Seeing even the retired founder of Shiyuan Group show up at this networking event—a gathering designed solely to curry favor with investors—Zhuang Yusheng felt a deep sense of despair; it seemed the publishing industry was truly finished.
Otherwise, how could a young investor with zero literary sensibility—someone who, in Zhuang Yusheng’s words, didn’t know the first thing about literature—be surrounded and fawned over by self-proclaimed high-minded intellectuals at an industry gathering teeming with heavyweights, simply because he possessed the power of money?
The flashy lights shone equally on everyone, yet they seemed to trace a golden rim around that man’s black suit, making him look for all the world like a golden Buddha statue being worshipped.
It was the unmistakable stench of money. Zhuang Yusheng calmly looked away and turned with a beaming smile toward her own “Bodhisattva”: “Sister, that lip color really makes you glow today.”
Julie, who had been on the verge of slipping away, stopped in her tracks. Acting as if she had only just noticed Zhuang Yusheng, she theatrically cupped her cheek. “Really? I was worried a true red might make me look old.”
“Old? Not at all; you don’t look old in the slightest.” Zhuang Yusheng glanced toward the crowd and asked, feigning ignorance, “So, what’s the story with that investor?”
Small talk wasn’t the goal; investment was the priority. Someone who had risen to the position of editor-in-chief would hardly fail to see through Zhuang Yusheng’s intentions. She put on a troubled expression. “Xiao Yu, to be honest, this investment has nothing to do with our department. You know how tough the industry is right now; the company has decided to cut back on serious literary projects. As for your new book… perhaps you could find another company to handle it?”
Zhuang Yusheng said, half-jokingly, “What if I offered a discount on my royalties?”
Julie left absolutely no room for negotiation. “It’s a decision from the top; don’t put me in a difficult position.”
Perhaps the moment Julie switched from addressing her as “Teacher Zhuang” to the more casual “Xiao Yu,” it had already signaled that this publication deal wouldn’t go through. She was, after all, a renowned author; there was no point in debasing herself further. If she couldn’t collaborate with a publishing giant like Shiyuan, working with a smaller firm wouldn’t be the end of the world. Zhuang Yusheng let Julie go and picked up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter; just as he was scanning the room for his next conversation partner, a familiar scent drifted his way, making the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Sensing someone approaching, he instinctively prepared to slip away, only to be cornered by the person behind him: “Did you know beforehand that Xu Siming was coming back?”
Xu Siming was that “Golden Buddha.”
With his hair slicked back—save for a few loose strands framing his face—and sporting an expensive diamond watch, he looked even more mature after years apart. He showed not a hint of awkwardness in the face of calculated flattery, moving with an air of effortless composure.
Zhuang Yusheng forced a smile. “Aren’t you going to keep your new wife company, Mr. Shen?”
“A wife? I can keep her company any day.” Shen Mu familiarly draped his arm around Zhuang Yusheng’s shoulders and leaned in to whisper near his ear, “But our little Yu—long time no see. You’re looking more beautiful than ever.”
Zhuang Yusheng had lost weight recently; his face was now barely the size of a palm. His already exquisite features seemed bolder and more striking against the reduced surface area of his cheeks, giving him a radiant, captivating look. Many said he could have made a living on his looks alone yet insisted on relying on his talent; others claimed his writing was pretentious and that his popularity was owed entirely to his handsome face.
Zhuang Yusheng felt deeply uncomfortable whenever he was near Shen Mu; an uncontrollable chill seemed to creep up his spine, and his instinct was to flee. Yet, unwilling to show weakness, he deliberately said what he knew Shen Mu disliked hearing: “Success makes you glow, I suppose.”
Shen Mu merely laughed off the dig—a jab implying that he himself was past his prime—and continued, “Are you and Xu Siming back together?”
He seemed to attribute the change in Zhuang Yusheng’s appearance to the glow of romance. Even though Zhuang Yusheng had absolutely no desire to discuss Xu Siming with Shen Mu, he answered the question decisively: “That’s impossible.”
“If not…” Shen Mu’s hand slid down from Zhuang Yusheng’s shoulder to his elbow, effectively pulling him into an embrace; his lips brushed close to Zhuang Yusheng’s cheek, yet his gaze remained fixed on Xu Siming, who was busy socializing. “Then why does he keep looking at you?”
Zhuang Yusheng wanted to ask if Shen Mu was blind; ever since entering the banquet hall, Xu Siming hadn’t even glanced at him, treating him entirely like a stranger. Yet, when he followed Shen Mu’s gaze, his heart skipped a beat—he actually locked eyes with Xu Siming.
