Chapter 7: You Are a Good Person, but I Am Not Worthy of You

 

Her leg bore a deep bruise, and the next day, when she accidentally struck it against the barre, the sharp pain made her inhale audibly. She practiced for two hours, but the ache worsened until she was forced to stop. With the New Year approaching, discipline in the troupe had softened; everyone was a little lazy, their movements less precise. That afternoon, when practice ended, the director announced he would treat them to a meal. The dancers cheered, following him eagerly.

The banquet was lively, hosted by several businessmen who sponsored the troupe. Laughter and chatter filled the air, drowning out even the storytelling performance on stage.

Ren Susu, however, sat quietly in a corner, her ears attuned to every note of the Suzhou dialect. Having been away from her hometown for so long, her memories of it were like scattered wildflowers—fragile stems and blossoms swaying in the wind. The pipa’s strings plucked at her heart, stirring longings she could not name.

The meal passed in a daze. When shark fin soup was served, a voice beside her asked softly, “Is Miss Ren from the South?”

Startled, she turned. It was Mr. Zhang, the man Mu Lan had once mentioned.

“Yes,” she answered quietly.

“What a coincidence, so am I,” he said, and began to speak of his hometown—its rivers, its bridges, its customs. His eloquence drew in even those nearby. Susu, who had left her childhood behind in Wu Chi, listened intently, her vague memories sharpened by his words.

After dinner, the others played cards. Susu excused herself, saying she would leave. Mr. Zhang followed her out.

“I have a car. Let me take you home, Miss Ren.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I’ll take a pedicab. It’s very close.”

He didn’t insist, only hailed a pedicab for her and paid the fare in advance. She felt indebted, murmuring her thanks.

The next day, he invited the troupe out again. She declined, claiming a headache. Alone at home, with the cold pressing in, she warmed an orange by the stove. Its fragrance was faintly sour, but she had no appetite. Restless, she noticed the damp black spots spreading across her walls. She mixed flour paste and began covering them with white paper.

Halfway through, a voice called from outside. “Is Miss Ren home?”

Through the window, she saw Mr. Zhang. Surprised, uneasy, she opened the door.

“I’m sorry, the room is a mess,” she said.

He immediately rolled up his sleeves. “How can I let a young lady do this kind of work?”

Without waiting, he climbed onto a stool and began pasting the paper himself.

She handed him sheets, watching as he worked. His name was Zhang Mingshu, he told her. His family was in business; he had just returned from studying abroad. She doubted he had ever done such rough labor, and guilt pricked her. By the time they finished, dusk had fallen. He stepped down, dusted his hands, and surveyed the room with satisfaction.

“Much brighter now.”

Susu said softly, “You’ve worked hard all day. Let me treat you to a meal.”

His eyes lit with surprise. “That’s fine—but I’ll choose the place.”

He led her to a humble noodle shop. In his Western suit, he stood out, but he didn’t care. He praised the dan dan noodles, delighting in their spice. His cheerfulness was disarming.

Afterward, he walked her home. The night market was sparse, only a few stalls selling wontons and tangyuan. A vendor passed with three pinwheels left on his rack, their whistles keening in the wind.

Seeing her glance at them twice, Zhang Mingshu stopped. “Wait.”

He bought all three.

She smiled faintly. “Why buy them all?”

“I’ve thought it through. One for the fence—you’ll hear it from afar. One for the windowsill—you’ll hear it from inside. And one for you to play with.”

It was a childish gift, yet no one had ever bought her such a thing. She held them close, unexpectedly happy.

The wind spun the pinwheels as they walked. He talked endlessly—stories from abroad, mishaps at the factory, anecdotes about his family. She had never met anyone so talkative.

At her gate, he stopped reluctantly. “Oh, we’re here already. Tomorrow you don’t have training. I’ll come find you, and we’ll go to North City Corner for taro. It’s authentic.”

He had noticed her fondness for taro the night before.

The next day, he arrived as promised. The sky was gray, the air colder.

“Today is colder than yesterday. Don’t just wear a padded jacket,” he said.

She fetched her coat, embarrassed. They walked for three hours across half the city. At last, they reached North City Corner.

Susu smiled. “I’m smiling because we walked so far just to eat this.”

