The West could lose Jerusalem, but Rolf Wilson could not afford to lose Chen Qingyu.
In a country like M, where carrying a gun was perfectly legal, Wilson without Chen Qingyu was a man standing on the edge of danger—like a tiger stripped of its claws, a fallen financial titan turned into a fat, helpless fish waiting to be carved up.
Enemies wanted him dead. Criminals wanted him kidnapped.
To the world, he was a walking sack of dollars—every man’s golden opportunity. Only Chen Qingyu had ever stayed by his side for a different reason: to repay a debt.
Now, years later, that enormous medical bill had long been paid off. Chen Qingyu had regained his memory as well. His continued presence beside Wilson was nothing more than an act of courtesy.
As Lu Zhuonian’s studies came to an end and Chen Zemian prepared to leave Boston, Chen Qingyu naturally informed Mr. Wilson of his intention to resign and return to China with his son.
For Wilson, the sky collapsed.
“I thought you’d at least stay until my leg fully healed,” Wilson said, seated in his wheelchair, his emerald-green eyes fixed on Chen Qingyu. “If you leave now, the next time you see me will be at my funeral.”
Chen Qingyu remained unmoved. “Your leg has healed, Mr. Wilson. You’re in that wheelchair because you don’t want to use crutches.”
Wilson fell silent.
Chen Qingyu went on calmly, “And since our countries are an ocean apart, even if you do hold a funeral, I won’t make it in time anyway.”
Wilson looked utterly aghast. “After all these years of friendship, you mean to tell me you wouldn’t even attend my funeral?”
Chen Qingyu gave it serious thought. “Well, since you’ll already be dead, it won’t make much difference whether I see you through a TV screen or through a crystal coffin. I’ll just watch the news.”
Wilson: “???”
Wait—that’s the issue? Whether it’s through the TV or through the coffin? He’d be dead, and that’s what Chen Qingyu was thinking about?
Wilson wanted to rage at his indifference, but he knew too well that Chen Qingyu could not be swayed by threat or bribe. The man was steadfast, detached, immune to both greed and flattery.
Wilson had once tried offering him a staggering salary just to make him stay, but the man had no vices, no material desires. He barely spent a cent and could probably live comfortably for several lifetimes. Another raise would do nothing.
Lowering his gaze, Wilson pondered for a long moment. Then his eyes shifted, and in that flash of green, a plan took shape.
Chen Qingyu was hard to persuade—but his son? His son looked far easier to handle.
If Chen Qingyu was leaving because of Chen Zemian, then all Wilson had to do was make sure Chen Zemian stayed in New York. Once the son stayed, the father would, naturally, follow.
If Chen Qingyu stayed, Wilson’s life would be secured.
Everything was interconnected, all threads eventually looping back to Chen Zemian.
Having settled on his course, Wilson called for his butler and murmured a few quiet instructions.
The butler’s expression grew more and more alarmed as he listened. When Wilson’s sharp, confirming glance left no room for doubt, the man bowed, withdrew, and left the estate under the cover of night—heading straight for Boston to seek out Chen Zemian.
*****
“What?! Mr. Wilson wants to give me an entire estate?”
Chen Zemian stared at the butler in disbelief. “What would I even do with something like that?”
The butler opened a large portfolio and began to introduce it with practiced elegance. “The Fivière Estate lies in a town about eighty kilometers from New York City. The scenery is beautiful—clear waters, rolling hills—and it spans roughly two thousand mu.”
He flipped a page, the glossy photographs almost glowing under the light. “Within the estate are private roads, an underground art gallery, a gym, a swimming pool, a golf course, a snooker hall, and a riding ground. The gardens are filled with flowers and fountains, gazebos, and sculptures. The grounds connect directly to a vast forest park and a freshwater lake.”
“The lake’s water quality is pristine—it’s a protected freshwater reserve,” the butler continued, turning another page. “And on the northern hillside, there’s a large lavender field. From there, you can see all the way to New York.”
