Chapter 35#

Tan Xiao and Alexandra Doria’s conversation was not pleasant.

After Zhang Xingchuan finished discussing a comprehensive crisis response strategy with the executives, everyone dispersed. They’d get some early rest; everyone had things to do first thing tomorrow morning.

He found Tan Xiao in a small conference room on the same floor.

Zhang Xingchuan: “…”

Tan Xiao had obviously been crying. His eyes were still somewhat red.

Zhang Xingchuan pushed the door open and came in. Tan Xiao thought it was a colleague who needed the room for work and turned his face away to hide it. “Sorry, I’ll leave right away.”

But when he saw it was Zhang Xingchuan, he felt a bit awkward. He didn’t want colleagues to see him wiping away tears—that felt embarrassing. He didn’t want Zhang Xingchuan to see, worried it would make him concerned.

Zhang Xingchuan shut the door behind him, walked in, and stood before Tan Xiao. The two looked at each other.

Tan Xiao loved to smile and rarely cried. He’d get teary-eyed watching emotional scenes in dramas or anime, and could squeeze out a few tears when being coy and acting spoiled.

Real crying was different—he was like a pitiful little puppy.

“Did your sister bully you?” Zhang Xingchuan asked.

“How could she bully me over the phone?” Tan Xiao said. “She’s bullying you. I’m too angry.”

Tan Xiao had wanted to have a proper conversation with his sister. Tan Yun gave him no such opportunity. Just as Zhang Xingchuan had predicted, she didn’t care at all about this internet company that had only gone public a few years ago in China. She was simply using this method to warn Tan Xiao not to forget his surname.

Wenjing was Zhang Xingchuan’s weak point. Zhang Xingchuan was Tan Xiao’s.

Zhang Xingchuan had guessed the likely outcome. He’d seen some of Alexandra Doria’s major business moves in the past—she was an iron-willed woman whose parents and family had long dominated Europe’s capital markets, with strong backing and ruthless tactics.

Of course, the character portrait visible in official reports would differ somewhat from who Tan Yun was in private.

Tan Xiao had mentioned before that his sister was strict but caring when he was young. She’d remember his birthday, remind him after equestrian lessons to soak his legs in warm water to prevent soreness, and even help him hang Chinese knots and paste couplets in his room during Chinese New Year—though she didn’t understand the rules correctly and pasted them on his bed headboard.

Tan Xiao didn’t think he was being one-sided in treating her like a sister.

But the last real conversation between siblings had been after Tan Xiao finished his college entrance exams. She’d rushed to China and prevented him from studying computer science, insisting he must study business instead.

They hadn’t truly seen each other since then.

Later, Tan Xiao heard that Tan Yun was preparing for a divorce at that time.

She’d completed her master’s in business at Bocconi University and entered the family enterprise in a high position, achieving impressive business results. But at thirty, her family still required her to enter matrimony with an heir to a century-old luxury brand. The marriage was facilitated by the Doria family and her uncle’s cruise-building family. The luxury brand had launched a luxury cruise project that year, and the shipping company gained entry into the luxury goods supply chain logistics sector. It was a mutually satisfactory short-term marriage for all three parties.

After middle age, Tan Minhong lost all ambition and spent his time on yachts and beautiful women of various nationalities. Nominally the first heir, Tan Yun had gradually become the actual power holder of the Doria family.

What hurt Tan Xiao most wasn’t how coldly his sister criticized or threatened him. It was finally facing a fact he’d long sensed: his sister had been reforged by wealth and power. She was a queen standing at the peak of wealth, overlooking the world. She was Alexandra Doria, no longer the sister Tan Yun from his childhood memories who’d remind him to soak his legs in warm water after equestrian lessons.

His impression of the white men in the family was cold and frightening, though their faces were blurred. After talking with Tan Yun, he suddenly couldn’t quite remember what she looked like.

This realization broke his heart.

Zhang Xingchuan looked at him worriedly. Tan Xiao took a small step forward and hugged him, wanting to cry again. He lowered his head, burying his eyes on Zhang Xingchuan’s shoulder.

“What should we do?” Tan Xiao didn’t want to discuss unrelated matters and was more concerned about how Wenjing could escape. “What was the outcome of your meeting? Do you have a plan?”

