The black coat draped over He Cidong’s elbow brushed Cen Jing’s shoulder. He looked down at Cen Jing’s face. “Get up.”
Not “move.” Get up.
His tone was flat.
The threats and warnings at the party seemed to have used up the last of his patience. Cen Jing had no doubt that, in He Cidong’s eyes, he was little different from a dead man by now.
Getting rid of the Cen Family was only a matter of time for him.
Cen Jing knew that his best option now was to go along with him.
But he didn’t much feel like doing that. After this life and his last one, he still hadn’t learned how to spell the word “obedience.”
“I’m dizzy. I can’t get up.” His voice remained languid.
He Cidong didn’t move, watching him from where he stood.
Cen Jing met his gaze. “You need something else?”
“Go smoke outside.”
Cen Jing glanced at the cigarette between his fingers in surprise and raised an eyebrow. He remembered the book mentioning that He Cidong disliked the smell of smoke and was a neat freak who had his rooms cleaned every day.
The next second, Cen Jing actually got to his feet. The alcohol was starting to hit him, and he swayed before steadying himself.
On the stone steps, Cen Jing stood almost half a head shorter than He Cidong.
But he wasn’t intimidated. He took another drag, tapped the ash from his cigarette, and deliberately said, meeting He Cidong’s gaze, “But I’m already outside. Where do you want me to go?”
He Cidong stepped closer and, without warning, clamped a hand around Cen Jing’s jaw.
The party incident seemed to be happening all over again. A friendly greeting was just about to leave Cen Jing’s lips when he realized He Cidong wasn’t trying to grab him by the throat this time. His fingers moved up and squeezed Cen Jing’s cheeks instead.
With his mouth forced into an O, Cen Jing: “…”
Come on, man. Can’t you stick to the usual script?
He Cidong’s gaze swept over Cen Jing’s face before finally meeting his eyes.
“Something’s off about you,” He Cidong said.
Cen Jing broke into a cold sweat right then and there.
He could almost hear the air going still. The glowing ember at his fingertips and the smoke curling around them were the only things moving in that little space.
He’d never planned to keep being the Cen Jing he’d replaced, and he knew it was only a matter of time before someone questioned him and found out.
But the shock of it felt all too real, partly because it had come so suddenly, and partly because this wasn’t just anyone. It was He Cidong.
There was something unnervingly oppressive in the eyes of the man before him, even dressed in immaculate clothes. In his previous life, Cen Jing had dealt with all kinds of people from all walks of life. He knew all too well that nobody became someone like this without going through something inhuman.
It fit with He Cidong’s character, a man who had crawled up from the gutter.
Cen Jing steadied himself and pulled free.
He sneered. “Of course I’m different. Cen Jing died a long time ago.”
He pressed the back of his hand against his aching cheek. The whole thing had made him look ridiculous, and now even his threat didn’t have much force behind it.
Cen Jing spoke with a mixture of truth and falsehood. “The old Cen Jing died the night you brought Yao Wenyu back. He Cidong, after everything that’s happened between us, you don’t seriously expect me to keep shamelessly following you around like I used to, do you? We both disgust each other. From today on, I’m Cen Jing, and you’re He Cidong.”
After the video incident, Cen Jing had realized that some things in the book didn’t match reality. Or maybe the book had simply been too one-sided, with too many holes in it.
He Cidong really had tormented him from beginning to end, but they hadn’t slept together.
As for whether there were other differences, there was no way to know.
But Cen Jing didn’t want to pretend, and couldn’t be bothered to act.
This seemed fine. When the time came, they could part ways and both be happy.
He Cidong stood in the shadows, his expression impossible to make out. Cen Jing had no idea what he was thinking.
Without a word, there was no way for Cen Jing to tell.
After five seconds, or maybe ten, Cen Jing heard him say, “Fine.”
Cen Jing: “?”
He Cidong added, “But don’t let me catch you doing anything I can use against you.”
There was something ambiguous about the way he put it. Cen Jing knew He Cidong probably hadn’t believed him. He just wasn’t sure whether He Cidong doubted he’d stop chasing him, or didn’t believe his claim that the old Cen Jing was dead.
But it didn’t matter. The tension had made his stomach hurt even worse.
Frowning, Cen Jing ran a hand through his disheveled hair and pointed behind him. “Tell someone to open the door.”
When He Cidong glanced at him, Cen Jing explained, “I don’t have Uncle Zhong’s number.”
Uncle Zhong was the butler. He was in his sixties.
Apparently, he’d met He Cidong when He Cidong was running with street gangs and had helped him out. They’d known each other for over a decade.
After He Cidong bought this house, he brought Uncle Zhong to live with him.
He Cidong ignored him and walked straight to the end of the steps to press the electronic doorbell.
Completely ignored, Cen Jing watched him and, for the first time, wondered if transmigrating into a book had broken his brain.
The door opened quickly. Cen Jing rubbed his nose and followed him inside without a trace of embarrassment.
