“Where did he dump the person?!”
The moment Sun Yueping received Fu Guanlan’s report, he shot upright abruptly. His fingers, clutching the phone, trembled uncontrollably, betraying his composure.
“Into the sea?” he asked, voice tense.
As soon as the answer reached his ears, Sun Yueping slowly closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. After a brief pause, he exhaled and opened them again, his tone calm but resolute. “Xiao Ruhai is cunning and treacherous. His words cannot be trusted.”
Fu Guanlan nodded. “Yes, Director Sun. I’ve obtained Kevin’s photograph and will verify his identity as soon as possible. Additionally, I will develop a psychological profile and behavioral analysis of the suspect to compare with Xiao Ruhai’s statement.”
Sun Yueping listened carefully, then analyzed the clues at hand. His voice was steady, deliberate. “Someone who can get along with both bosses isn’t as simple as Xiao Ruhai makes him out to be. Many people were involved in that case back then. The main culprit died, but there were accomplices, witnesses—people who might still know him. If we question them one by one, someone should recognize him.”
Among all the descriptions of Xiao Ruhai—many of which blurred the line between truth and falsehood—one detail remained beyond doubt:
Chen Qingyu was seriously injured when he returned to the scene.
During the arrest, Chen Qingyu was shot in the shoulder. His colleagues hurried him into an ambulance for treatment, but in a desperate bid to keep his promise and save lives, he jumped out of the vehicle en route to the hospital.
Sadly, not everyone remains steadfast on the road to justice.
In the face of absolute interests, hearts can turn cold and quickly change course.
As the police conducted their extensive investigation, a clearer psychological profile of “Kevin” began to emerge. His real name was Guan Yu. His mother was a nightclub hostess, and he had grown up among the neon lights and smoky haze of the nightlife. Education was sparse—he barely read or wrote—but he was a master at cards. His upbringing, immersed in the games and rules of the gambling scene, shaped him. His appearance was unremarkable, yet there was a certain energy about him.
“Like a little rabbit—weak, fragile, crying without tears. Just looking at him makes people want to bully him,” a guest who frequented Yaotai Langyuan recalled.
Examining Kevin’s photo, the guest narrowed his eyes, lost in thought. “But if he really gets angry, he looks so pitiful—so lovable, in a strange way. Yaotai Langyuan is a place full of beauties. Somehow, he managed to hook up with the second boss. That’s quite something.”
Some people offered different accounts, especially regarding his relationship with the second boss.
“He was forced by the second boss,” a former waiter interjected. “The second boss liked him, but Guan Yu refused and stayed out of reach for a while. Then one day, drunk and reckless, the second boss asked someone to take Guan Yu upstairs.”
Yaotai Langyuan was divided into two sections. The lower floors, known as “Langyuan Hall,” served ordinary guests. The upper floors—above the ninth—were the infamous “Yaochi Wonderland,” a shadowy den of vice, hidden from the light.
The division between upstairs and downstairs was strict. Waiters and patrons from below couldn’t ascend without permission.
“The second boss called Guan Yu upstairs, but he refused. Then, I heard the second boss come down himself, right in the corridor… It was crowded at the time. We lined up, blocking the view with our bodies. Though we couldn’t see much, Guan Yu’s scream still gives me goosebumps.”
Fu Guanlan slammed his fist on the table. “Such a critical detail—why wasn’t it mentioned in your statements?”
The waiter hesitated. “Well, how could I know everything? The second boss has forced so many people. I just answered what I was asked. Besides, the victim didn’t mention it—if we bring it up now, isn’t that cheating him?”
Guan Yu left Yaotai Langyuan that day.
At that point, four years remained before the case was officially closed. In a nightclub with such high staff turnover—over eighty employees passing through each year—who would remember a single person?
The waiters believed Guan Yu had resigned, but in truth, he had been taken away by the second boss and kept hidden, like a caged bird.
He was imprisoned for a long, long time.