To be precise, Xu Siming was drinking with his chin tilted slightly upward, casting a casual, indifferent sidelong glance at Zhuang Yusheng, his eyes devoid of any emotion.
Before coming to the networking event, Zhuang Yusheng had imagined countless ways to greet Xu Siming. Something reserved—just a nod; something casual—a simple “Hi”; something polite—addressing him as “President Xu” like everyone else; or perhaps something open and confident—a nod accompanied by, “Hi, President Xu.”
What he hadn’t expected was that the moment their eyes met, all his preparations would prove futile.
“You must have seen it wrong.” Zhuang Yusheng turned his face away and shook off the hand that repulsed him. “He wasn’t looking at me.”
There was no one else in the restroom, located far from the banquet hall. Zhuang Yusheng braced his hands against the vanity, staring blankly at his own distorted reflection in the polished, gleaming faucet.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t wondered what possessed Xu Siming—who was thriving abroad—to return home and invest in the struggling traditional publishing industry.
After turning the matter over in his mind, he could only reach one conclusion: it was because of him.
This was by no means Zhuang Yusheng being presumptuous; based on what he knew of Xu Siming, the man was only ever interested in emerging industries. He turned his attention to the domestic market—and as luck would have it, the situation was directly related to his own line of work; he couldn’t believe he wasn’t involved in this somehow.
Yet, he really couldn’t figure out what Xu Siming was actually up to.
Had he come back to back him up after learning that the publication of his new book had hit a snag?
Zhuang Yusheng harbored this thought out of a certain inexplicable confidence; after all, back when he had initiated the breakup, Xu Siming had been so unwilling to let go, so full of reluctance.
But moments ago, he had realized that confidence was merely an illusion—Xu Siming didn’t care about his existence at all, acting as if they were total strangers. If Xu Siming had come to back him up, surely those old geezers would have been falling over themselves to curry favor with him?
If it wasn’t lingering affection, then it must be lingering resentment.
It seemed Xu Siming’s high-profile return was meant to show Zhuang Yusheng just what a mistake it had been to dump him all those years ago.
The restroom door suddenly swung open. Not wanting to betray his agitation, Zhuang Yusheng turned on the tap and pretended to wash his hands. Amidst the sound of rushing water and approaching footsteps behind him, he glanced up casually—only to see the very person who had unsettled him: Xu Siming.
He hadn’t seen him clearly from a distance, but up close, Zhuang Yusheng noticed a new sharpness in Xu Siming’s features—an air of unapproachability. He turned off the tap; without even drying his hands, he found himself explaining to the reflection in the mirror, “Shen Mu and I…”
But Xu Siming had no intention of engaging him in conversation; he walked straight toward the sink, looking neither left nor right, treating Zhuang Yusheng as if he were invisible.
Fine, Zhuang Yusheng told himself, so much for wishful thinking.
He grabbed a paper towel to dry his hands and wisely turned to leave, but as he brushed past Xu Siming, he felt something being slipped into his trouser pocket.
“Come to my room later,” Xu Siming said. His tone was matter-of-fact, almost like an order.
The object in his pocket was a key card; the room number was 1122. For a while, Zhuang Yusheng found himself puzzled over exactly what Xu Siming was up to. However, this state of mind didn’t last long; a waiter—who happened to be a reader of his—approached him with a copy of his book just as the event was winding down.
Zhuang Yusheng enjoyed chatting with readers about his creative journey and their interpretations of his work. If he discovered someone with a unique perspective, the conversation would often stretch on much longer than intended.
The waiter was a young, fresh-faced guy who had just been accepted into university and was working a part-time job at the hotel. He was majoring in accounting but had no real passion for it; he had even tried writing his own novel but gave up because he couldn’t figure out an ending.
He told Zhuang Yusheng that he loved his delicate, evocative prose, remarking that anyone capable of writing like that must truly love life. Zhuang Yusheng smiled and agreed—after all, who wouldn’t love a life so beautiful?—before inscribing a warm wish and his pen name on the book’s flyleaf.
As they chatted, the banquet hall gradually emptied out. Eventually, the young man was spotted by his supervisor for neglecting his duties; he endured a scolding but managed to snap a photo with Zhuang Yusheng before happily taking his leave.
Zhuang Yusheng was also preparing to head home when, just as he stepped out of the banquet hall, he suddenly remembered something.
Right—his ex-boyfriend was still waiting for him in a room upstairs. He wondered if the man was hoping for a “breakup hookup.” After all, if he’d just wanted to talk, simply giving him the room number would have sufficed; the act of handing over the key card itself was bound to invite certain suggestive thoughts.