“Don’t worry,” Zhang Xingchuan heard his nasal tone. “We at Wenjing are united in purpose.”

Tan Xiao expected him to follow with something like a declaration that Wenjing employees would together overcome commercial suppression from large conglomerates.

Instead, Zhang Xingchuan said, “We won’t let the foreigners succeed.”

“…” Tan Xiao couldn’t laugh, but couldn’t cry either.

He’d never considered himself a little foreigner, inherently believing himself to be a little Chinese person from childhood.

Zhang Xingchuan held him and said silly things to cheer him up. His mood gradually settled.

It was already almost eleven-thirty. Tan Xiao said, “Let’s go home. You need a good sleep. There’s probably a lot to do tomorrow.”

Zhang Xingchuan asked, “Okay, which home do you want to go to?”

Tan Xiao said, “Either one works.”

He thought about it and said, “Wherever you are is my home.”

Zhang Xingchuan’s eyes felt a bit sore hearing this. He forcibly held it back. Dropping tears now would hurt his cool factor—the CEO certainly understood.

In the end, they returned to Zhang Xingchuan’s place. The living supplies were more complete here, and there was a reliable auntie to take care of daily needs, effectively ensuring good health between business battles.

Zhang Xingchuan hadn’t slept well the previous night. He’d been fully focused and busy all day. When he got back, he fell into a deep sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Tan Xiao had no sleep. He lay beside him, watching his profile in the darkness.

Actually, before today, Tan Xiao had almost never imagined what things would be like far into the future.

He loved Zhang Xingchuan very much now. Sometimes his heart and eyes were full of only Zhang Xingchuan. So being with him made him very happy. They could give and receive the most perfect emotional experience from each other.

But what would happen years from now, decades from now, or even decades after that—Tan Xiao hadn’t really thought about it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe their love could be eternal, but he was too young. Life didn’t seem to have enough certainty yet.

That night at the company, in those few minutes when he buried his eyes in Zhang Xingchuan’s shoulder, Zhang Xingchuan’s scent was very unique. It suddenly made him develop a yearning for permanence with Zhang Xingchuan.

Did he feel a sense of security? He didn’t know. He’d never even thought about whether he lacked a sense of security. In any case, in that moment, he felt Zhang Xingchuan was no longer just a happy station he’d found in his early twenties. He was his destination, his home.

The next morning, Zhang Xingchuan woke early. He felt Tan Xiao’s arm hugging him, his warm face nestled against his neck.

This wasn’t Tan Xiao’s usual sleeping position. When awake, he loved cuddling and being held. When asleep, his personality would shift—he was actually quite annoying about being touched. Once, Zhang Xingchuan had wanted to hold him in the middle of the night and got punched in his dreams.

So Zhang Xingchuan understood this signal: Tan Xiao’s love for him had deepened. This indicated his recent behavior had been perfect—absolutely correct.

Actually, Zhang Xingchuan could occasionally sense that the depth of Tan Xiao’s love for him was roughly equivalent to his love for Tan Xiao. But their expectations for the future weren’t quite in sync.

When he decided to develop a romantic relationship with Tan Xiao, he’d already decided Tan Xiao would be his lifelong partner. Even after Tan Xiao’s mask fell and things changed slightly, Zhang Xingchuan’s basic expectations for this relationship hadn’t changed.

However, Tan Xiao’s personality was lively and unbounded. He was good if he could think ahead to next month. Expecting him to have already decided he’d spend his whole life with Zhang Xingchuan was unrealistic.

In Shenzhen, Zhang Xingchuan had discussed his suspicions with President Fu. He believed the Doria family would likely take action against Wenjing and had already simulated several possible approaches with corresponding contingency plans.

Unlike Tan Xiao, he didn’t hold blindly optimistic views of the old money family’s conduct. Capital’s methods have always been simple and crude. History has verified countless times that most of the time, financial coercion is most effective.

At the time, President Fu had asked him whether, given that money is precious and love is priceless, it would be worth it if Tan Xiao changed his heart.

Zhang Xingchuan had answered then: what can be done through effort can be done. He wouldn’t give Tan Xiao the opportunity to change his heart.

What can be done through effort—how would you know it’s not possible without trying? Right now, Zhang Xingchuan had confirmed that Tan Xiao’s already intense feelings for him had become even more devoted.