He looked apologetic. “It’s my fault. Your feet must hurt. But if we’d come by car, I wouldn’t have had so much time to talk with you.”

His candor startled her. She lowered her head.

After a silence, he said, “Miss Ren, I know I’m being presumptuous. But since I first saw you, I’ve known—the wife of my dreams is you.”

Her heart clenched. After a long pause, she whispered, “You are a good person, but I am not worthy of you.”

He had expected this. “No. I have no prejudices about status. My family is open-minded. If it’s too soon, give me time—I’ll prove my sincerity.”

Her throat tightened, suffocating. “I am not worthy of Mr. Zhang. Please don’t come find me again.”

He stared, bewildered. “Was I too hasty? Are you displeased that I mentioned my family?”

No matter what he said, Susu only shook her head. Still clinging to hope, Zhang Mingshu asked almost pleadingly, “Then… can we at least be ordinary friends?”

His eyes were earnest, almost desperate. Susu’s heart softened with sympathy, yet she neither nodded nor shook her head.

By afternoon, they returned by pedicab—her legs too weary to walk further. At the alley entrance, she stepped down and said goodbye, her voice low but firm. “Please don’t come looking for me anymore.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he handed her the paper bag he carried. Inside, the sugar-roasted chestnuts were still warm. She held the bag close as she walked home. From a distance, she saw the pinwheel stuck in the fence, whistling mournfully in the wind like a crying child.

At her door, she reached for her key—only to find the gate ajar. A chill ran through her. Had she forgotten to lock it? She pushed it open. The room door too was slightly open. She stepped inside, the warmth of the chestnuts fading quickly into the cold air.

Her voice was barely a murmur. “Why are you here?”

From the shadows, his voice cut through. “Where did you go?”

She hadn’t noticed if a car had been parked outside. “I went out with a friend.”

“What friend?”

The chestnuts pressed painfully against her chest. She lowered her head. “You don’t need to know.”

As expected, his cold laugh followed. “Indeed, I don’t need to—”

Silence fell. He stood motionless, the dusk closing in, gray shadows swallowing his face.

At last, she asked, “Why are you here?”

This was not his world—her humble alley, her modest home. He belonged to golden halls and jade mansions, to admiration and splendor.

He didn’t answer. His silence gave her courage. “You should leave.”

His eyes burned like flames, yet her heart grew strangely calm. She faced him steadily.

He turned his face aside, his voice low, almost weak. “You said you wanted to marry me, and I agreed.”

She staggered back, terror rising. His gaze was devouring, yet filled with loathing, as though she were some venomous creature.

Frightened, she blurted out, “I don’t want to marry you.”

His hawk-like eyes sharpened, veins bulging at his temple, breath ragged. His hand lashed out— Slap!

Her ears rang, vision darkened. She nearly fell, but he seized her wrist, crushing it in his grip. His voice ground out between clenched teeth, “Have you had enough?”

Pain brought tears streaming down her face. He shoved her against the wall and kissed her savagely—not with tenderness, but with violence, as though to destroy her. She cried, struggled, pounded his back, but he caught her wrists, rendering her powerless. Desperate, she bit his lip. He released her with a hiss of pain.

She collapsed into the corner, trembling, sobbing. He stared at her as though she were a venomous snake. Hatred radiated from him, sharp as the north wind outside, cutting to the bone.

Through gritted teeth, he spat, “You’re playing with me. You’re just playing with me.”

Yet her tears—damned tears—still pierced his heart. How could he be so undone by her? How could she make a fool of him so easily?

She had said she wanted marriage. He had agreed. And then, with a single breath, she could cast it aside.

He turned and left.

Outside, Lei Shaogong paced by the car. At the sight of his master’s face, he dared not ask questions, only opened the door and drove them back to Duanshan.

Inside, Qingyi hurled a crystal ashtray to the floor, shattering it. Still unsatisfied, he seized a riding crop and lashed the wall again and again. Plaster rained down, exposing the blue bricks beneath. The whip cracked through the air, each strike heavier, faster, until the room echoed with thunder.

Lei Shaogong, alarmed, rushed forward. “Third Young Master, if you continue, I’ll have no choice but to call Madam.”

Qingyi froze. The whip fell to the carpet. His forehead gleamed with sweat, his face expressionless.