Regardless of whether a hookup was on the cards, so much had happened over the years—scattered, disjointed events that were nonetheless always tinged with Xu Siming’s presence. It was time for Zhuang Yusheng to see him one-on-one.
He headed upstairs, fiddling with the key card and telling himself to remain cool and composed. He had done well for himself over the years and was a successful man in his own right; there was no reason to act bashful or awkward in front of Xu Siming. However, when he walked into the room and met Xu Siming’s cold stare, the breezy “So, you’re back?” he had prepared died on his lips; Xu Siming spoke first: “Want to play a game?”
Only a single floor lamp was lit in the room. Xu Siming sat in a heavy leather armchair; the window behind him framed the restless cityscape at night, while a low side table beside him held an empty wine glass and a half-finished bottle of white wine.
Fine beads of condensation covered the chilled bottle, coalescing into droplets that slid down to form a ring of water at the base—it appeared Xu Siming had been waiting for quite some time.
Under normal circumstances, this young master would have already lost his temper.
Unsure of Xu Siming’s mood, Zhuang Yusheng asked, “Play what?”
Xu Siming tilted his chin upward and said, “Kneel.”
Zhuang Yusheng realized that this “golden Buddha”—accustomed to being pampered—had indeed grown impatient. He also realized that Xu Siming—that detestable rich man, the embodiment of capital, that lackey of American imperialism—had likely picked up plenty of new tricks over the years.
Flashes of the past raced through his mind—scenes that were all gray and colorless, like old photographs gathering dust in a memory box. Yet, seeing Xu Siming like this stirred a sense of familiarity in Zhuang Yusheng; if the young master wanted to play, he wasn’t opposed to humoring him.
So, after a few seconds of silence, Zhuang Yusheng dropped to all fours and crawled toward Xu Siming like a cat.
As he moved forward, Zhuang Yusheng kept his head down; he didn’t want to look up at Xu Siming, as that would imply sycophancy or flirtatiousness. His compliance with the game had nothing to do with fawning, and he certainly didn’t want to appear seductive.
The soft white carpet, bathed in the warm yellow glow of the floor lamp, stretched out before him, ending at a pair of pointed-toe leather shoes—lace-ups that exuded an air of corporate elitism. Above them were the crisp, straight creases of suit trousers; the seated posture revealed an ankle clad in a black sock that hugged the calf tightly, faintly showing the outline of a sock garter. Zhuang Yusheng moved forward step by step; his palms and knees pressed shallow indentations into the carpet, looking remarkably like the tracks left by a cat. He crawled over to sit beside Xu Siming’s legs, resting the side of his face against a solid thigh; his half-lowered eyes inadvertently betrayed a hint of docility.
He had expected Xu Siming to stroke him—his cheek and neck were easy spots to touch, or at the very least, the tips of his hair. Yet, Xu Siming simply sat motionless, his voice dropping to a deeper, more resonant register than the cold tone he had used earlier: “You can start now.”
At this point, Zhuang Yusheng no longer needed to guess Xu Siming’s intentions; he realized there was still a certain unspoken understanding between them, and he knew exactly what Xu Siming wanted him to begin.
It had been a long time since he’d done this, and his jaw was certainly feeling the strain. Fortunately, Xu Siming finished a bit faster—and with a bit more intensity—than Zhuang Yusheng had anticipated.
Wiping the residue from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, Zhuang Yusheng climbed up to straddle Xu Siming’s lap and began unbuttoning his own shirt.
He assumed that phase of the game was over and that they would proceed in a more conventional manner. However, Xu Siming—having just enjoyed such attentive service—watched impassively as Zhuang Yusheng’s chest was gradually revealed, and asked, “Is this how you’ve been servicing others all these years?”
Zhuang Yusheng froze. He recalled Xu Siming witnessing his earlier interaction with Shen Mu and realized that, despite the passage of time, his image in Xu Siming’s eyes remained unchanged.
Driven by a sudden, inexplicable urge to be defiant, he chuckled and said, “What? We broke up so long ago—surely you didn’t expect me to keep myself chaste for you all this time?”
The heavy, sultry air suddenly turned frigid. Xu Siming studied Zhuang Yusheng for a moment, then parted his lips to say, “Get out.”
Zhuang Yusheng knew then that Xu Siming was genuinely angry—but what standing did an ex-boyfriend have to object? He didn’t move; instead, he asked, “Are you sure?”
“What else?” Xu Siming said coolly. “I find it dirty.”
Zhuang Yusheng suddenly remembered that he had come upstairs to ask Xu Siming something, but it no longer mattered whether he asked or not. What good would the answer do him anyway? In any case, there was no chance of him and Xu Siming getting back together.