Chen Zemian was dumbfounded. He couldn’t help but exclaim, “That’s incredible. I’ve only seen estates like this in American TV shows.”
Lu Zhuonian glanced sideways at him and replied in Mandarin, “We have a bigger one back home. There’s even a firearms museum. I wanted to take you once, but you said it felt too eerie and empty.”
Chen Zemian: “…”
Lu Zhuonian’s tone remained unreadable. “And this one doesn’t feel eerie to you?”
Chen Zemian cleared his throat. “That’s not the point. Why would Mr. Wilson suddenly give me an estate?”
Lu Zhuonian saw through the ploy instantly. “You have a flexible schedule and plenty of friends. Once you own a place here, you’ll start bringing people to visit. Your father won’t need to return to China to see you—he’ll just stay nearby.”
Chen Zemian blinked. “Wait… that actually makes sense.”
Lu gave a faint nod. “Of course it does.”
For years, Chen Qingyu had lived detached from everything—no ties, no attachments. To him, it made little difference which country he was in. If anything, New York, where he had spent twenty years, was more familiar than the homeland he could barely remember.
But that changed the moment he regained his memory—and rediscovered his son.
It didn’t take much observation to see how deeply Chen Qingyu cherished Chen Zemian. The number of times he dropped by to check on him said enough.
Without this lavish estate as bait, once Chen Zemian left Boston, he might never return. The two countries were worlds apart, and if Chen Qingyu wanted to see his son often, he’d have no choice but to go back to China.
Any other method Wilson might use to make him stay would only be temporary. But if Chen Zemian himself had reason to travel frequently between the two countries, the situation would be entirely different.
Lu Zhuonian, perceptive as ever, even anticipated Wilson’s next move. “The estate won’t be all. He’ll probably gift you a private jet too—so you can easily shuttle between New York and Beijing.”
And indeed, events unfolded exactly as Lu predicted.
Wilson didn’t just offer a private jet—he added a helicopter as well, for quick transfers between the airport and the estate.
“As for international routes, you needn’t worry,” said the butler smoothly. “As long as you agree to visit New York once or twice a month, Mr. Wilson is prepared to buy out an entire airline route just for you.”
Chen Zemian drew in a sharp breath and turned his head to whisper, “Now that’s what I call outrageous generosity.”
Lu Zhuonian replied evenly, “He wants your father to keep protecting him. When it’s a matter of survival, no price is too high.”
“I don’t want my dad working as a bodyguard for him—it’s too dangerous,” Chen Zemian said, averting his gaze from the glossy, beautifully printed estate brochure. “I just want him safe. And I don’t like owing people favors. He can give those things to whoever he wants—I’m not taking them.”
Lu Zhuonian tried to soothe him. “Don’t feel bad about it. I can give you everything he can.”
Chen Zemian shot him a glance. “What’s yours is mine anyway. Do we really need to bother with giving and receiving?”
Lu’s voice carried a faint warmth. “Of course it counts. There are so many things I want to give you, but whenever someone else offers you something, you accept it without a thought—when it’s from me, you always refuse.”
Chen Zemian muttered under his breath, “That’s because of what you give me. Last time, for my birthday, you gave me a yacht. What am I supposed to do with that? It’s useless, and the upkeep costs a fortune. You’re not exactly… practical.”
Lu Zhuonian couldn’t help laughing softly.
It was the first time anyone had ever accused him of being “impractical.” Somehow, when it came from Chen Zemian, it didn’t sound like criticism at all.
Chen Zemian’s refusal didn’t surprise Wilson. But instead of giving up, the man simply changed tactics—sending out personal invitations under his own name, extending them not to Chen Zemian directly, but to every one of his close friends.
Even more cunningly, Wilson avoided handing them out in person.
He sent the invitations straight to the families—the Lus, the Xiaos, the Yes, the Xues, the Lius, and the Zhengs—bypassing the younger generation entirely and dealing with their elders.
In this way, none of them could reasonably refuse.