Lei spoke gently. “Go bathe, rest. You’ll feel better.”

Pressing his brow, Qingyi muttered hoarsely, “I must be possessed.”

“It’s alright. Sleep. Tomorrow will be better.”

But Qingyi knew—tomorrow would not be better. Tomorrow would never be better.

That night, he collapsed into bed. A faint fragrance lingered on the pillow, unfamiliar yet hauntingly familiar. Exhaustion dragged him into uneasy sleep. In the dark, half-dreaming, he whispered, “Susu…”

His hand reached out, expecting her curled form at the far end of the bed. But there was only emptiness. His heart felt just as empty.

Elsewhere, the fourteenth day of the twelfth lunar month marked the opening of the City God Temple Fair. Zhang Mingshu had planned to invite Susu, but family obligations kept him home. His cousins dragged him to the card table.

As they played, one cousin remarked, “I heard you’re sponsoring Yun’s ballet troupe. They say there’s a woman there—extraordinarily beautiful.”

Mingshu’s ears burned. He mumbled, feigning indifference.

“The one who danced Yingtai in Butterfly Lovers. More beautiful than many film stars.”

Another cousin laughed. “If you like her so much, why not pursue her?”

The eldest cousin shook his head. “Not many outsiders know, but she’s already taken. She’s the Third Young Master’s forbidden treasure. Who would dare snatch food from a tiger’s mouth?”

At the name “Miss Ren,” Zhang Mingshu froze, as though struck by lightning. His hands trembled over the tiles.

The cousins continued joking, oblivious. But Mingshu’s face turned ashen, sweat beading on his brow. He excused himself, claiming illness, and stumbled upstairs.

Alone in his room, the laughter and clatter of mahjong drifted faintly from below. Inside him, however, was only the tearing pain of realization, sharp as a knife twisting in his chest. He paced like a trapped beast, until at last he could bear it no longer. He seized his coat and slipped out the back door into the night.

Not wanting his family to know, Zhang Mingshu walked to the street corner before hailing a pedicab. Along the way, his thoughts surged like a storm tide. Usually, this route felt endless—each turn, each stone on the road only deepening his impatience to see her sooner. But today, for the first time, he feared the journey was too short. He feared his cousin’s words were true. He had never been a coward, yet now he longed only to deceive himself.

The familiar alley came into view. He paid the driver one yuan and looked ahead. The pinwheel still spun in the fence outside her house, whistling faintly in the winter wind. His heart twisted as if cut by a knife. Then he froze.

She was coming out of the yard—not alone.

A man in a Western suit, his bearing unmistakably military, walked before her. He turned sideways, opening the door of a gleaming new Lincoln. Susu kept her head bowed, her expression hidden. Mingshu’s chest felt as though struck by a heavy blow, his very organs shattered. He could only stand there, helpless, as the car drove away.

Ren Susu sat quietly in the car, gazing out the window. The bustling streets of downtown blurred past, then gave way to a secluded asphalt road. A faint unease stirred in her chest.

“Where are we going?” she asked softly.

The attendant replied, “Miss Ren, you’ll know when we arrive.”

The roadside scenery was serene, almost dreamlike. Tall maples and sycamores lined the path, their branches bare, skeletal crowns etched against the winter sky. A jade-like river wound alongside, its waters splashing over scattered rocks. The car drove on, turning past a guardhouse where they were briefly inspected before continuing. Now dense pine forests flanked the road, their boughs surging like waves in the wind.

At last, the car stopped before a mansion half-hidden by trees. It was an old Western-style residence, its iron grilles and carved doors exquisitely wrought. Led through a side entrance, Susu entered a vast hall. Crystal chandeliers swayed overhead, oil paintings crowded the walls, velvet curtains draped floor-to-ceiling windows, and the marble floor gleamed like a mirror. The silence was so deep it felt like a museum.

The attendant guided her into a sunroom, warm with winter light filtering through glass. Amid lush greenery, a woman set down an English magazine.

Susu’s lips parted in disbelief. “Madam…”

Madam Mu Rong’s face was unreadable. “Miss Ren, please sit.”

A maid brought milk tea. Susu’s unease deepened.

“We’ve met before,” Madam Mu Rong said evenly. “You dance beautifully.”