Faced with such harsh treatment, Zhuang Yusheng remained unruffled; he stood up from Xu Siming’s lap with a calm expression, buttoned his shirt, and walked away with effortless composure—only further confirming that people and things one has already let go of should not be picked up again.
It took only fifteen minutes to walk home from the conference hotel—or five minutes by bike—yet Zhuang Yusheng spent a hundred yuan to hire a luxury car, specifically instructing the driver to keep the small talk to a minimum and turn off the car’s fragrance diffuser.
Zhuang Yusheng’s apartment was located in the city center, where real estate came at a premium; buying it had drained his entire savings and saddled him with a mortgage. Yet, he felt it was worth every penny. Returning home gave him a profound sense of belonging—a feeling that intensified whenever he passed through the complex’s grand, opulent entrance and caught passersby casting envious glances his way, wondering just what kind of person could afford such a multi-million-yuan luxury home.
Of course, that polished exterior was for the outside world; only he knew what things were really like on the inside.
To put it politely, his apartment’s décor was ‘industrial style’; to put it bluntly, it looked like a place stripped bare. The floors and walls were left largely unfinished, retaining their raw concrete hue, and the air-conditioning ducts were exposed—a look that teetered on the fine line between minimalist chic and stark squalor. Back when the building first opened, other owners had shared renovation tips in the group chat, but Zhuang Yusheng hadn’t dared to post photos of his own place for fear of being kicked out of the group.
Later, however, as a steady stream of royalty payments rolled in, he paid off his mortgage, installed a whole-home smart system, and bought plenty of high-end furniture. Even though the Italian-imported sofa felt no different to sit on than the cheap one he’d once bought at IKEA, it certainly delivered the right kind of emotional satisfaction.
As soon as he stepped through the door, the ambient lighting automatically flickered on, distracting Zhuang Yusheng from the fact that the light in the guest bedroom was already on.
He went to the kitchen island to pour a glass of water, hoping to wash away the lingering taste of Xu Siming from his mouth. Distracted by a jumble of thoughts, he didn’t hear the footsteps approaching from behind until Ling Xiao suddenly wrapped him in a tight embrace from the rear. “Brother.”
Zhuang Yusheng swallowed the mouthful of water he had intended to spit out. Coughing twice, he reached back to stroke Ling Xiao’s prickly buzz cut and asked, “What are you doing back here?”
One of Ling Xiao’s friends was a professional boxer competing in another province; Ling Xiao had gone specifically to cheer him on and wasn’t scheduled to return for several more days.
—That was a question he should have asked Xu Siming, only he hadn’t found the right moment all night.
“I missed you,” Ling Xiao said.
“How did your friend do in the fight?” Zhuang Yusheng asked.
“Not great; I’d have done better if I’d stepped in myself.” Ling Xiao boxed, too; his lean physique—deceptively slender—was actually rock-solid. Whenever he draped himself over the slight-framed Zhuang Yusheng to act spoiled, he felt like the weight of Mount Tai, leaving Zhuang Yusheng breathless.
Zhuang Yusheng turned around and poked Ling Xiao’s forehead with his index finger, pushing him away. “You know you can’t.”
After returning to the master bedroom and taking an agonizingly slow shower, Zhuang Yusheng changed into a designer-brand pajama set he’d bought on sale. He lay in bed and checked his phone—no new messages.
Someone furtively slid under the covers from the foot of the bed, attempting to pull off his pajama bottoms. Sighing in resignation, Zhuang Yusheng pinned down Ling Xiao’s hand. “I’m tired today.”
“We don’t have to do the main act; I can just go down on you.” Ling Xiao didn’t stop; his grip was far stronger than Zhuang Yusheng’s.
“Stop messing around; I’m really tired.” Zhuang Yusheng showed no physical arousal—which was only natural, given that he had already taken care of that urge in the shower.
Ling Xiao finally gave up. He emerged from the covers and lay down beside Zhuang Yusheng, asking, “Bro, why haven’t you been letting me touch you lately?”
“I haven’t?” Zhuang Yusheng replied.
“Is there someone else?” Ling Xiao asked. “I’ll go kill him.”
Usually, Zhuang Yusheng would scold Ling Xiao for saying such antisocial things, but today he remained unusually quiet. A thought had suddenly crossed his mind: thank goodness Xu Siming hadn’t asked him to stay the night. If Ling Xiao had discovered he hadn’t come home, it would have been a disaster.
Noticing Zhuang Yusheng’s distracted air, Ling Xiao asked again, “Bro, what are you thinking about?”
Struggling to pull his thoughts back to the present, Zhuang Yusheng said distractedly, “The past.”