Only after he learned to obey, to serve, was he gradually released and given a new identity—Kevin. He was confined to the ninth floor, entertaining guests in the boss’s private circle—drinking, playing cards, and masking his true self behind a veneer of compliance.
Since then, Guan Yu’s life was driven solely by interests, devoid of genuine emotion.
Before meeting Chen Qingyu, he had no idea how to live. He concealed his hatred deep within, forcing himself to smile, to meet all the second boss’s demands.
Not wanting to remain locked up, he refused to take the medicine prescribed for him.
Guan Yu secretly dreamed of killing the second boss—of vengeance. That was his turning point, his one chance—a flicker of hope, a way out.
It was as if a beam of light suddenly shone into his dark world, illuminating a new path. Not only did it point the way forward, but it also gave him an outlet for his fury.
From that moment, Guan Yu had a singular goal.
Revenge.
He wanted the second boss dead, the big boss eliminated, and for Yaotai Langyuan to crumble. He longed to escape the sea of suffering, to save himself—and perhaps all the victims like himself.
In that pursuit, he found a new allegiance—one rooted in interests, intertwined with Chen Qingyu’s fate.
He once desperately wished to be the hero—standing tall in the sun, slaying the dragon.
Yet, with the death of the second boss and the fall of Yaotai Langyuan, Guan Yu’s revenge was complete, and his life’s ambitions fulfilled.
His bonds with Chen Qingyu severed, no longer necessary.
Guan Yu’s choices weren’t accidental—they were inevitable. His past protection was genuine, yet his subsequent betrayal was just as authentic.
The root of all Guan Yu’s decisions wasn’t others, but himself.
The appearance of Xiao Ruhai represented a new crossroads. Guan Yu suddenly realized: perhaps he could live another life—take another path.
And so, he changed his life goals and chose a new partner.
As the investigation deepened, a psychological profile of Guan Yu gradually took shape before the police.
The expert in criminal psychology analyzed: “If it’s not Xiao Ruhai, then there will be others. One’s upbringing and life experiences heavily influence personal choices. There’s no contradiction between his protecting Chen Qingyu and betraying him. Different environments bring different, sometimes conflicting, options.”
Guan Yu and Chen Qingyu were never the same person; only two paths—one toward justice, the other toward darkness—intersected briefly.
He chose the route that benefited him most, and coincidentally, that route overlapped with Chen Qingyu’s quest for righteousness.
That was all.
Chen Qingyu had come from the light, seeking to break free from his cage, ultimately returning to the sun.
Guan Yu, however, had never truly seen that light.
If Chen Qingyu had arrived just a moment sooner, Guan Yu might have walked with him into the sun. Yet, whenever an alternate path to the sky appeared, he hesitated.
Guan Yu wasn’t without choices; he simply refused to choose Chen Qingyu. Instead, he crafted countless reasons—excuses for his delay, his inability to turn back.
What he longed for wasn’t pure darkness nor blinding light, but another life—one he’d never truly experienced.
No matter what decision he made, there was regret. This truth was embodied in Guan Yu’s very being.
The psychologist pointed to the name on the transcript. “He used ‘Little Brother Chen’ as his code name. It’s less a tribute to Chen Qingyu, and more a mourning for the self who turned away from the light, falling back into darkness before he could reach it.”
After reading the report, Sun Yueping looked at Fu Guanlan and said, “Post Guan Yu’s photo to the public security intranet. I’ll report to the Ministry of Public Security and issue a Class A wanted notice for Guan Yu—the fugitive involved in the case.”
Forget plastic surgery—whether he changes his face, his gender, or even turns to ash, we will find him. We must dig him out, no matter how deep we have to go.
But that’s easier said than done.
According to Xiao Ruhai’s intel, Guan Yu not only underwent plastic surgery abroad but also altered his identity. In a vast sea of people, it’s no easy task to track someone whose name, appearance, and even gender have been completely changed.