“Madam is too kind,” Susu murmured.

“I like clever girls. You must know why I’ve asked you here.”

Susu faltered. She had been brought by an attendant from Mu Shiyang’s side, yet had not expected this. She whispered, “Please speak plainly, Madam.”

Madam Mu Rong sighed. “That third child of mine has been stubborn since birth. Once he sets his mind, even I cannot sway him. But this time, I cannot allow him to act recklessly. It is not that I look down on you, nor is it about class. But a daughter-in-law of the Mu Rong family lives under constant scrutiny. I fear you cannot bear such a weight.”

Susu’s heart jolted. She had never imagined Madam Mu Rong would speak so directly.

At that moment, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Susu knew them instantly. She turned her face just as Mu Shiyang entered, pale and tense.

“Mother,” he said, his voice low, urgent, edged with anger.

Madam Mu Rong smiled faintly. “Why such haste? What is it?”

His voice rumbled like thunder before a storm. “Mother, if you do anything that breaks my heart, you will regret it.”

Her composure faltered. “Is this how you speak to your mother? Yesterday you said you wanted to marry her—I knew you were bewitched.”

“I know your methods,” he said coldly. “You’ve already lost one son. If you’re not afraid of losing another, then repeat your mistakes.”

The words struck her deepest wound. Her body trembled. For a long moment, silence. Then she forced a calm smile. “Nonsense. I only think of your best interests.”

“You thought the same for Second Brother. And what was the result?”

Her face drained of color. At last she said bitterly, “Fine. I won’t interfere. Do as you wish. I’ll pretend I never gave birth to such a useless son.”

Her voice broke with a sob. Susu’s heart ached with sympathy, but she could not speak.

Shiyang bowed slightly. “Thank you, Mother, for your blessing.”

He seized Susu’s arm. “We won’t disturb you further.”

Madam Mu Rong waved them away, her strength gone.

In the car, his grip loosened only once they were seated. Susu’s mind was chaos. His tone was cold. “How could you follow someone so carelessly?”

“It was your attendant,” she whispered.

His anger flared. “I have many attendants. Are you so foolish? You might not even know when you’re walking to your death!”

She bit her lip, shrinking back. Usually this expression enraged him, but today he turned away, staring out the window. Silence filled the car.

As they neared the city, she moaned softly. He turned at once. Her forehead glistened with sweat.

“What’s wrong?”

“I feel… unwell.”

He seized her hand, eyes blazing. “What did they give you to eat?”

Lei Shaogong called anxiously, “Third Young Master—”

But Shiyang ignored him, gripping her as though to crush her. “Tell me! Did you eat anything?”

Her vision blurred. “I didn’t… only milk tea.”

His face twisted, desperate, furious. “Turn back! Jiangshan Hospital!” Lei Shaogong ordered the driver.

The car sped through the streets. Susu’s body weakened, drenched in cold sweat. Shiyang held her tightly, his jaw clenched, teeth grinding.

“I know you all,” he growled. “You schemed against Second Brother. Now you use the same tactics on me.”

Lei Shaogong’s face was grim. “Third Young Master…”

Susu trembled, terrified by his rage, by words she could not understand.

At last, the car screeched to a halt before Jiangshan Hospital. She was nearly unconscious. He lifted her in his arms, striding into the emergency building, while Lei Shaogong rushed ahead to summon a doctor.

Amidst the chaotic voices of the hospital, she could hear only his breathing—heavy, ragged, close to her ear yet impossibly distant. Sweat dripped from his brow, drop by drop. Despite the winter chill, his forehead was drenched. Even when the doctors arrived, he refused to release her.

Lei Shaogong urged, his voice taut with urgency: “Third Young Master, put Miss Ren down and let them examine her.”

Only then did he lay her on the hospital bed. Three or four doctors immediately surrounded her. Weakly, she reached out, clutching the corner of his clothes as though it were her last tether to life.

Then, with a sudden motion, he drew his service pistol and slammed it onto the medicine tray. The metallic crack reverberated through the room. Everyone froze, terror-stricken. His eyes burned red, his voice ground out between clenched teeth: “Listen well—if anyone dares play tricks today, if anything happens to her, I’ll accompany her! You decide!”