Still, a trip was a trip—and the chance to visit the estate of the legendary financial titan Rolf Wilson wasn’t something anyone wanted to turn down. So, one by one, they accepted the invitation and made their way to the Fivière Estate.
Chen Qingyu had been puzzled when he first heard Wilson had moved into the estate himself, but after receiving a message from his son, realization dawned. He set his phone down and gave Wilson a mild, knowing glance.
The day the group arrived, a light drizzle had begun to fall.
Mist shrouded the Fivière Estate, lending it an almost otherworldly charm—mysterious and romantic, the hills beyond veiled in gauzy rain. When the grand iron gates swung open, fountains danced to life in welcome.
Raindrops mingled with the jets of water, scattering into sparkling mist around marble sculptures, creating a vision so elegant it could have come from a dream.
Chen Zemian barely registered the scenery. The moment he spotted his father, he jumped out of the car and ran through the rain, calling out, “Dad!”
Chen Qingyu held an umbrella in one hand and caught his son firmly with the other.
The others followed, stepping out of the cars to greet both Chen Qingyu and Mr. Wilson before heading inside.
The interior was even more stunning—refined and opulent. A Van Gogh painting hung in the entryway, and beneath it stood a golden model ship cast entirely from solid gold.
They passed through the corridor and climbed the sweeping staircase to reach their rooms.
Walking at the back, Chen Zemian leaned close to whisper to his father, “It’s even prettier than in the pictures.”
Chen Qingyu chuckled softly. “Mr. Wilson put a lot of effort into making sure you’d accept his ‘gift.’”
To show the estate at its absolute best, Wilson had even gone so far as to drain and refill the fountain pool with purified water. Many out-of-season plants had been replaced with lush, blooming flowers, and the courtyard had been redesigned to overflow with color.
Even the servants had been swapped out for staff who spoke fluent Chinese, and the horses at the stables were trained to understand Mandarin commands—“jia” to gallop, “xu” to stop.
Wilson was determined to make Chen Zemian fall in love with the place.
After the long trip, everyone went to rest in their rooms.
Watching Chen Zemian’s retreating figure, Wilson couldn’t hide his satisfaction. “Your son seems quite pleased, Mr. Chen.”
Chen Qingyu’s tone remained cool. “Your plan’s wasted effort. My son hates flying. You could hand him the White House itself, and he still wouldn’t shuttle back and forth.”
Wilson merely shrugged, lips curving into a sly smile. “There’s a saying, Mr. Chen—where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“You’re really that afraid of dying?” Chen Qingyu asked, a hint of disbelief in his tone. “I’ve been back for two months now, and no one’s even tried to assassinate you.”
Wilson replied matter-of-factly, “That’s only because they know you’re here. With you around, they wouldn’t dare make a move.”
Chen Qingyu looked out toward the dense forest beyond the window. “Your villa’s security is tighter than this estate’s. Be careful these next few days.”
Wilson waved it off. “I’ve already doubled the patrols. You don’t need to worry—just spend time with your son. He’s going to fall in love with this place.”
There was no denying that Chen Qingyu’s instinct for danger was sharp—almost unnervingly so.
That afternoon, while Chen Zemian and the others were horseback riding at the paddock, a faint, sharp sound suddenly echoed from the direction of the main house.
It was distant—so soft that to most people, it sounded no different from a firecracker. Just a single pop, barely enough to draw attention.
But Chen Zemian’s reaction was immediate. He turned abruptly, eyes locking on the manor.
Lu Zhuonian urged his horse closer. “What’s wrong?”
“I think I heard a gunshot.”
Before the words had fully left his mouth, Chen Zemian had already snapped the reins and spurred his horse into a full gallop. “My dad’s still in the house—I’m going back!”
Lu Zhuonian tightened his grip on the reins and wheeled his horse around without hesitation, racing after him.
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Author: LazyHermitGal
A Lazy Hermit Gal wondering in the void and falling into the translation abyss.