“It can’t be that he really had a sex change,” Fu Guanlan said, handing out printed copies to everyone he met after the wanted order was issued. “Do any of you recognize him?”
There were two wanted notices found at Chen Zemian’s house—brought by Xiao Kesong.
Yes, Xiao Kesong had been staying there recently.
He didn’t know how to face all this chaos, so he hid in Chen Zemian’s home, as if fleeing from reality.
After Xiao Ruhai was placed on the arrest list, news about the Xiao family flooded the internet—more sensational, more viral than Kevin’s wanted poster.
Truth and rumor blurred into one. Words like #richfamily, #entertainment, #hiddenrules, #sexualassault, #contraband, #powerforsex—any two of these could ignite public opinion, let alone their combination.
The scandal swept through the media like a flood, affecting not only Xiao’s stocks but also casting a shadow over the entire family.
Xiao Kesong’s demeanor grew increasingly despondent.
He even felt as if he could no longer find happiness.
The carefree and innocent days of the past twenty years had drained all the happiness from his remaining life. Beneath the bloody, raw reality, his world was shattered beyond repair. In this relentless collapse, his beliefs crumbled, and his life lost its fulcrum—its balance.
Entanglements with friends and relatives seemed endless. He felt a pang of guilt towards Lu Zhuonian, yet he couldn’t truly resent Xiao Ruhai. The weight of his confusion pressed down on him, leaving him adrift in a sea of despair, uncertain of what he could do to change this broken world or how to face the fragments of his shattered life.
Watching Xiao Kesong sink deeper into depression, Chen Zemian made a decision. He asked Fu Tingchao to bring the dog over—a small attempt to mend the wounded heart. He lent the pet to Xiao Kesong, hoping that the simple presence of a living creature might offer some solace.
Though the effect was minimal, it was better than nothing. When Chen Zemian arrived to visit, Xiao Kesong was sitting quietly, clutching the dog while listening to an online class. Recently, he hadn’t gone out much, yet his enthusiasm for learning had become frighteningly intense.
He almost seemed paranoid—believing that if he could be as accomplished as Lu Zhuonian or Ye Chen, perhaps none of this would have happened. Chen Zemian cast a glance at Lu Zhuonian, who shook his head subtly.
At this moment, words from others seemed pointless. Any sudden concern or interference would only increase Xiao Kesong’s burden. A large part of his inner turmoil stemmed from the harm he believed he had caused his friends. The only way to truly convince him that Lu Zhuonian didn’t hold it against him was to stop bringing it up—letting time and silence do the healing.
“He’ll be fine,” Lu Zhuonian reassured Chen Zemian after they returned home. “Don’t underestimate Kesong’s resilience—his ability to heal himself is remarkable.”
In that instant, Chen Zemian suddenly understood why Lu Zhuonian was the protagonist in every story. His steadiness, tolerance, and open-mindedness were like a magic needle—supporting everything, supporting everyone. Despite his circumstances, he seemed to rise above the shackles of emotion, calmly and objectively controlling the situation.
Chen Zemian leaned in and kissed Lu Zhuonian’s chin. Lu Zhuonian’s eyebrows twitched slightly. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
“I just think you’re super handsome,” Chen Zemian replied, eyes shining with affection.
Lu Zhuonian straightened his posture, not very obviously. “Why do you say that all of a sudden?”
With a gaze full of stars, Chen Zemian described him. “He is shrewd, responsible, and compassionate—all at once. Magnanimous, kind-hearted, and unwavering.”
If Fu Guanlan hadn’t brought up the old matter again, just to investigate the case, Lu Zhuonian, by his nature, would probably never have let Xiao Kesong find out about it in his lifetime. He appeared cold and taciturn on the surface, but inside, he was tender and gentle—protecting everyone in his own quiet way.
Lu Zhuonian chuckled softly. “You sound like you’re talking about a saint. How could I be so magnanimous? I’m actually quite stingy. I don’t want you going out, and even if I see you talking to others for a few more words, I’ll be secretly angry for a long time.”
