He slammed the phone down.
Jiaqi was shaking with fury, clutching the receiver as she cursed Ruan Zhengdong under her breath. “You bastard.”
Yet he didn’t even seem to hear her scream. When she finally calmed down, she realized she was still sitting on the cold floor, her feet numb from the chill. She crawled into bed, trembling for a long time before the warmth seeped back into her body. Tomorrow, she decided, she would call China Telecom and check the call records—she would find him.
But that late-night chaos left her groggy the next morning. She rushed into the subway station only to be swallowed by the peak rush hour crowd. People packed into the train like flattened marshmallows, taking a long moment to spring back to shape once they finally got out. She arrived at the office breathless—and still five minutes late.
Just as she sat down, the secretary called:
“Ms. You, Mr. Wang would like to see you.”
Her heart tightened. Being summoned this late in the morning felt ominous. But to her surprise, Mr. Wang didn’t scold her—he simply handed her a stack of documents.
“Zhipeng asked for you specifically. Go see what they need.”
Zhipeng Real Estate was an important long-term client. Jiaqi assumed there was a change in their advertising plan and thought nothing more of it. She grabbed her things and headed out.
It was only a ten-minute taxi ride. But just as she stepped out in front of Zhipeng’s office building, her phone rang.
A stranger spoke in a calm, fluent Mandarin, polite yet impossible to read.
“Hello, Ms. You.”
Thinking it was a client, she replied, “Hello.”
“I’m a friend of Zhengdong’s,” the man continued. “I apologize for inviting you in such an abrupt manner. I’ve already informed Zhipeng. We simply need to borrow you for a few hours. Is that alright?”
Jiaqi let out a soft “oh,” but inside, every nerve tightened. A voice so courteous, yet with a force beneath it—this person was not simple.
“Our car is across the street. Black Audi. License plate ending in 29.”
She turned and saw the car. A man stood beside it, impeccably refined.
“Miss You,” he greeted her with a polite smile, “Madam Ruan would like to see you.”
Madam Ruan looked even younger than she did on television—gracious, elegant, warm.
“I’ve wanted to meet you for some time,” she said with a gentle smile. “But there was never a suitable opportunity.”
She fussed over breakfast, scolding lightly, “Young people never eat properly these days.”
Breakfast arrived—porridge, fritters, delicate southern pickles—laid out in a sunlit dining room glowing with warm winter light. The ebony furniture gleamed like black jade. It felt like stepping decades back in time.
Jiaqi sat down, careful not to be rude.
Madam Ruan smiled. “Don’t be so reserved. Having breakfast with an elder isn’t such a big deal. Young girls should smile more.”
Bit by bit, Jiaqi relaxed.
After breakfast, they moved to the side hall for tea. Madam Ruan sighed, her voice trembling.
“Dongzi… he has always been stubborn. His grandfather spoiled him terribly, and now I can’t manage him at all. This time, he left the hospital without a word. He’s still a patient…”
Tears glimmered in her eyes.
Jiaqi panicked softly and murmured, “Auntie—sorry, I mean… don’t worry.”
Madam Ruan continued, voice hoarse.
“He’s alone in the old house in Shanghai. No matter who calls, he says he’s fine, but he isn’t. He refuses to return to the hospital. His illness can’t wait, and I… I’m desperate. I thought of asking Jiangxi, but then I realized—perhaps the person he wants to see right now isn’t Jiangxi.”
Silence settled between them.
Then, with gentle earnestness:
“Miss You, in every mother’s eyes, her child is still just a child. I invited you here out of a mother’s selfish hope… that you might help him.”
Jiaqi looked up and said softly but firmly, “No need to say more. I understand. I’ll go to Shanghai.”
The man who escorted her was Secretary Zhang—efficient, thorough, and frighteningly thoughtful. Once in the car, he handed her items one by one.
“Your flight is at 11:40. Mr. Wang has already approved your leave. This is the address. This is a credit card and some cash—you didn’t bring luggage, so you’ll need it. Don’t refuse; I’ll deduct it from Zhengdong’s salary.”
Jiaqi blinked. “He… has a salary?”
For the first time, Secretary Zhang smiled. “Yes.”
The plane landed in a gloomy, rain-soaked Shanghai. The cold rain felt sharper than Beijing’s.
Jiaqi hailed a taxi immediately and handed over the address.
Plane trees lined the quiet streets. The rain eased, tapping lightly against the car window. She wondered what she would say when she finally saw him.
