Chapter 6#

Alcohol leads people astray.

That was what Yan Zishu thought.

“Are you angry?” Fu Jinchi asked, pulling the car to a stop beneath the apartment building.

“Not at all. Thank you for driving me home, Mr. Fu.” Yan Zishu unclicked his seatbelt, his head still swimming.

If he had any right to be angry, it would be at his own weakness — or perhaps at himself for flying into embarrassed rage over having exposed that weakness.

In any case, there was no reason to take it out on Fu Jinchi.

Fu Jinchi was simply an unrelated passerby in his life.

Yan Zishu picked up his suit jacket and reached for the door handle.

But Fu Jinchi calmly caught his arm. “Hold on. There’s actually one more thing — didn’t I invite you to jump ship earlier? That offer still stands. Would you consider it seriously? I can give you double your current package.”

In the deep darkness of the night, a modified sports car roared down the road beside them, its engine thundering, then faded into the distance.

Had this scene appeared in the original novel? Or was it the kind of thing that happened behind the scenes, never written into the main text?

Yan Zishu turned it over for a moment and couldn’t work it out. He could only smile. “Thank you for your generosity. But I’m afraid my abilities are too modest — I wouldn’t be up to the task.”

Fu Jinchi smiled. “Don’t tell me you also believe Fu Weishan is the one true son of heaven?”

Yan Zishu shook his head. “No, no. It’s just that every dynasty has its own ministers. Even if I were to work for you, you wouldn’t trust me.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” Fu Jinchi said. “Talent is scarce everywhere. As long as you came, I would dare to entrust you with real responsibility.”

Yan Zishu shook his head again. “I’m really not much of a talent.”

Fu Jinchi sighed. “Ah — sure enough, when you’re alone with me, you become a tough nut to crack again.”

Yan Zishu startled, then understood — Fu Jinchi was likely referring to how, over the past few days, he had been all easy smiles and warm conversation in front of the Zeng family, seemingly approachable about anything. That was hardly remarkable. Who met with clients without wearing a mask?

Yan Zishu nodded. “Now you know — my good manners are all an act. I’m actually quite a dull person.”

Fu Jinchi burst out laughing. “I was joking! If I can’t poach someone, naturally I have to look for fault in myself. Go on up — good night.”

*

The next morning, Zeng Zhanpeng woke feeling equally aggrieved.

He’d wanted to see whether the ice-cold beauty would still be an ice sculpture after a few drinks. And then — nothing. He himself had blacked out before finding out.

Not that it had been anything more than a prank to begin with. He liked going out to bars, and sometimes when he drank too much he got carried away — there had been no real malice in it. He’d already apologized to Yan Zishu, and Yan Zishu had naturally said it was fine.

In front of him, Yan Zishu was still the polished, gracious Director Yan — only with a splitting headache.

Even hungover, he had woken at six in the morning. His ironclad internal clock was indestructible. He’d had no choice but to down several cups of black coffee.

Unfortunately, coffee wasn’t a miracle cure. It only transformed his foggy, oppressive headache into a headache that wouldn’t let him sleep either.

This was Yan Zishu’s normal state of being, so there was nothing remarkable about it.

Only Fu Jinchi noticed. “You’re looking a bit pale. Would you like to go back and rest?”

Zeng Zhanpeng, blissfully oblivious, said: “Really? I think William looks just as radiant as ever today!”

Behind the scenes, Zeng Zhanpeng switched to Spanish and said something to Fu Jinchi — something to the effect of how he planned to pursue his conquest.

But overnight, Fu Jinchi had changed his mind. “Don’t touch him.”

“Hey, that’s not what you said yesterday.”

“Wasn’t it? Too bad — I happen to find him quite appealing myself.”

“You can’t just change the rules like this!”

Zeng Zhanpeng was still trying to argue when Fu Jinchi smiled, reached over, and patted the young man on the shoulder. He cast a lazy, sidelong glance at Zeng Zhanpeng — like a leopard dozing in a tree, languid and at ease, until it suddenly turned those cold, predatory eyes on its quarry.

A chill ran down Zeng Zhanpeng’s spine. He didn’t dare push further.

Despite how freely he usually horsed around with Fu Jinchi, he always knew exactly where the line was. He had come to know Fu Jinchi back in Hong Kong City, and had been fortunate enough to understand the man’s true nature: you could run wild within whatever territory Fu Jinchi permitted, but you could never mistake him for a house cat.