Chen Zemian wrapped his arms around Lu Zhuonian’s neck, grinning. “Are you angry? I didn’t even notice.”
Lu Zhuonian lowered his head, gently rubbing Chen Zemian’s nose. “You have to pretend when you’re outside.”
“Then you’re very good at pretending,” Chen Zemian replied, so content he couldn’t find words to express his love. “Lu Zhuonian, you are truly a good friend.”
Although everyone knew that Kesong’s mistake was unintentional, how many people could truly refrain from venting their frustration on others?
Lu Zhuonian’s smile was faint. “Kesong is also a very good friend. Before I met you, I was sick for so long. Every time I suddenly fell ill, he and Ye Chen covered for me. Ye Chen was thoughtful—he took care of my emotions, never mentioning my illness. But Kesong… he was different. He didn’t treat me like a patient.”
Xiao Kesong was straightforward and casual. Not long after Chen Zemian joined their small circle, he casually mentioned that “Lu Zhuonian was ill”—a detail that had been kept hidden for years.
On the surface, it seemed like a passing remark. Yet, Xiao Kesong, who couldn’t even keep his own secrets, had buried the words “sex addiction” in his heart for seven long years. That time in Sanya—the moment Chen Zemian wanted to ask him what disease Lu Zhuonian had—Xiao Kesong was drunk and foolish, but he said nothing.
He was the most innocent person, yet he witnessed the most complex depths of human nature with his own eyes.
“I hope he gets better soon,” Chen Zemian whispered, bowing his head in silent prayer. “No matter what, I just hope the Xiao family’s ordeal ends soon. It’s too torturous to be caught in the middle like this.”
Lu Zhuonian placed a hand on Chen Zemian’s forehead, a gentle gesture. “You want to bow to me?”
Chen Zemian raised an eyebrow. “Can’t I? I think you’re quite spiritual.”
Lu Zhuonian emphasized the word “Man”—“Manling”—lingering on his tongue. “You’ve been chatting a lot with my cousin lately, right? That’s the dialect from our hometown.”
Chen Zemian grinned, oblivious to the sour tone in Lu Zhuonian’s words, and even took out his phone to show him the chat history. “Yes. She just signed with the Movie Emperor Studio. After the artists from Huanyu joined, they fought over roles, argued fiercely… It’s very entertaining. She tells me gossip about the circle every day. Look at this, look at this!”
Lu Zhuonian closed his eyes, exhaling softly. “I’m jealous.”
Chen Zemian gently pulled open Lu Zhuonian’s eyelids. “Don’t be jealous.”
Lu Zhuonian couldn’t help but laugh, pulling Chen Zemian into an embrace, then kissing him repeatedly. “Mianmian, you’re so cute.”
“I’ll go next door to see Kesong,” Chen Zemian said, kissed away, and ran toward the door. Before leaving, he made a heart shape to Lu Zhuonian. “Don’t forget to bless him.”
“I’ll take you to Tanshan Temple to worship on the first day of the New Year,” Lu Zhuonian said, straightening his clothes. “But I’m not a Bodhisattva—I’m not that powerful.”
Lu Zhuonian was indeed not very powerful—yet, in a sense, he was quite formidable.
Chen Zemian silently wished that Xiao Kesong would get better soon, and that the Xiao family’s ordeal would end swiftly. His wish was heard by some passing deity, and half of it was quietly fulfilled—Xiao Ruhai died.
He died after the case was filed by the public security, just before it was transferred to the procuratorate. Because the perpetrator died, the authorities withdrew the case, and no criminal responsibility was pursued. The Xiao family’s nightmare was finally over.
When Chen Zemian heard the news, he asked instinctively, “Is it suicide?”
Lu Zhuonian shook his head. “It was a traffic accident—man-made.”
