Cen Jing looked at He Cidong’s expression, which said, Come down here and let’s talk. His first instinct was that the man wanted to throw a punch. In less than twenty-four hours, he’d gained a much clearer understanding of He Cidong.
This was the kind of man who’d rather hit someone than waste time arguing. He and Cen Jing, who preferred to win with words, were complete opposites.
Cen Jing ignored him.
But the young man from a moment ago had finally caught on. He jumped up, fuming. “Cen Jing! Who are you calling an idiot?”
“Whoever answers.”
The young man was about to snap back when a slap landed on the back of his head out of nowhere.
He turned around, aggrieved. “Bro?”
“Shut up,” He Cidong said.
He picked up the watch on the coffee table and put it on, shooting the young man a sidelong glance. “What did Uncle Zhong tell you?”
The young man wilted. Head hanging, he said, “Dad told me to stick with you and learn something, instead of wandering around all day doing nothing.” Then he angrily pointed at the person on the stairs. “But he…”
He stopped when He Cidong looked at him, and shut his mouth on his own.
Cen Jing hadn’t expected the young man to be Uncle Zhong’s son, Zhong Ziliang.
The book barely mentioned him, but he’d made two appearances as a minor character during the last year of the original body’s marriage to He Cidong. He seemed to have just graduated from college, and had an inexplicable hero-worship of He Cidong. That was also why he disliked Cen Jing so much. Later, he even went to work for He Cidong’s company.
Cen Jing came downstairs and looked at Zhong Ziliang, still not quite believing it. “Uncle Zhong is your dad?”
Zhong Ziliang had no idea what he was getting at. He eyed Cen Jing warily. “What do you want?”
Cen Jing took in the kid’s yellow perm and the two pimples on his forehead, proof of too many late nights.
He gave an almost imperceptible eye roll. “Nothing. I’m just wondering how Uncle Zhong ended up with a son like you.”
Apparently, he’d gotten stuck in the age of punk hair and never quite evolved.
Even an idiot could tell that wasn’t a compliment. “I’ll fuck your dad!” Zhong Ziliang shouted.
“Go ahead.” Cen Jing picked up an apple from the fruit tray and took a bite. “If Cen Yaozhong agrees, I’ve got no objection.”
“You, you…”
He Cidong watched Cen Jing bully the kid without a shred of guilt and didn’t intervene.
Cen Jing’s attitude toward He Cidong now was all stubborn bluster. He knew there was plenty he couldn’t hide from this man, but as long as he kept denying it, no normal person would leap to the conclusion that he’d transmigrated into a book.
Only when Zhong Ziliang looked thoroughly furious did He Cidong speak to Cen Jing. “Get the documents ready. Come with me to the Cen Family next Tuesday.”
“What for?” Cen Jing asked.
He Cidong watched him keep eating, his tone as casual as if he were asking about the weather.
“To sign the acquisition agreement.”
He said it while looking straight into Cen Jing’s eyes. Cen Jing knew he was watching for a reaction. After a moment’s thought, he raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a bit much? You’re putting me in an awkward position.” As if that weren’t enough, he added, “Besides, are you really that eager to go after the Cen Family and cut ties with me?”
As soon as he said it, Cen Jing found the apple in his mouth hard to swallow.
Back then, the Cen Family had used the white moonlight to bring He Cidong and the original body together. He Cidong had invested nearly two hundred million in the Cen Family’s faltering company, practically putting his lifeline in their hands. But He Cidong had managed to turn the situation around and avert disaster. He’d even had twenty-five percent of the Cen Family’s shares transferred to Cen Jing.
The Cen Family had planned it all out nicely. If Cen Jing wanted the marriage to last, he’d have to rely on them.
But they’d forgotten that, to He Cidong, it was only a marriage of convenience. He’d saved the man he loved, and with Cen Jing acting like a lovesick puppy, the Cen Family was as good as in his pocket anyway.
Besides, the acquisition was probably just a pretext. To He Cidong, who had built a company like Shidu from the ground up, the Cen Family was entirely dispensable.
