The Gu family villa in Hung Hom was completely different in style from the one on the Mid-Levels.
The old mansion on the Mid-Levels was purchased by their grandfather, Gu Shiyong, and everywhere exuded the steady, deep-rooted elegance of an old-fashioned, established family.
The one in Hung Hom, however, was bought by Gu Bingwen himself in the early 1980s. Its exterior walls were clad in the most fashionable dark brown tiles, and a few osmanthus trees stood in the corner of the yard, transplanted there at Yang Huijuan’s request. In summer, the entire yard was filled with their sweet, cloying fragrance.
Yang Huijuan had just seen off her nephew, Yang Zhi.
She stood at the doorway, watching Yang Zhi’s back disappear beyond the iron gate. The smile on her face faded bit by bit, revealing the weariness beneath.
She turned and walked back into the living room, sitting down on the leather sofa with a soft sigh.
When Yang Zhi left, he was holding an envelope. There was no need to guess what was inside.
It was always like this every time he came. He would sit down and launch into a litany of complaints—about being ostracized at the company, about being short on money lately—the same old stories over and over. She wasn’t unaware of the things Yang Zhi got up to outside either.
Gambling, debts, keeping mistresses—she knew about it all. But she needed Yang Zhi.
To be precise, she needed someone from the Yang family within Xinda Group. This person didn’t necessarily have to be particularly capable; they just needed to stay in that position, like a nail hammered in place, to keep an eye out for her and pass along some information.
But Yang Zhi was becoming more and more outrageous.
When he arrived today, she took a good look at him. His suit was new, the discreet buttons on his cuffs were gold, and he wore a Rolex on his wrist—who knows where he got it from. He looked slick and polished, not at all like someone short on money. And the amounts he asked for were getting larger and larger. Last time it was twenty thousand; this time he directly asked for fifty thousand.
Yang Huijuan gave it to him. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford it, but each time she did, the string in her heart tightened a little more. It felt like feeding a snake: you feed it so it can guard your home, but the snake grows bigger and bigger, its appetite increasing all the while. Would it one day turn around and bite you?
She sighed, reached out, and picked up the teacup on the coffee table. The tea had gone cold, but she took a sip anyway.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Lin Wanrou came down from the second floor. She wore a goose-yellow dress, her long hair cascading over her shoulders. Her face was lightly made up, her eyebrows finely drawn, and her lips coated with a pale pink lipstick.
She was twenty-four this year, one year older than Gu Xihe. Her looks took after Yang Huijuan—her features were regular, and there was a shrewd, delicate beauty in her eyes.
As she descended the stairs, her steps were not hurried; each one was light, as if she were listening for movement downstairs. Only after confirming that Yang Zhi had left did she quicken her pace and walk into the living room.
Seeing her, Yang Huijuan set down her teacup, picked up a white porcelain stewing pot from the small table beside the sofa, removed the lid, and pushed it toward her daughter.
“Freshly stewed bird’s nest. Have some.”
The bird’s nest in the pot was stewed with rock sugar. Translucent, thread-like strands floated in the broth, emitting faint wisps of steam. The sweet fragrance mingled with a clear, moist scent.
This was something Yang Huijuan prepared for her daughter without fail every day, using imported white bird’s nest from Indonesia, which cost several hundred dollars per tael.
Lin Wanrou pursed her lips slightly and glanced toward the doorway.
“Is he gone?”
“Hmm, what ‘he’? That’s your cousin.”
Lin Wanrou sat down opposite Yang Huijuan, picked up the porcelain spoon from the stew pot and stirred it, but did not start eating immediately. Her expression was somewhat dismissive, the corners of her mouth slightly downturned—a habitual look whenever she was displeased.
Yang Huijuan glanced at her and immediately knew what she was about to say.
Sure enough—
“I don’t have a cousin like that,” Lin Wanrou’s voice was not loud, but her tone carried clear disdain.
“He’s here to ask you for money again, isn’t he? It’s the same routine every time. Last time it was twenty thousand, how much is it this time? You know exactly what he’s been up to outside—gambling, running up debts, keeping someone on the side. Why do you keep indulging him? Throwing money at him is like pouring it into a bottomless pit. You might as well buy a bag with it—at least a bag is useful.”
Yang Huijuan’s lips twitched.
