"Sorry, did I startle you?"
The sky was clear, and the air conditioning in the classroom spread a chill through the room.
He Cheng lay limp on her desk, listening to the professor teach calculus in an American accent. She shivered, regretting not having brought an extra jacket.
This was MATH1851.
There were many technical terms. Normally, she had to pay full attention during the professor's all-English lectures, previewing before class and reviewing afterward to consolidate what she'd learned. But now that she was sick, her mind was foggy, and her strength felt completely drained.
She didn't dare slack off—she needed to secure the scholarship in her sophomore year.
When she was feeling absolutely miserable, she saw Zong Xubai's text message.
Recommended cafeteria? That was a bit difficult for her. She'd only been at the school for a little over a month and always cooked her own noodles and meals in the communal kitchen.
Why would her sponsor come to HKU? Could it really be just for lunch?
Too bad she wasn't feeling well—otherwise, she could have treated him to a meal.
She deliberated for a moment but didn't reply immediately. After class, she asked a nearby classmate for recommendations.
Then, based on her classmate's suggestions, she sent Zong Xubai a message.
【I'm not too sure either. I just asked a classmate for you—there are several good options…】
After replying, He Cheng's already muddled brain completely shut down, and she simply closed her eyes to rest.
It wasn't until Reporter He from the TV station arrived at the school at 11 a.m. sharp with two cameramen shouldering their equipment that Zong Xubai still hadn't replied.
Seeing He Cheng's haggard face, Reporter He asked if she'd been too nervous to sleep well the night before and handed her a cup of coffee.
Even after resting for over an hour, He Cheng still had no energy. Her abdomen continued to cramp painfully, but she didn't want to break her promise, so she forced herself to push through.
She managed a weak smile and truthfully said she'd eaten something bad last night. She took a sip of the coffee, her face cycling through an array of expressions. Not wanting to waste it, she forced herself to swallow.
She glanced at the coffee cup. What awful stuff.
Looking up, Reporter He beside her had one hand on his chest, slowly sipping his coffee, looking completely refreshed.
She couldn't help but compliment him: "Reporter He, you seem pretty good at enduring hardship too."
Reporter He took it as a comment about his work and sighed. "What can I do? I've got to make money to support the family. Just call me Kevin."
The interview was filmed at the Main Building on campus. The interior was a ceremonial space not open to the public, unless there was a special event or a booked tour.
They could only walk along the ground-floor corridor, with its granite columns and red brick walls, while tourists around them took photos.
The interview questions weren't difficult—He Cheng just had to answer truthfully.
She did well on everything up front, but toward the end, Reporter He asked her to add a line: "Over the years, my sponsor Mr. Zong has occasionally sent letters to check on my studies and daily life…"
He even handed her five fabricated letters.
He Cheng frowned as she looked at the contents. "Mr. Zong never sent me letters, nor has he regularly checked on my studies or daily life."
Reporter He clicked his tongue. "The ending needs sublimation. Saying it like that is too flat—it makes it seem like Zong Sheng just threw money at you and washed his hands of everything."
That was exactly what happened.
Wasn't giving money enough?
He Cheng clutched the letters without responding. The sun blazed overhead, the walls radiating scorching heat. Cold sweat trickled into her temples and soaked the collar of her T-shirt. She bit her pale lips and said quietly, "News should be based on facts."
"By the way, why does everyone call him Zong Sheng?"
Reporter He said she was stubborn. "Just add one sentence—it benefits Zong Sheng too. It's just a matter of moving your lips. Zong Sheng is just an abbreviation for Mr. Zong. We all call him that."
He Cheng froze. Then the person who had offered her a drink at the banquet two nights ago—was that actually Mr. Zong?
If so, she had been terribly ungrateful.
Just as the two were at odds, a clear, hearty laugh rang out.
It rippled through the sultry afternoon air, like a bowl of iced plum soup in the height of summer—the white porcelain bowl clinking against crushed ice, splashing cool droplets all around.
She turned her head. Four or five people were approaching from not far away, all impeccably dressed in suits with an air of distinction. The sun baked the ground until it shimmered with heat.
The group walked under umbrellas, all uniformly black, glinting faintly in the refracted sunlight.
The rim of the umbrella at the front lifted.
The man beneath it wore a white silk shirt, the smooth fabric draping loosely along the lines of his shoulders and back, lending his entire frame an air of languid refinement—like a piece of ancient jade, carefully tended and untouched by dust.
It was Zong Xubai.
The man beside him held the black umbrella for him, steadily casting a patch of shade over his head.
The sunlight was kept at bay, leaving only a perfectly defined circle of ink-dark shadow at his feet.
He didn't even need to hold his own umbrella.
Other men might look awkward or strange holding an umbrella in the sun.
Not him.
His innate elegance and aristocratic reserve made him seem as though he were born to exist in shade and comfort—like a snow-capped mountain revealed after the mist clears: cold, distant, so delicate that even the occasional ray of sunlight feared to disturb it.