She found the house—but after ringing the bell for a long time, no one came. His phone was still off.
Hungry, cold, miserable, she walked until she found a small café and slipped inside. She ordered a latte and cheesecake and sank into the sofa. The coffee was fragrant, the jazz soothing—she almost fell asleep.
At the end of the aisle stood a breathtaking woman, dressed in a cascade of black and a dazzling floral shawl. Beauty like that didn’t need effort; she glowed.
Jiaqi stared for a moment, spellbound.
The music stopped, and she heard the woman murmur sweetly into the phone,
“Then come pick me up.”
Jiaqi’s cheesecake arrived. She took a bite, too hungry to care about elegance—then suddenly choked. Tears sprang to her eyes as she clutched her neck.
Someone strode over and slapped her back—hard enough to hurt.
But the cake finally slid down, and she gasped for air.
So humiliating.
She quickly sipped her coffee, pretending to be composed.
“Zhengdong,”
a honey-sweet voice called from behind.
Jiaqi froze.
He didn’t turn around.
“Zhengdong?” the voice repeated, puzzled.
Still no reaction.
Jiaqi stood, face stiff. “Mr. Ruan, what a coincidence.”
Even she found her tone painfully insincere.
He frowned. “What are you doing here?”
He looked nothing like a patient—perfectly dressed, handsome, only a shade pale.
She swallowed her rehearsed speeches and simply told him the truth.
“Your mother asked me to come.”
He nodded coolly.
“This is my friend, Sheng Zhi,” he said.
Then to the woman: “This is You Jiaqi.”
Sheng Zhi smiled, radiant. “Nice to meet you.”
Jiaqi shook her hand.
The air felt strange—awkward, brittle. Maybe it was Sheng Zhi’s knowing smile, or maybe the fact that she had flown two hours only to interrupt a date she didn’t know existed.
“Have you eaten?” he asked suddenly.
Her mind lagged. “What?”
“We’ll go after you eat.”
Sheng Zhi left in her sleek black two-door sports car, waving casually.
Outside, the cold bit deep.
“Sorry for ruining your date,” Jiaqi said.
He didn’t answer—only looked at her with an unreadable expression.
She tried again. “Your mother’s very worried. You shouldn’t have left the hospital.”
“Are you done talking?”
She went silent.
“Oh.”
“Go home.”
He walked ahead, coat blowing open in the cold wind. His strides were long; she had to hurry to keep up. When she finally reached the car, he opened the door, but stopped her.
“I said go home.”
She opened the opposite door, tossed in her handbag, and said firmly:
“I’m not going back. I didn’t fly here for nothing. I’ve tolerated your bad attitude because you’re sick, but that doesn’t give you the right to order me around. I’m not leaving unless you return to the hospital.”
She closed the door with calm finality.
He stood outside for a moment—half exasperated, half amused—before finally getting in and starting the car.
His voice was stiff. “Which hotel?”
She lifted her chin. “Which one’s the most expensive? Grand Hyatt? Four Seasons?”
He glanced at her, then turned the car around.
The gates of the old house creaked open. Inside was a sprawling estate: towering metasequoias, ancient camphor trees, a stone fountain swaying with water. The Spanish-style mansion stood behind them, quiet and imposing.
Inside, the vast living room glowed with the warmth of a fireplace. A husky lay sprawled on the carpet, watching her with lazy wolf-like eyes.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked politely.
She was still starving. And freezing.
“Fried rice with egg.”
“What?”
“I want fried rice with egg.”
He had a great chef. The Yangzhou fried rice was fragrant with shrimp, ham, peas—perfect. A bowl of dried scallop and bamboo shoot soup followed. Typical of him: everything had to be perfect.
He sat far away, sunken into an old, deep sofa. The dog lay at his feet. He held an unlit cigarette for a long time, then put it away.
When she finished eating, he said quietly, “You should go back.”
She felt a sudden sadness. Even food no longer healed her mood.
“Why did you leave the hospital?” she asked softly.
“That’s my business.” His voice tightened. “Please go back. I don’t need anyone interfering.”
She was silent a long moment.
“So… you already knew.”
The room dimmed as evening fell. Firelight flickered across his face, making it hard to see his expression.
Then he smiled—a distant, tired smile.
“Jiaqi, I used to think I could be with you. But later… I understood. Some things don’t happen just because we want them to.”
He paused.
“You’re a good person. But, Jiaqi… I don’t love you anymore.”
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