“I indulge him,” Yang Huijuan’s voice lowered, her gaze shifting from the teacup to her daughter’s face, “only because you’re not reliable.”
Lin Wanrou’s hand paused, a flicker of defiance crossing her face.
Yang Huijuan didn’t give her a chance to retort, continuing directly, “If you had managed to control your temper during the New Year and hadn’t argued with that girl Gu Xihe, wouldn’t you have already entered Xinda Group? Your Uncle Gu had already softened and agreed to let you try out in the group’s finance department. But then you had that scene with Gu Xihe at Happy Valley on the third day of the New Year. Well, everything fell apart. You saw the look on your Uncle Gu’s face at the time.”
Lin Wanrou set the spoon down with a soft clink.
“Gu Xihe said those things about you in front of so many people, out in public,” her voice trembled slightly here—not from grievance, but from anger. “Shouldn’t I have been angry? If I hadn’t argued with her, if I hadn’t spoken up for you, how would others see us in the future? They’d all think we’re easy to push around, and they’d only—”
“Can other people’s opinions put food on the table?”
Yang Huijuan cut her off, looking straight into her daughter’s eyes.
“Wanrou, what we should care about is your Uncle Gu’s opinion—”
She spoke each word deliberately, “not the opinions of outsiders. If you had held back then, avoided a direct confrontation with Gu Xihe, endured the humiliation, let her make a scene alone, and then shed a few tears in front of your Uncle Gu afterward, said a few words about how wronged you felt—then it would have been Gu Xihe who was arrogant and unreasonable, bullying you because she’s from the main branch. Your Uncle Gu would have felt nothing but pity for you. Wouldn’t he have compensated you?”
“But what happened instead? You argued with her. You know exactly how many harsh words you said. She is your Uncle Gu’s biological daughter. Did you think you were standing up for me? You were making trouble for me.”
Lin Wanrou lowered her head, her lips pressed tightly together, two faint patches of red on her cheeks—whether from anger or shame, it was hard to tell.
Deep down, she knew her mother was right. She had regretted it afterward herself. But at the time, Gu Xihe’s words had been too cutting. She couldn’t bear the feeling of being trampled underfoot in public. Reason and temper had both rushed to her throat, but temper had arrived first.
Seeing her daughter’s bowed head, Yang Huijuan’s anger subsided somewhat, and her tone softened.
After all, she cherished this daughter. Lin Wanrou didn’t bear the Gu surname, and her position in this family was inherently awkward.
Yang Huijuan reached out and took her daughter’s hand. Lin Wanrou’s fingers were slightly cool, her nails neatly trimmed and painted with a pale pink polish.
“Look at all these years,” Yang Huijuan’s voice softened, carrying the patience of someone who had been through it all, “have Ming Lan and I ever had a conflict?”
Lin Wanrou shook her head.
“Never,” Yang Huijuan said. “It’s not because I have a good temper, but because I know what matters.”
She leaned back on the sofa, her gaze drifting toward the osmanthus tree outside the window, as if recalling something from long ago.
“Before I got together with your Uncle Gu, I had already dealt with Ming Lan.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly, a faint, somewhat ironic smile curling at the corners of her mouth.
“The Ming family of Shanghai—have you heard of them? A prominent family in Shanghai during the Republic of China era. Though they declined later, the spirit instilled in their daughters can never be erased. Ming Lan, how should I put it—”
“She seems gentle and unhurried, spending her days playing cards and chatting, as if she doesn’t care about anything. But anyone who has played cards with her knows that some cards she simply doesn’t bother to flip over, not because she doesn’t see them.”
Lin Wanrou listened attentively, not interrupting.
“It’s just that she is too aloof,” Yang Huijuan continued. “She has never regarded me as worth her attention—she genuinely doesn’t care. Her daughter is just like her, equally aloof. If you don’t provoke her, she won’t bother with you.”
She gently squeezed her daughter’s fingers, not with much force, but with emphasis.
“So, do you understand now? The stupidest way to deal with such people is to rush in and pick a fight.”
Lin Wanrou remained silent for a long while, her fingers twitching slightly in Yang Huijuan’s palm.
“Then do we have to be cowards for the rest of our lives?” she looked up, her eyes filled with unwillingness.
Yang Huijuan smiled.
“Who said that? We must be patient and wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Wait for your brother to grow up.”