The perpetrator was an early artist at Huanyu Media and a victim of the Xiaojinwan case. He had learned that the police would conduct a physical examination on Xiao Ruhai before taking him into custody. Waiting nearby in the designated hospital, he suddenly drove his car into the police vehicle, crashing into the seat where Xiao Ruhai sat. The victim died instantly.
The perpetrator left a brief suicide note on social media:
“Carry out justice on behalf of heaven. Blood debts must be paid with blood.”
This eight-word message was reposted wildly by major media outlets. Xiao Ruhai’s stocks plummeted, and funeral banners appeared, symbolizing blood debts paid in blood.
The official verdict had yet to be announced. The internet buzzed with speculation—some claimed revenge, others alleged silence.
Amidst this chaos, Chen Zemian worried that Xiao Kesong might not withstand the blow and could suffer an emotional breakdown.
But, unexpectedly, something even worse happened.
Xiao Kesong showed no emotion at all. When he heard the news, he remained calm—neither crying nor causing a fuss. Instead, he packed his belongings and told Chen Zemian simply, “There’s a funeral in my family. I won’t be living with you anymore.”
Chen Zemian hesitated, watching Xiao Kesong’s gaunt face—heart aching.
Xiao Kesong pressed his lips into a forced smile. “I’m leaving first. Call me if you need anything.”
Unable to hold back, Chen Zemian embraced him tightly, eyes brimming with tears. “If you need help, just tell me. Don’t do this alone, okay?”
Xiao Kesong patted Chen Zemian’s back softly. “Okay.”
Time, as always, moved forward—regardless of pain or joy. Hearts fluttered, and the Spring Festival arrived as scheduled.
On New Year’s Eve, Lu Zhuonian returned to Lu’s family for lunch, then went back to Shengfu Huating in the evening to stay up with Chen Zemian.
The second-generation circle was still lively, red envelopes exchanged one after another. Everything seemed familiar—yet strangely different.
Chen Zemian remembered the fireworks in Haitang Bay last year.
Lu Zhuonian’s vacation was brief; after the holiday, he returned to Boston to continue his studies. Meanwhile, Xiao Kesong, having finished his studies abroad early, came back to school.
No matter how tumultuous the journey, life must go on, one day at a time.
Chen Zemian sometimes juggled his career in China, working tirelessly at home, and other times he flew to Boston in search of his partner. Perhaps because he was so consumed by these pursuits, Lu Zhuonian’s own career suffered—he hadn’t met any Wall Street tycoons or royal heirs lately.
When Lu Zhuonian heard Chen Zemian’s sigh, he only offered three words: “Be realistic.”
Chen Zemian, however, refused to accept this. He firmly believed that the plot wouldn’t just vanish overnight. So, he dragged Lu Zhuonian to dinners, insisted they listen to musicals, and even participated in several auctions—buying a mountain of useless trinkets, all in hopes of catching some stroke of luck.
Sincerity, he thought, could move mountains and open rocks. And eventually, their efforts paid off. They finally met a Wall Street tycoon—a green-eyed Frenchman—who hit it off with Chen Zemian and admired Lu Zhuonian. Chen Zemian saw this as a reward for their persistence, but soon discovered that the man was Lu Zhuonian’s mother’s first love.
This revelation left him discouraged. Without a word, he packed his bags and decided to return home.
As he stepped off the plane, the sky was ablaze with sunset, casting a warm glow over the landscape—a perfect scene, a reminder that even the longest winter would eventually pass, and spring would come again.
Later, Chen Zemian called Xiao Kesong. “Do you have classes tonight? Want to go out for dinner?”
Xiao Kesong thought about it and replied, “I haven’t had taro duck in a long time. Call Ye Chen, and let’s go to Jinlin Hotel.”
It was a pity Lu Zhuonian was not here; otherwise, they could have shared the same dinner like before.
Parking at Jinlin Hotel remained a challenge, as always. Visiting the old place, Chen Zemian couldn’t help but feel that some things had changed—familiar, yet unfamiliar.
