, carrying a kind of warmth.
Soon, Yu Feiyu could no longer keep talking.
Song Yuzhang smiled. “Why did you stop?”
Yu Feiyu’s heart pounded. His voice trembled slightly. “C–could I have a farewell hug?”
Song Yuzhang’s lashes dipped, then lifted again with a faint smile. “I thought you’d be bolder — ask for a goodbye kiss instead.”
Yu Feiyu flushed. He laughed softly. “I used to be brave. I don’t know why, but around you… I can’t act rashly.”
“Really?”
“It’s true,” Yu Feiyu said. “One thing conquers another, they say. You’ve conquered me.”
There’s truth in that — one thing does conquer another. But there’s also something called just right. Perhaps this, too, was fate.
Song Yuzhang looked at Yu Feiyu’s earnest, handsome face. One hand came out of his pocket, lifted slightly. “Come here—”
Yu Feiyu thought Song Yuzhang was going to kiss him. But instead, Song Yuzhang grabbed his hand and pulled him along, up the stairs, down the hall, until they reached a room. With one kick, he pushed the door open, dragged Yu Feiyu inside, and pressed him against the wall.
Song Yuzhang kissed him — fiercely, almost savagely, as if to devour him.
Yu Feiyu felt both violated and electrified — a rush of fear and heat all at once.
He had long been lured by Song Yuzhang’s quiet, restrained charm, but he had never experienced such direct, consuming hunger.
When the kiss finally ended, Song Yuzhang rested against him, breathing softly against his throat. Yu Feiyu looked down — Song Yuzhang’s eyes were smiling faintly, his lips moving with a low whisper: “…Bite me.”
The lights blazed bright. Amid the dark silk sheets, two bodies intertwined — one fair and slender, one bronzed and strong. Skin and sweat gleamed against silk, dazzling in their rhythm.
Song Yuzhang’s arms were wrapped around Yu Feiyu’s neck. A bead of sweat trembled at the tip of his eyelashes. His arms tightened, loosened, then tightened again. He gasped like someone drawing in smoke — wild, blissful, undone.
Tilting his head back, a soft breath escaped his throat. Then he lowered his face, lips brushing Yu Feiyu’s neck, mind blank with dizzy satisfaction.
A quiet, foolish smile curved on Song Yuzhang’s lips. It felt like something long lost had returned — sweetness, serenity, simplicity, a moment without burden, all within his grasp. He kissed Yu Feiyu’s neck again and murmured lazily, contentedly: “Baby, you’re wonderful.”
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