He’d just come up behind He Cidong when the man suddenly stopped. Cen Jing nearly walked straight into his back.
“What are you doing?” Cen Jing asked.
He Cidong turned and looked at his hand.
Following his gaze, Cen Jing understood what he meant. He raised both hands in surrender, dropped the cigarette butt to the ground, and ground it out underfoot.
He gave He Cidong a look to say, There, happy now? But all he got in return was the back of He Cidong’s head.
As soon as they stepped inside, Uncle Zhong was clearly surprised to see He Cidong return with Cen Jing.
After a brief pause, he took He Cidong’s coat and said, “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming back? Are you hungry? The kitchen has some late-night food ready.”
“No need,” He Cidong said. “I’m not hungry.”
“I’m hungry, Uncle Zhong,” Cen Jing said from behind him, picking up the conversation naturally. “I want some congee.”
Uncle Zhong stopped at the sound of his voice and turned to look at him reproachfully. “You’ve been drinking? The doctor said your stomach was in bad shape. Why won’t you listen?”
Cen Jing held up his fingers a little way apart and smiled. “Just a little.”
Beyond the villa’s front door was a vast, open-plan entryway. A small arched wooden bridge led across to the courtyard.
Water flowed beneath it, and the soft burble was audible from above.
He Cidong paused on the bridge, hearing the conversation continue behind him.
Uncle Zhong said, “Even a little is too much. And where have you been, staying out so late?”
Cen Jing said, “I went out for barbecue with a friend.”
Uncle Zhong said, “No wonder you smell so strongly of smoke and grease. Go on, get upstairs and take a shower. I’ll have Aunt Chen get the congee ready. Come down and eat when you’re done.”
Cen Jing said, “Thanks, Uncle Zhong.”
He Cidong spaced out for a second or two, then came back to himself and continued farther inside.
Cen Jing didn’t notice a thing.
It was only after waking up that Cen Jing realized the people in this house were different from most people outside it. Uncle Zhong and the others hadn’t had much contact with the original Cen Jing, so they didn’t know the ins and outs of what had happened.
All they knew was that Cen Jing had married He Cidong and would be living here from then on.
The older generation tended to be more traditional. However they’d ended up together, they were married now. That was a fact.
And after spending a week with the Cen Jing of today, they’d found him very different from the person everyone outside described.
The poor kid wasn’t in good health. He’d fallen ill and been unconscious for a week after getting married, all because he’d been left to freeze in cold water. The old folks had always treated He Cidong like their own child, but they knew he wasn’t the sort to be attentive or tender. He was usually cold toward people. Their hearts softened, and they couldn’t help showing Cen Jing a little extra affection.
As soon as he got upstairs, Cen Jing bent over the toilet and threw up.
Alcohol really was poison.
He and He Cidong hadn’t been living together. This room wasn’t the bridal suite they’d decorated when they got married. It was a guest room that had been kept ready for Yao Wenyu.
Cen Jing later learned from Uncle Zhong and the others that Yao Wenyu would sometimes stay here after returning to the country.
As for why Cen Jing was staying in this room now…
The original Cen Jing had naturally been unable to stand living in the place he’d shared with He Cidong, surrounded by such obvious signs that another man had been there.
When Cen Jing woke up, he was already in this room.
He didn’t care where he stayed. Since there was no need to move, he’d asked the housekeeper to put the room’s original things elsewhere and settled in.
When Cen Jing came downstairs after his shower,
his eyes were tinged red from the strain of throwing up, and his exhaustion showed plainly.
As soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he ran into Aunt Chen coming out of the kitchen with a bowl of congee. He greeted her, and she looked at him with concern. “I made you some hangover soup. Drink it in a bit.”
Cen Jing nodded. “Okay.”
He rounded the corner into the living room and saw that the man who’d said he wasn’t hungry was sitting at the dining table, drinking soup after all.
He Cidong had clearly showered. He was dressed in casual loungewear, his hair still damp.
Maybe he’d been in a position of power for too long. With his broad shoulders and long legs, even sitting there casually seemed to thin the air around him.
Like a sleeping lion, he was still a beast at heart.
Aunt Chen came over from behind and beckoned Cen Jing. “Sit down. What are you standing there for?”
Cen Jing pulled out a chair and sat at the table, listening as Aunt Chen fussed over them. “The two of you, going out in the middle of the night and drinking. You’re young, but you can’t treat your bodies like this.”
Cen Jing had never experienced this kind of fussing before.
He didn’t find it irritating. Instead, on a night like this, it made him feel a little warm inside.
Aunt Chen continued, “Cidong, Xiao Jing looks so pale. Don’t you have a friend who’s a doctor? Ask him to come take a look. Xiao Jing’s so pale he hardly looks well.”
Cen Jing instinctively touched his face and looked at Aunt Chen, innocent as could be.
Then he noticed He Cidong look up and glance at him. “He doesn’t need a surgeon.”