When Zhang Xingchuan moved, Tan Xiao opened his eyes immediately, glancing at the bedside clock. Not yet seven-thirty.

“Do you have to leave so early?” Tan Xiao asked.

“I woke up naturally. I just need to leave before nine,” Zhang Xingchuan said. “I’m not going to the office today—I have a meeting with someone.”

Tan Xiao had many things he wanted to say but felt saying them now would seem childish. Finally, he just said, “Okay.”

Zhang Xingchuan said, “Don’t you want to talk to me? I haven’t had time to really listen to you talk these past two days.”

Tan Xiao asked, “What do you want to hear?”

“Anything,” Zhang Xingchuan said. “Call me. Say you missed me.”

Tan Xiao said, “Big brother.”

Zhang Xingchuan turned his face. Tan Xiao raised his head, and they kissed.

Tan Xiao’s face rested on the pillow, his beautiful shoulder blades rising and falling, trembling.

Zhang Xingchuan held him from behind, the two continuously kissing.

Around eight o’clock, Zhang Xingchuan found formal clothes to wear and said, “Which tie looks good? Help me choose.”

Tan Xiao chose one and stood before him, helping him tie it. Halfway through tying, he suddenly couldn’t help himself and leaned in to kiss him.

Zhang Xingchuan only kissed him briefly and smiled. “Running late. We’ll kiss more when I get home tonight, okay?”

Tan Xiao said nothing but finished tying the tie.

“Are you coming to the office today?” Zhang Xingchuan asked. “If you don’t feel like it, don’t.”

Tan Xiao said, “I should go. Secretary Feng probably needs me. I need to be there.”

Zhang Xingchuan teased him, “You’re causing troubles for Assistant Tan.”

Tan Xiao hated hearing this and almost wanted to cry again. It was clear he was the one causing trouble for Zhang Xingchuan and everyone else.

Zhang Xingchuan said, “Never mind, what’s wrong?”

Tan Xiao said, “I’m going to find HR and sign a formal labor contract with Wenjing. I’m going to be an ox and horse for them.”

Then he realized that when he first met Zhang Xingchuan, Zhang Xingchuan had wanted him to come work at Wenjing as an ox and horse.

And he thought further: if not for that encounter, none of this would have happened. Zhang Xingchuan and his Wenjing would still be fine. What an unlucky CEO and unlucky small company.

“It’s not related to you,” Zhang Xingchuan said, “or rather, there’s no necessary connection. Given Wenjing’s development, upstream suppliers finding fault would happen sooner or later—just a matter of what trigger event causes it.”

Of course Tan Xiao understood this principle. Power struggles between suppliers and platforms are a structural problem that has long existed in the online travel industry. Suppliers like hotels and airlines clash with platforms regularly—it’s industry standard.

What Wenjing encountered couldn’t be considered fresh.

Of course, others could treat it as an ordinary business incident. Zhang Xingchuan knew the full context—it was his CEO color his audacity that seduced the wealthy young master, enraging his family, causing them to mobilize their financial power to launch this sanctions against him and Wenjing.

At nine-thirty, he arrived at the regulatory department to report the situation to the supervisory leader. Benefiting from Wenjing’s consistent law-abiding conduct and his own good public image, leaders wouldn’t have preexisting negative impressions.

He also frankly explained that the incident’s origin was related to his private feelings. The leader’s position was far-sighted, not particularly concerned with such household matters behind closed doors. Their focus was on how to characterize the entire situation—whether it involved foreign capital suppressing domestic enterprises, whether there were unclear overseas forces trying to monopolize the industry through this.

At Wenjing, Tan Xiao clocked in on time. Secretary Feng indeed had other matters and didn’t come in.

Other colleagues passing by Tan Xiao’s workstation didn’t stop to chat like usual. Everyone knew the company was in trouble and that he was distracted. They all carefully avoided disturbing him.

All morning, Tan Xiao mechanically handled trivial work. The CEO wasn’t in, and there were no major matters in the president’s office—nothing too difficult for Assistant Tan. It just wasn’t fun.

He kept checking financial news and refreshing social media, worried about seeing bad news.

Near noon, online discussion about Wenjing’s supply chain problems intensified.