He still couldn’t understand what made taro duck so delicious, and strangely, no one was insisting he try it.
Xiao Kesong took two bites and muttered, “It’s not as good as I remembered.”
Ye Chen raised his hand and signaled for the waiter. After inquiring, they learned that the chef had been replaced.
If it had been the same chef, Xiao Kesong would have surely asked where he’d gone. In fact, he’d chase after that chef and even visit him at his home—such was his love for that dish.
But this time, Xiao Kesong didn’t ask. Instead, he simply picked up his teacup, took a sip, and lamented, “It’s a pity I can’t taste that taro duck again.”
Chen Zemian and Ye Chen exchanged glances. They understood that Xiao Kesong was mourning the passage of time and the vicissitudes of life. But behind his words, they saw the unwavering determination—an unspoken promise—to find the original chef someday.
As Qingming Festival approached, Lu Zhuonian booked his flight in advance, returning to China to pay respects to his ancestors.
The Lu family was vast, and their ancestor worship was grand—rich in tradition, etiquette, and ceremony. This time, Lu Zhuonian could only stay in the old family house, performing the rites of bathing, fasting, and burning incense.
Chen Zemian found it troublesome. “You still have to fast? Then I won’t come to pick you up.”
Lu Zhuonian smiled softly. “Start fasting three days before. The day I return doesn’t count.”
Chen Zemian’s expression flickered. “I’d still come to get you, but I just wanted to say that first—to get the negative out of the way.”
Lu Zhuonian chuckled, unable to hold back a laugh.
On the day of his return, Chen Zemian wasn’t sure if he’d have time to go back to Shengfu Huating, so he drove his big Mercedes-Benz—a sleek, black vehicle covered with anti-peep film—to the airport three hours before Lu Zhuonian’s plane was scheduled to land.
Bored after waiting for a while, he climbed upstairs and bought two cups of Star Ice. He planned to drink one every hour until Lu Zhuonian arrived, thinking that the smoothies, kept cold by the car’s refrigerator, would keep him refreshed.
As he strolled back to the parking lot with the drinks, Chen Zemian mused that under Lu Zhuonian’s strict discipline, his own self-control had improved—now he only bought two cups. In the past, he’d have bought at least three.
He pressed the automatic door of the refrigerator, ready to place the drinks inside. But, to his surprise, he spotted a man sitting in the back seat—a baseball cap pulled low, a mask covering his face.
Chen Zemian froze.
His first instinct was that he’d entered the wrong car. The Mercedes-Benz was large and rarely driven out, so he wasn’t very familiar with it. Yet, as he glanced again at the front row, he saw a water bottle discarded on the passenger seat, confirming he wasn’t mistaken.
Within a second, he concluded — The other person must have gotten into the wrong car.
The man was staring at his phone. When he heard the door open, he didn’t lift his head, and his tone was arrogantly impatient, “Can you please hurry up? I’m in a rush.”
Despite the words, his tone carried no friendliness—only a distaste, as if annoyed that Chen Zemian was causing a delay.
Chen Zemian tilted his head. “No. Who are you, buddy?”
Hearing this, the man’s hand hesitated slightly, and he frowned, glancing up. The blue-purple ambient light flickered across his eyebrows—like breathing.
The moment he saw Chen Zemian’s face clearly, his pupils contracted sharply, as if in a trance. Then, almost instantly, the expression vanished.
Chen Zemian studied the outline of his face—the shape of his eyebrows—and felt an inexplicable sense of familiarity, a flicker of recognition. He frowned unconsciously.
The man arched his back, clutching his phone so tightly that his knuckles whitened. His voice was dry and tense, “You…”
“Teacher Ji!” a voice called out from afar—a staff member from the variety show crew waved excitedly. “You got into the wrong car!”
Looking at the familiar name of the show, Chen Zemian suddenly realized—Oh. This is the movie star.