The meaning was simple enough: a surgeon couldn’t help.
He thought Cen Jing needed a psychiatrist.
Even Aunt Chen was at a loss for words.
Cen Jing rolled his eyes inwardly and smiled reassuringly at her. “I’m fine, Aunt Chen. Once I’ve had your congee, I’ll be cured of everything.”
His body had been frail since childhood. He hadn’t been nourished properly in the womb, and his original body’s mother had worked in that kind of business, living in terrible conditions. Going hungry one day and overeating the next was nothing unusual. On top of that, the original Cen Jing had been an anxious sort, suffered badly from insomnia, and had no idea how to look after himself. His health was shot, and he was forever coming down with high fevers.
In his previous life, Cen Jing had gotten to know a traditional Chinese doctor through work.
He knew that this sort of condition could only be managed gradually. Anything else was just talk.
Thinking of it gave Cen Jing another headache.
The poor guy hadn’t been born to a rich young master’s life, yet he’d inherited all the delicate ailments of one. He couldn’t exert himself or worry too much.
Fortunately, he still had a year left in the marriage to figure out what to do next. He Cidong wasn’t a great person, but at least he hadn’t gone out of his way to make Cen Jing’s life miserable.
Uncle Zhong and Aunt Chen were kind, too.
At last, Aunt Chen laughed at his remark and turned away.
When Cen Jing looked back, he saw He Cidong watching him.
“What are you looking at?” he asked irritably.
“Watching you put on an act.” He Cidong set down his spoon in an unhurried manner. “Since you’ve started, you might as well keep it up. Let’s see how long you can last.”
Cen Jing’s expression was hard to describe.
He knew He Cidong had already shown remarkable restraint by not killing him. He certainly didn’t care whether Cen Jing lived or died.
He would assume the worst of everything Cen Jing did, and naturally Cen Jing couldn’t trust him either. He liked Uncle Zhong and the others because he genuinely liked them. It had nothing whatsoever to do with acting.
They didn’t speak again.
He Cidong seemed to find Cen Jing’s presence so unappetizing that he went upstairs after drinking only half his soup.
Cen Jing was glad to see him go.
He had no idea why He Cidong had come back to stay all of a sudden instead of keeping his white moonlight company. But it was He Cidong’s house. Cen Jing was the one staying here temporarily, after all, and didn’t have much say in the matter.
It was a miserable thought.
Before bed, Cen Jing asked Aunt Chen for some stomach medicine, took it, and went to sleep.
He slept much more soundly than he’d expected.
He got up at eight the next morning, right on time. The early sun had painted the distant city skyline in a hazy orange glow. He opened the carved wooden window on the second floor, and the air carried the scent of dew and grass.
Uncle Zhong was watering the flowers in the courtyard. Cen Jing leaned on the window and greeted him.
Uncle Zhong told him to come downstairs for breakfast.
Cen Jing’s good mood lasted only until he’d changed and started downstairs.
As he reached the landing, he heard someone say, “What the hell was Cen Jing thinking, making a scene at the party? Everyone in our circle knows he’s shamelessly chasing after Brother Dong and begging for forgiveness. He’s worse than a dog.”
Cen Jing had noticed that these people always seemed short on insults. Apparently, “dog” was all they could come up with for him.
He tapped on the railing.
Leaning half his body against it, he looked at the young man who’d turned around in the living room. “Hey, man, did you fall in a shit pit this morning? Your mouth stinks.”
Just then, someone came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee. It was He Cidong.
Cen Jing added, “And ask your Brother Dong whether I was chasing after him and begging for forgiveness yesterday.”
He Cidong had been the one to approach him first. There was a saying: whoever made the first move was the shameless one.
It was barely morning, and someone was already trying to ruin his day.
The young man looked as if he’d seen a ghost. He was in his early twenties, and all he could do was open and close his mouth before turning to He Cidong for help. Cen Jing went on, “What, haven’t you been weaned? Didn’t finish your nine years of compulsory education? Why not go home and let your mommy comfort you? You’re calling people idiots in someone else’s house, but you’re not exactly a genius yourself. Don’t look at me like that. You’re crying over a dog, and you’re making me think livestock are all superior animals in your eyes.”
Cen Jing let it fly without taking a breath.
He wasn’t wearing the original Cen Jing’s drab, lifeless clothes today, just a light-colored casual outfit.
His hair had grown long, so he’d casually gathered it into a little knot at the back of his head, leaving his smooth forehead bare and showing off the sharp lines of a face made lean by his weight loss.
He had a short temper in the morning, especially when he wasn’t fully awake and someone was insulting him.
His tongue, honed in court and known for driving countless fellow lawyers to despair in private, had started moving before his brain could catch up.
The young man looked thoroughly shell-shocked.
He Cidong, who’d been holding his coffee, had already reached the sofa in the living room.
He set his cup on the coffee table and looked up at the man by the railing.
With an easy wave, he gestured for Cen Jing to come down.