But simultaneously, Wenjing’s PR department took action. After the CEO communicated with the regulatory department and received positive feedback, the PR department responded through financial media: an international hotel group was maliciously restricting consumer choice. Wenjing was actively safeguarding fair trading rights for its vast user base.

This was the direction Zhang Xingchuan had determined from the very beginning of the crisis: don’t define this as a upstream giant oppressing our small platform, though that’s factually true. That would just make the public think it’s a business war—why does it concern us? That would inevitably lose the advantage in public opinion.

Wenjing’s stance had to be clear: this isn’t Wenjing’s fault, but it is Wenjing’s responsibility. Multinational conglomerates’ arbitrary abuse of Chinese platforms is stripping rights from Chinese consumers. Wenjing firmly opposes such malicious oppression.

Several colleagues in the President’s Office forwarded the news links to Tan Xiao. The tension that had pervaded the company began to ease from that moment on.

Additionally, from the activity posts of colleagues Tan Xiao knew in the Finance Division, he could infer that Deputy General Manager Sun had gone to the bank that day—probably securing backup credit lines in case of a bank run.

But judging from the online sentiment after the financial news came out, Wenjing hadn’t lost the battle for public opinion. A bank run likely wouldn’t happen. The cash flow would be unaffected. They could overcome this crisis.

Tan Xiao replied with thank-you or heart-shaped emojis to colleagues who’d shared the news.

He got up and went to the bathroom, washing his face with cold water, roughing it roughly until it turned red. He looked in the mirror and forced out a smile.

Zhang Xingchuan didn’t return to the office that afternoon either. The lost API was lost—those hundreds of hotel ports wouldn’t be recoverable on Wenjing’s platform before the situation ended. What they needed to do now was find a way around it.

At seven p.m., Wenjing released a bombshell announcement: from that day forward, the platform would offer zero-commission entry for all hotels, for a three-month period.

This was a scorched-earth decision, using short-term losses for long-term ecosystem building. Even M Group’s alliance brands had many who didn’t want to miss this “wool-plucking” opportunity.

Even reaching this point, people would still ask: isn’t this just breaking even to generate hype? Does Wenjing and Zhang Xingchuan have any remaining moves?

They did.

Over a dozen days later, Wenjing reached strategic alliances with multiple domestic hotel groups and announced the Hundred-City-Thousand-Hotel Plan, using these groups’ high-end lines to fill the gap left by M Group’s withdrawal.

Wenjing, originally a tail-ender in the first tier among competitors, saw its app downloads increase nearly tenfold daily by late September. Peak daily active users approached two million. Hotel night volume showed month-over-month growth exceeding 100%. Monthly platform transaction volume surpassed two billion for the first time.

Wenjing held an internal celebration banquet for all employees to toast to their dramatic reversal achieved through nearly three grueling months.

Tan Xiao stood in a corner, watching the celebration in the venue, his mind drifting a bit.

“Little Doctor,” President Fu had just arrived and saw him. He approached and asked quietly, “Where’s your husband?”

Tan Xiao said, “He’s changing ties. He’s going on stage to speak soon, and the tie clashed with the background. I asked him to change one.”

Zhang Xingchuan was leading the direct counterattack this time. President Fu had to stabilize the stock market, pacify the board of directors, flying back and forth frantically. Today was the celebration, and he certainly deserved credit. Naturally, he came to the scene, and came with great fanfare.

President Fu said, “Why do you look so listless?”

Tan Xiao said, “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Secretary Feng’s stress was too much, and he got sick, taking intermittent sick leave this month. Tan Xiao had taken on the administrative secretary duties as well, handling many trivial tasks for Zhang Xingchuan. Once he started, he discovered Secretary Feng was truly extraordinary—superhuman level, to manage to hold on until getting sick. And weightlifting really was useful.

President Fu said, “Now that the war is over, you need to get proper rest too. If Wenjing goes under, Zhang Xingchuan won’t feel heartache. But if you get tired and sick, he’d be devastated.”

Tan Xiao found this funny. “Where does all this resentment come from? Our CEO hasn’t been idle either, dedicating himself to Wenjing. Don’t blackmail him behind his back—I think you’re trying to usurp the throne.”