Ji Chenzhou, the current boss of Cheng Ziyi, who had risen to fame through variety shows in the original story. He was the one who later competed with Lu Zhuonian for land to build a film and television city.
Although he wore a hat and mask, Ji Chenzhou looked surprisingly young—about thirty-five—completely different from his forty-five years.
It was clear that celebrities took good care of themselves.
But he also exuded arrogance. Even knowing he’d entered the wrong vehicle, he didn’t move. He just sat there, uncertain whether to invite someone or not.
Several staff members hurried over, bowing repeatedly, apologizing profusely, and guiding Ji Chenzhou out of the car.
“Sorry, sorry,” one of them said, bowing again. “Our car is parked farther away. Please, come this way.”
Ji Chenzhou took a few steps, then suddenly stopped. Turning to Chen Zemian, he shifted from arrogance to politeness, offering a small, courteous smile, “Sorry. Please leave your contact information. I’ll ask my assistant to transfer the parking fee later.”
Chen Zemian shook his head. “No need.”
Ji Chenzhou nodded politely, apologized once more, and then left.
Chen Zemian leaned against the glass, watching as Ji Chenzhou and his team disappeared into the distance.
A few seconds later, another car pulled out nearby—one identical to his Mercedes-Benz. No wonder Ji Chenzhou had mistaken it.
But what struck Chen Zemian was that Ji Chenzhou seemed… strangely tense.
Behind the glass, Ji Chenzhou also watched him. The assistant, sensing his unease, asked cautiously, “What’s wrong, Teacher Ji? Is there a problem?”
In the bright April sun, Ji Chenzhou’s face was ghostly pale, beads of cold sweat slicked his forehead. If not for years of acting experience, he might have screamed—distracted by what he’d just seen.
He snapped a picture of the license plate and pressed it repeatedly, trying to form a sentence: Check who this is.
During the Qingming Festival holiday, over two hundred million people traveled across Beijing. The city was clogged with traffic, and Chen Zemian had no time for anything else.
Waiting at a red light, he leaned on the steering wheel, muttering to himself, “I should have known better than to drive a business car. A sports car would’ve been faster.”
Lu Zhuonian chuckled softly. “You can just come home with me.”
Chen Zemian instantly calmed, adopting a nonchalant tone. “No, the main reason is that this car’s comfortable. You just got off the plane, and a sports car would be uncomfortable for you.”
Before leaving the car, Lu Zhuonian added, “There are many rules for ancestor worship at home. I might not be able to answer your calls during these three days. If you can’t reach me, just leave a message—I’ll reply when I see it.”
Chen Zemian nodded. “Your cousin’s assistant has gone home to sweep the graves. It’s Qingming. If she’s late to record the show, I’ll pick her up.”
Lu Zhuonian pretended to be surprised. “You need to report such a small matter to me?”
Chen Zemian raised his middle finger. “If I hadn’t told you in advance, later you’d say I took advantage of your disconnection to meet a female star.”
Lu Zhuonian took Chen Zemian’s hand, kissed it softly, and said, “You know me too well.”
Chen Zemian noticed someone peeking out from inside Lu’s house, feeling a little embarrassed. He pushed Lu Zhuonian playfully. “Go quickly.”
Lu Zhuonian glanced at the time. “It might be congested now. Do you want me to send a car to take you back? I think my father’s national gift is at home.”
Chen Zemian shook his head. “No, it’s a holiday. I won’t indulge in such privileges. I’ll turn onto the elevated road and head to Fu Tingchao’s golf course—my brothers are there.”
Lu Zhuonian responded, “Okay. You’re more popular than me in the young master circle now.”
Hearing the slight edge of envy in Lu Zhuonian’s tone, Chen Zemian wanted to give him the middle finger. But knowing he might get a kiss in retaliation, he simply turned the wheel and drove away.
*****
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Author: LazyHermitGal
A Lazy Hermit Gal wondering in the void and falling into the translation abyss.
