The falling-into-the-water incident and that unexpectedly “passable” bowl of soup had caused Lin Yang’s perception of Li Chenzhou to shift. The previously solid block of fear and rejection was now quietly mingled with an indescribable sense of confusion and curiosity. It made him wary, yet he could not help but want to explore the reasons behind it.
With the help of rest and that soup, his cold improved quickly. Recording for the program continued, but the atmosphere remained marked by the caution left behind after Li Chenzhou’s visit. Lin Yang tried his best to focus on the tasks at hand. Planting rice, feeding chickens, and chopping wood were simple labors that allowed him to forget his troubles temporarily.
Occasionally, during breaks, he would subconsciously scan his surroundings as if to confirm whether that invisible gaze was still there. He even began to take note of the quiet staff members, wondering which one might be the “eyes” planted by Li Chenzhou.
Li Chenzhou himself did not appear again, but his influence was omnipresent. The production crew took care of Lin Yang with even more meticulous detail. Even Zhao Qiming did not dare to be sarcastic anymore. At most, he would let out a barely audible huff from his nose as Lin Yang walked by.
Bai Lu, meanwhile, seemed more active in trying to close the distance between them. She frequently shared fruit or small snacks with a sweet smile, but Lin Yang could always sense a faint trace of scrutiny behind that expression.
That afternoon, the task was to learn how to make a local traditional rice cake. Several guests and the village grandmother guiding them sat around a stone mill in the courtyard, and the atmosphere was relatively harmonious. Tian Rui, who could never sit still, clumsily pushed the mill while chirping away, learning to sing dialect folk songs from the grandmother. She was terribly out of tune, making Teacher Guo Huai laugh out loud. Even Zhao Qiming’s lips twitched slightly in a rare show of amusement.
Lin Yang sat quietly to the side, responsible for adding the soaked rice into the mill hole bit by bit. The sun shone warmly on him, and the rice milk emitted a faint fragrance that temporarily dispelled the gloom in his heart. He even smiled slightly, amused by Tian Rui’s exaggerated singing.
“Brother Lin Yang, you look so good when you smile!” Tian Rui was sharp-eyed and immediately caught his expression. She said loudly, “You should smile more! It is much more handsome than being stony-faced!”
Lin Yang lowered his head, feeling a bit embarrassed. Bai Lu also looked over with a smile and a gentle gaze. “It is true. Lin Yang has a very clean aura. He suits this kind of tranquil atmosphere.”
Zhao Qiming suddenly chimed in. “Young people should not always look so burdened with worries. It is unseemly.” Although his tone was still stiff, it lacked its usual piercing edge.
This ordinary, well-meaning interaction gave Lin Yang a long-awaited sense of relief. Perhaps, away from Li Chenzhou’s direct sphere of influence, he could possess a moment of normal life.
In the evening, the recording ended early. Lin Yang returned to his room in the old house, where he was alone. Moonlight spilled through the wooden lattice windows, casting mottled shadows on the floor. After showering, he leaned against the headboard, feeling somewhat bored.
To distance himself from Li Chenzhou’s control as much as possible, he rarely used the phone designated for “Mrs. Li.” Most of the time, he used his old phone to contact the outside world. Habitually, he clicked on the Weibo app on his old phone. This account was the one he had used in the past. He did not have many followers, mostly old fans and some friends within the industry. Since his rebirth, he had posted almost nothing, only logging on occasionally to check the news or, secretly, to search for news about Li Chenzhou.
This behavior carried a masochistic contradiction. He wanted to escape, yet he could not help but pay attention.
He typed the three characters for “Li Chenzhou.” Most of what popped up were financial news or business press releases. The accompanying photos were always of that cold, serious face that warned people not to approach. He scrolled aimlessly, looking at headlines like “Li Group Achieves New Success” or “Li Chenzhou Attends Economic Forum.” He could not tell if he felt disappointment or something else. The Li Chenzhou in these reports overlapped with the man he knew: cold, distant, and untouchable.
Just as he was about to log out, his eyes accidentally brushed past the “People You May Know” recommendation list under the search bar. Usually, this section recommended local accounts or people with mutual friends. An extremely inconspicuous Weibo nickname, hidden among a bunch of internet celebrities and marketing accounts, caught his attention.
The username was “Zhou-0907.”
Those numbers hit Lin Yang’s memory like a bolt of lightning. It was the date of their marriage and also the original passcode to the apartment across the hall.
His heart inexplicably skipped a beat. An absurd yet strong premonition surged in his mind, mixed with curiosity and a trace of unbelievable panic. With trembling fingers, he clicked on the account.
The profile picture was solid black with no image. There were not many posts, only a few dozen, and most were reposts. There was almost no original content. The follower count was pitifully low, consisting only of a few “zombie” accounts automatically assigned by the system.
Lin Yang held his breath and clicked on the following list. There was only one person. The profile picture of that person was a silhouette of Lin Yang’s profile from many years ago when he was still an obscure student. The username was the ID of this old account of his.
Lin Yang’s breathing stopped abruptly, and his mind went blank for a moment. This “Zhou-0907” only followed him!
The massive shock made his scalp tingle, and his blood seemed to rush to his head. Forcing down his racing heart, he opened the account’s homepage and began to read through the posts one by one, as if uncovering a shocking secret.
The latest repost was from three days ago. It was an article from a public account with the headline: “Capture Their Heart Starting from the Details: Ten Heart-Warming Small Actions to Keep a Marriage Heating Up!” There was not a single word of comment on the repost.
Lin Yang was speechless.