“What kind of good CEO would a vice CEO be who didn’t want to be CEO?” President Fu said. “My ambition is normal. But I’m kind-hearted. Otherwise, I could pull some strings behind his back to make him unable to account for himself to the board, forcing him to resign. Then Wenjing would be mine.”

Tan Xiao thought: for real? Last month didn’t you argue with two board members until your face was red and your neck was thick, fiercely defending Zhang Xingchuan?

Since he was genuinely good to his husband, Tan Xiao considered him a good person. He now quite liked most Wenjing colleagues because everyone sided with Zhang Xingchuan.

“You…” President Fu actually wanted to say something else, hoping to prompt Tan Xiao to ask why Zhang Xingchuan would resign with responsibility. But Tan Xiao didn’t take the bait so easily—he just wouldn’t ask such a question.

Tan Xiao would never ask such a question. He’d felt guilty about this whole situation for a long time. It was only as things gradually improved that his guilt had faded. He wouldn’t bring this up voluntarily. How could he explain? It all came down to him wanting to date Zhang Xingchuan, causing everyone to suffer, working overtime every day.

Of course, when Zhang Xingchuan spoke later, he’d announce a generous bonus system, which could at least compensate everyone for their busy work these past months. If not for tax reporting concerns, Tan Xiao would love to give everyone tens or hundreds of millions of yuan each.

Since Tan Xiao wouldn’t ask, President Fu really wanted to say something, so he pretended Tan Xiao had asked: “About taking responsibility and resigning—he’d already planned it.”

Tan Xiao looked at him strangely.

President Fu said, “He didn’t tell you, right? He’d previously made plans. If the opposition did something too extreme and he couldn’t hold on, he wouldn’t drag Wenjing down with him. He’d give the company to me. Then he wouldn’t have leverage against him, wouldn’t be afraid of being manipulated. He’d take you around the world having fun.”

Tan Xiao: “…”

“He said you don’t like working,” President Fu continued, “but you really like studying. Once you finish your postdoctoral project.”

Zhang Xingchuan had said that afterward, he’d take Tan Xiao around the world, see where they liked, and settle there.

Though he didn’t have a private jet—he could only book two first-class tickets.

Couldn’t buy property worldwide, but had money for hotels.

Actually, he wasn’t as poor as Tan Xiao imagined. He had some money—at least enough to support his wife.

“…” Tan Xiao said, “Yeah.”

Zhang Xingchuan returned after changing his tie. Seeing President Fu talking with Tan Xiao, President Fu was smiling but Tan Xiao was blank-faced. Zhang Xingchuan walked over and pulled them apart. “Get away. Don’t tease my wife for no reason.”

“What’s wrong with just talking?” President Fu complained. “Look at those dark circles—he’s about to collapse on the ground and fall asleep. You’ve got him working as an assistant, a secretary, and a wife. Are you even human?”

Zhang Xingchuan shooed President Fu away like swatting a fly.

“Do you want to go back and sleep?” Zhang Xingchuan asked Tan Xiao. “Or would you like to get a room upstairs and take a nap first? I’ll call you when everything’s done.”

Tan Xiao stared at him dazed. Everyone had been busy recently. The CEO had also lost weight compared to before. His energy was just more abundant than others’, but not inexhaustible.

Zhang Xingchuan asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I’ll wait until you finish your speech,” Tan Xiao said. “I wrote the first draft of the address. I want to hear it.”

Zhang Xingchuan took the stage and read from Tan Xiao’s draft, his own revised sections, and finally announced the bonus distribution mechanism. Aside from special bonuses for the core team, front-line employees would receive one to three months’ salary depending on participation level. Mid-level and above would get double. Additionally, all Wenjing employees would receive small equity stakes—symbolically thousands of shares, but significant in meaning.

Secretary Feng, having recovered from his illness, also attended the event, sitting beside Tan Xiao. As they listened, both began shedding tears, eventually holding each other and crying.

According to the reward mechanism, Secretary Feng would get over seventy thousand yuan. Tan Xiao would get around fifty thousand.

Secretary Feng cried while thinking: I got sick and hospitalized for seventy thousand, crying with intestinal pain—completely reasonable. But you, Assistant Tan, you got fifty thousand, not even enough to buy a car part for yourself.