After crossing He Cidong, how could things possibly end well for them?
The only one in an awkward position was Cen Jing.
He hated the Cen Family, yet had no choice but to depend on them. He wanted to hold on to He Cidong, but kept going about it the wrong way.
He’d never been especially clever. That was how he’d ended up with such a fate.
Several sets of footsteps sounded outside the courtyard gate.
Before anyone came into view, a voice rang out.
“Old He! I heard you came home last night, but I didn’t believe it. So I came over first thing this morning. How can you stand living with that Cen Jing…”
The first person through the door took one look at the living room and abruptly stopped talking.
Three people had come in.
The one who’d spoken was a man in a floral shirt, the sort of designer label that somehow looked like cheap beachwear on him. Behind him was a rather proper-looking man, fair-skinned and wearing black-rimmed glasses.
The last one was someone Cen Jing recognized: Yao Wenyu.
The room had fallen into an eerie silence, making the crunch of Cen Jing chewing his apple stand out all the more.
As Cen Jing finished the last bite and tossed the core neatly into the trash, He Cidong said, “I came back yesterday to get some files. And now all of you have crowded in here first thing in the morning. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
The man in the floral shirt clearly hadn’t expected this. He turned to He Cidong and tried to explain. “Well… it’s not like… I mean…”
Zhong Ziliang suddenly called out, “Brother Chuan.”
Jiang Chuan: “…”
He was close with He Cidong, so of course he knew the man had a devoted little fan.
But what was with that look of inexplicable, kindred sympathy?
He suddenly felt there was something off about Cen Jing, too. Cen Jing used to make a habit of sucking up to everyone around He Cidong, except Yao Wenyu. Now he was lounging there, detached from it all, and somehow even more annoying than before.
And why had he tied his hair back? Did he think looking better would hide how ugly he was on the inside?
Jiang Chuan’s look of contempt was impossible to miss. The moment Cen Jing heard his name, he connected him to the character in the book. Jiang Chuan, a rich second-generation who ran several private clubs and was a notorious playboy.
He was the one among He Cidong’s circle who showed his dislike of Cen Jing most openly.
The other one was easy enough to guess, too: Wei Linzhou, the surgeon.
They were He Cidong’s real old friends, men he’d known for years. Of the people who’d come today, these two were the ones the original body had spent the most time with. But when it came down to it, none of them had ever truly thought much of him.
They’d all assumed Cen Jing had used every trick in the book to steal Yao Wenyu’s place in the marriage.
That wasn’t entirely wrong. But someone else was in Cen Jing’s body now.
He had no intention of continuing to take the blame.
Yao Wenyu was the last to speak. He was wearing a white tracksuit today and looked bright and sunny. He walked over to He Cidong as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t blame Brother Chuan and the others. I said I wanted to come along with you, so they tagged along to see what was going on.”
“You’re the one in the wrong here, Old He,” Jiang Chuan said.
He slung an arm around Wei Linzhou’s shoulder and leaned in, all careless swagger. “Some people will stoop to anything. Wenyu used to live here with you. Now he’s had to move out because of a certain someone. And do you really have a shortage of places? Why make him live so far away?”
Cen Jing knew he was deliberately taking a shot at him.
Yao Wenyu answered at once. “Brother Chuan, I chose to move out. And I can’t keep relying on Cidong to help me. The place I’m staying now is really close to the design institute where I work. It’s very convenient.”
There was a lot to unpack in that. First, He Cidong and Yao Wenyu hadn’t been living together.
Second, this fit the white moonlight’s character perfectly.
A graceful, optimistic architectural genius who never depended on the male lead to get by. That was his most captivating quality.
And he wasn’t done. He even turned to Cen Jing and said, “Cen Jing, don’t get the wrong idea. Cidong was just doing me a small favor.”
Cen Jing raised an eyebrow and met the gaze of the white moonlight who had nearly become the protagonist by the end of the book.