He slid his finger and continued reading. One week ago, the account reposted a video titled: “A Must-Watch for Men! How to Express Concern Correctly and Avoid Awkward ‘Straight-Man’ Chats?” Again, it was a silent repost.
Half a month ago: “Ten Pieces of Wisdom for Managing a Marriage: Read Between the Lines of Your Partner.” Under this one, “Zhou-0907” had actually left a comment for the first time. It was just a short question mark: “?”. It was as if he were expressing pure confusion toward the profound concept of “reading between the lines.”
Scrolling further back: “One Hundred Ways to Confess Your Love: There is Always One for You! (With Detailed Step-by-Step Illustrations)” “Recommended Dating Spots: From Michelin Stars to Roadside Stalls, Creating a Perfect Romantic Night” “Gift-Giving Guide to Avoid Pitfalls: Don’t Fall into These Traps, A Must-Save for Straight Men!” “Read Their Micro-Expressions: Teach You to Judge in One Second if They Truly Love You” “The Art of Communication for Couples: Say ‘Drink More Hot Water’ Less, and Do These Things More!”
The more Lin Yang read, the wider his eyes grew. His expression changed from initial shock to something strange. The corners of his mouth began to twitch uncontrollably, and he finally struggled not to laugh out loud. Yet, at the same time, a weird chill climbed up his spine, giving him goosebumps.
Every single one of these articles revolved around how to manage a relationship, how to express affection, and how to have romantic dates. The consistency of the themes and the sheer silliness of the content formed a devastating, almost farcical contrast with the cold, rational, ruthless business tycoon who supposedly viewed emotions as nothing!
Was this really Li Chenzhou’s alternate account?
Could the Li Chenzhou who commanded the boardroom, dictated terms at family gatherings, and could acquire companies without blinking—the man whose mere gaze could silence an entire production crew—actually be secretly following these silly “Love Guide” articles in private? Was he actually trying to learn “Ten Heart-Warming Small Actions” and “One Hundred Ways to Confess”?
Linking this to his absurdly clumsy attempts, like “knocking on the door to borrow soy sauce,” the disastrous soup-making experience, the horrifyingly blunt gift-bombing (including that horse!), and that stiff defense during the family banquet, Lin Yang suddenly felt a sense of enlightened amusement.
So, those actions that had made him angry, terrified, and confused were not deliberate insults or sophisticated manipulation tactics. It was simply this man following these extremely unreliable “tutorials,” clumsily and perhaps even desperately learning how to “manage a marriage.”
How to… be good to him?
The impact of this realization was more shocking than any business conspiracy or direct threat. It gave Lin Yang a sense of indescribable absurdity. It was like discovering that a majestic lion was secretly practicing how to use its claws to tie a cute bow in its fur.
He could not help but click on the repost history of the “Gift-Giving Guide” to see if Li Chenzhou had any “insights.” He discovered that the time this post was shared was exactly shortly before the man had sent that pony!
The guide clearly stated in bold text: “Be cautious when giving live pets as gifts unless you are certain the other party likes them and has the ability to raise them!”
So, he had read the guide and then perfectly avoided every correct option to land precisely in the minefield? This level of comprehension and execution was simply suffocating!
Lin Yang finally could not hold it in. He let out a low laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. It was too ridiculous, so ridiculous that one did not know how to react. He imagined Li Chenzhou sitting in his spacious, cold CEO office overlooking the entire city, expressionlessly scrolling through these “Love Bibles” and then seriously, meticulously, but in the completely wrong direction, putting them into practice.
The image was so vivid he hardly dared to think about it. However, as he laughed, the smile slowly froze on his face. A subtle bitterness rose in his heart.
If this account really belonged to Li Chenzhou, did it mean that he was not actually as completely cold and heartless as he appeared? Behind those stiff, clumsy, and even disastrous actions, was there a hidden desire to get closer that he simply did not know how to express correctly?
This thought made Lin Yang feel a surge of flustered confusion. It was as if the foundation of the worldview he had firmly believed in was beginning to loosen. He abruptly closed the Weibo app and tossed the phone aside as if it had burned him, his heart pounding.
He needed to calm down. He needed fresh air and a chance to reorganize all these chaotic clues. He threw on a coat, pushed open the door, and walked into the courtyard. The moonlight was like water, pouring onto the bluestone floor. The surroundings were silent, save for the occasional chirp of insects.
He looked up at the bright moon in the night sky, but his mind kept flashing back to the titles of those silly articles and the mental image of Li Chenzhou reading and reposting them with a cold face and a furrowed brow. Anger and fear seemed to be diluted in this moment by a more complex, surging emotion. Within that emotion was absurdity, amusement, a trace of pity, and even a heartbeat of excitement that he did not dare to examine closely.
Li Chenzhou. Cold as eternal ice on the outside, yet secretly searching for “how to confess” on the inside? Decisive and murderous in the business world, yet as naive as a primary school student in a relationship?
This massive contrast was like a rusted yet vital key inserted into the heavy lock of Lin Yang’s defenses.
That night, Lin Yang lay on the hard wooden bed of the old house, staring at the bright moonlight outside, completely unable to sleep. The ripples stirred by the “Zhou-0907” Weibo account were spreading through his heart, impossible to calm.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, in the lounge of the CEO’s office on the top floor of the Li Group building, Li Chenzhou had just finished a video conference. He rubbed his tired brow and habitually took out his private phone, clicking on the Weibo account that almost no one knew about.
He refreshed the homepage. The only person he followed had not posted any new content. He hesitated for a moment, then typed a new keyword into the search bar: “What is good to eat to recover quickly from a cold.”