Zeng Zhanpeng threw up his hands with a show of nonchalance. “Fine, big boss. He’s yours.”

Yan Zishu, seeing that their exchange had wound down, spoke up: “Helen has reserved a table at the Sky Garden for lunch. Shall we go there?”

Zeng Zhanpeng switched back to Mandarin. “That works for me — though it’s putting you all to trouble again.”

Yan Zishu smiled. “Not at all. This is simply what we’re here for.”

*

Ji Chen had been reassigned to the curatorial department some time ago.

The head of curatorial was a walking powder keg, perpetually too swamped to deal with the particulars of a single intern. When HR mentioned that the intern’s performance score wasn’t especially high, the manager said: “A guy? Just stick him on installation then. Moving things around — hard to mess that up, right?”

And so it was decided. Ji Chen had been doing heavy lifting alongside the workers ever since.

Two days before the preview, he was hauling several large empty picture frames on a dolly, delivering them to the storage room as instructed. Ji Chen wasn’t tall, and the massive frames nearly swallowed him whole — from a distance, you could barely tell there was a person there at all.

“While Li Kuangsheng attracted considerable controversy in recent years, I’ve always had high hopes for his new ink-wash works — particularly the Illusory Realm series from five years ago. The secondary market has already begun to show real heat, and there’s every reason to expect it will only climb further…”

Voices drifted from around the corner ahead, accompanied by a flurry of footsteps.

Ji Chen kept pushing his cart forward and nearly collided with the whole group head-on.

Fu Weishan was accompanying Zeng Chuyi on a preview of the auction pieces. Behind him trailed Zeng Zhanpeng and Zeng Peirong, the brother and sister, with Fu Jinchi and Yan Zishu bringing up the rear. Yan Zishu stepped forward at once and turned to Ji Chen. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you using the staff corridor?”

Ji Chen blinked. “Huh? What?” He didn’t understand what he’d done wrong.

But when Ji Chen looked up at CEO Fu Weishan, it felt, strangely, like glimpsing someone from another lifetime.

Fu Weishan merely swept a cold glance over him — the kind of look one gives an entirely unremarkable underling — then turned back to Zeng Chuyi with a smile. “My apologies — the workers are still setting up the exhibition hall. There are still quite a few details left to finish.”

Zeng Chuyi laughed good-naturedly. “We’re the ones who barged in early — let’s not hold them up.”

Behind them, Fu Jinchi and the Zeng siblings were chatting amongst themselves. No one spared a second thought for one lone worker.

An indescribable hollowness settled in Ji Chen’s chest.

Yan Zishu stepped forward, positioning himself between Ji Chen and the group’s line of sight. “When transporting anything other than artwork, you are not permitted to use the exhibition hall corridor — you must take the staff passage at the back. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

Ji Chen pressed his lips together and shook his head. He genuinely hadn’t known.

Yan Zishu didn’t have time to walk him through the rules just now. He pressed two fingers to his temple. “All right, forget it. Off you go — use the back way.”

Ji Chen answered quickly: “Yes, yes, of course.” He began trying to turn the cart around, but his phone slid out of his trouser pocket.

Since Ji Chen’s hands were occupied steadying the frames, Zeng Peirong offered helpfully, “You dropped something! Here, let me get it.”

As she stepped over to help, one of the precariously balanced frames wobbled and toppled forward off the cart.

Ji Chen lurched to catch it — but in doing so, he let go of the rest. The remaining frames fell like dominoes, all of them tipping toward Zeng Peirong.

Yan Zishu was standing closest. In a flash, he thrust out a hand to stop them — managing, just barely, to keep them from hitting her — but one frame still caught her chiffon skirt and tore a gash in it. A protruding nail raked across Yan Zishu’s hand. Blood welled up quickly, vivid and red.

The frames crashed to the floor with a tremendous bang. Zeng Peirong spun toward her brother and cried out: “What do we do — William’s hurt!” ①

“It’s nothing,” Yan Zishu said, his voice calm. “Just a small cut.”

But truly — every time he had to work alongside Ji Chen, it gave him something that felt disturbingly like a heart attack.

* ① Original line in Cantonese.