She understood then. Amidst the pain and terror, clarity pierced her. He had said he would accompany her—even unto death. Tears streamed down her face. The agony in her body transformed into a deeper ache in her heart. Death loomed close, its shadow pressing in, yet in her hand she held only the corner of his clothes—only him.

Too late. She dared not look at his face again; the expression there seared her. She had never known until this moment—he was willing to die with her. But it was too late. Her heartbeat throbbed painfully, her vision blurred, and consciousness slipped away.

When she awoke, it was deep into the night. Her right hand was clasped warmly in his palm. She turned her head with effort. His face was haggard, almost unrecognizable.

Her tears fell in strings as she whispered, “I’m fine.”

His voice was hoarse, trembling. “I frightened you. The doctor said it was only acute enteritis… I was so afraid. I thought—”

She wept silently. The IV dripped steadily, each drop striking her heart like a hammer. His embrace was warm, his kiss feather-light, as though she were the most fragile flower. Through her tears, she closed her eyes and sank into his arms.

At Duanshan, Madam Mu Rong summoned Lei Shaogong. He recounted the incident in detail. After a long silence, she sighed. “What meaning is there in being a mother like me?”

Jin Rui, standing nearby, said softly, “Judging by this, the Third Young Master is truly serious. It seems we must let him have his way.”

Madam Mu Rong waved her hand wearily. “We can only let him be. It saddens me to see how suspicious he has become.”

Jin Rui murmured, “He is bewitched to think this way. But Mother would not make the same mistake again.”

Madam Mu Rong sighed again. “He is determined to marry her. No one can stop him. We may yield, but his father will not.”

After Susu’s discharge, she rested several days. By the end of the twelfth lunar month, Mu Shiyang sent for her to dine at Yi Xin Ji, famed for its Suzhou cuisine. The upper floors were warm with heating. She wore a honey-colored cheongsam patterned with dark cyan.

Inside, she found not only him but another guest.

“Greet him,” Mu Shiyang said. “This is Uncle He.”

She bowed softly. He Xu’an, the “First Capable Official,” smiled. “I don’t deserve such respect. The Third Young Master has good taste.”

Her cheeks flushed. She sat beside Shiyang.

“Mr. He,” Shiyang said, “I’d rather strike the golden bell once than tap the wooden fish three thousand times. I ask your advice.”

He Xu’an smiled. “This requires patience, like grinding flour with water. Perhaps in two or three years, your father may soften.”

Shiyang shook his head. “I cannot wait. The longer we delay, the more complications will arise. Please, for old times’ sake, think of a way.”

He Xu’an pondered. “There is one method, but it is risky. At most a thirty percent chance of success. It may backfire.”

Shiyang’s eyes blazed. “Place yourself in mortal danger to be reborn. If we don’t try, how will we know?”

He Xu’an studied him, then said, “You must promise—whatever I arrange, you will not ask why, and whether it succeeds or fails, you will never reveal it.”

“I promise,” Shiyang said without hesitation.

He Xu’an nodded. “Tomorrow, the twenty-seventh, your father will be at Qinghu.”

Qinghu Residence lay beside the Scenic River, mountains at its back, waters before it. After his meal, Mu Feng strolled along the stone path, attendants trailing behind. The plum grove on the hillside was sparse but fragrant, blossoms trembling in the winter wind.

Under a tree stood a figure in pale green, her long cheongsam swaying like a plum branch. The wind lifted her bangs; her eyes were clear as autumn water, jade butterfly earrings trembling at her collar.

Mu Feng halted, transfixed, murmuring as if in a dream: “It’s you—”

From behind, Shiyang stepped forward. “Father, this is Susu.”

Mu Feng’s gaze flickered—bewilderment, anger, pain. Remembering He Xu’an’s counsel, Shiyang bowed. “I ask for Father’s blessing.”

For a long time, silence. Then Mu Feng sighed deeply. “Marriage is a serious matter. Have you truly thought this through?”

“Yes,” Shiyang answered firmly.

Mu Feng nodded slowly. Shiyang’s heart leapt. He grasped Susu’s hand, joy breaking across his face. “Thank you, Father.”

It was as though all the plum blossoms released their fragrance at once, as though heaven and earth had cleared. His joy soared skyward, uncontainable, filling the world.

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