“I know.” Cen Jing nodded. “I didn’t get the wrong idea.”
One look was all it took for Cen Jing to know he and Yao Wenyu were not cut from the same cloth.
Yao Wenyu was like a perfect creation, carefully designed and polished. Every word was so tactful that he made people feel like spring was in the air. Cen Jing, however, didn’t feel any spring breeze. He just thought the man was putting on an act, and doing it very deliberately.
People like that were always the most exhausting to deal with.
He’d take He Cidong over him. At least that bastard meant what he said.
The crowd in the living room had completely killed Cen Jing’s desire to stay. He no longer even felt like waiting for Aunt Chen to make breakfast. He picked up his phone and was about to leave.
“Wait.”
Cen Jing looked at He Cidong, confused.
“Tuesday.”
“I won’t forget.”
He wanted it over with as soon as possible.
But Cen Jing knew the acquisition wouldn’t be settled that quickly. The book hadn’t gone into much detail, but although the Cen Family had long since fallen from its former heights, even a lean camel was bigger than a horse. It would be a long time before they collapsed completely.
Cen Jing had already taken two steps out when something occurred to him and he stopped. He turned around.
Under the gaze of everyone in the room, he walked past Yao Wenyu and over to He Cidong.
He pretended to straighten He Cidong’s collar, and when He Cidong only leaned back instead of hitting him, he moved close and whispered so only the two of them could hear. “Can we make a deal?”
He Cidong gave him a questioning look.
“You can use the marital home. I know I stole Yao’s room first, but I still hope you two can keep things under control and not do it in my bed.”
As soon as he finished speaking, an arm clamped around his waist, squeezing hard.
Cen Jing was pulled against He Cidong’s chest, his whole body almost swallowed up by He Cidong’s frame.
Cen Jing knew he’d apparently provoked He Cidong. He gave in. “Fine, do it if you want. Just remember to change the sheets. I’m a neat freak, too. Thanks.”
Cen Jing admitted that last part was deliberate.
A whole crowd had shown up first thing in the morning looking for trouble. Was he not allowed to push back a little?
Then He Cidong murmured in his ear, his voice just as low. “Stop using those filthy, twisted thoughts of yours to guess at what’s between us, Cen Jing. How much longer are you going to keep this up?”
Cen Jing felt He Cidong’s fingers brush against his side, a warning sign that the man’s patience was running out.
Cen Jing took the hint and backed off. Then he suddenly smiled.
His thumb brushed lightly behind He Cidong’s ear.
Up close, he could make out the small exposed patch of tattoo. It looked like a little sprig of some kind of vine, its tendrils tangled together, suggesting something secret and forbidden.
It was only a second. Cen Jing drew his hand back, sounding almost regretful. “Don’t take it so seriously. I’m just taking precautions.”
Cen Jing stepped away and smiled at everyone around him, who all looked as though they’d been struck by lightning, then turned and left.
He took one last look at Yao Wenyu.
Yao Wenyu’s lashes were lowered. Cen Jing couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
Cen Jing understood. The white moonlight wasn’t quite as noble and unsullied as he made himself out to be.
They were all ordinary people. Why pretend to be some wholesome green drink?
Cen Jing waited on the road outside the villa for five minutes before hailing a taxi.
The driver was a middle-aged man. When Cen Jing got in, he smiled and asked, “You’re an artist, huh? Your hair’s long enough to tie back.”
“That’s a stereotype,” Cen Jing said. “I’m just an unemployed layabout waiting around to die.”
The driver laughed loudly. “You’ve got a sense of humor. Where to?”
“Back to Blue Street.”
“Oh, and you say you’re not an artist? That area’s prime real estate for shops. There’s every kind of person and business there. It’s the perfect place for someone like you, with your obvious artistic flair, to make a living.”
Cen Jing picked up the baseball bat he’d swiped from Uncle Zhong, which was lying on the seat.
He rested one end on the floor and leaned on it with one hand, smiling along. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m in a good mood today, so I’m going to collect rent.”