Reporter He was the first to greet them, calling out, "Zong Sheng."
Among this group, He Cheng recognized several people. One was the associate dean of the business school who had spoken on stage at the High Table Dinner a few days prior. He had been seated beside Mr. Zong, and when Mr. Zong applauded, he had followed suit.
He Cheng bowed her head politely, then caught Zong Xubai's gaze. She wasn't sure whether she should greet him—no one else had addressed him by name, so singling him out would seem odd.
Better to treat everyone the same.
Zong Xubai stood tall before her, his eyes soft and lingering on her face. "Don't you remember me?" he teased. "Yesterday we went through life-and-death at full speed together."
He Cheng hadn't expected him to initiate a greeting. Her voice came out thin and weak: "Mr. Zong."
It was only when Lin Zhongxi drew closer that he recognized her as the female student who had gone on stage at the High Table Dinner two days ago.
Back then, the students in the audience had been heckling and putting her on the spot. Zong Xubai had been the first to applaud and break the tension, and Lin Zhongxi had followed suit. That was when he noticed the incongruous cashmere blanket draped over her lower half.
Unlike the cheap, plain white dress she wore on top, the blanket was exquisitely textured—from a distance, it looked like a fine piece of obsidian. The butterfly embroidery cinched at the waist was strikingly conspicuous.
Those in the know were aware that the second young master of the Zong family had a fondness for butterflies; almost all of his personal belongings bore butterfly embroidery.
Lin Zhongxi swept his eyes over it repeatedly, confirming from the refined craftsmanship and the unique stitching technique that this was pure handcrafted custom work from an exclusive atelier abroad. In all of Hong Kong, only Zong Xubai could commission the atelier to embroider such a trivial pattern for him.
And yet, a woolen blanket with butterfly embroidery had appeared on a female student.
Giving her the blanket, rescuing her from an awkward situation, and now teasing her for not remembering him.
Lin Zhongxi raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile curling at his lips. In Mandarin, he said, "Classmate Lu Qi, long time no see."
He Cheng's mind went blank. She hadn't expected him to remember her.
Damn it. She'd been found out.
Both she and Lu Qi were mainland students admitted to HKU.
He Cheng was a freshman; Lu Qi was a sophomore. Though they were in different years, they had become roommates a month ago due to HKU's notoriously peculiar dormitory allocation system.
Every year, HKU held High Table Dinners, organized by faculty, dormitory, or society, and the atmosphere varied from one dinner to another.
Lu Qi had always wanted to attend the business school's High Table Dinner, but the requirements were ranking in the top 3% of one's major and paying a fee.
She had excellent grades but came from a modest family background, supporting herself through work-study programs and scholarships. Last year, she'd decided the few hundred dollars was too expensive and skipped it.
This summer, she'd spent two months shaking milk tea at a bubble tea shop, and with great generosity, paid six hundred and eighty dollars to receive an invitation.
But then she came down with acute gastroenteritis from eating food that had sat in the fridge for two days, and had no choice but to ask He Cheng to attend in her place.
He Cheng agreed to attend under Lu Qi's name. On the way there, an accident had delayed her, making her the last to arrive.
Unfortunately, this year's dinner had a ridiculous rule: the last to arrive had to go on stage and perform a talent.
So He Cheng, under Lu Qi's name, went up and improvised an English poem.
Today, everyone around her knew her as He Cheng—where was there a Lu Qi? Now that she'd been caught impersonating Lu Qi, who knew what punishment might follow.
The fabric at her side was crumpled from her twisting fingers. Before anyone could expose her, He Cheng took the initiative to explain: "I'm not Lu Qi. My name is He Cheng. I'm her roommate. On the day of the High Table Dinner, she wasn't feeling well. We were afraid that if we didn't attend, we wouldn't be able to apply for dormitory housing next year, so I went in her place."
The consequences of missing the dinner were severe.
The fee couldn't be refunded. At best, she'd be blacklisted; at worst, it would affect her dormitory application for the next semester.
HKU didn't guarantee housing for every student, and undergraduates had to compete for it anew each year across all four years.
Lin Zhongxi let out a knowing "Oh." "Seems like some of the school's policies could use a change. Any policy that keeps students on edge can't be a good one."
He Cheng picked up the thread: "Policies are rigid, but people are flexible. So, can Lu Qi still apply for housing next year?"
Lin Zhongxi smiled. "Of course. This is hardly a big deal—look how nervous you are." He paused. "Though whether she gets it or not isn't something I can decide."
For a student, not being able to apply for housing was a big deal. With that resolved, He Cheng breathed a sigh of relief.
"Were you sick? Or was it the speeding yesterday that scared you?"
As his low voice landed, a cool sensation spread across He Cheng's forehead. A shadow fell from above, cutting across her eyelids.
An unfamiliar foreign touch suddenly climbed onto her skin. He Cheng instinctively stepped back twice and looked up, her eyes—still hot with unshed tears—now carrying a hint of wariness. Zong Xubai's right hand remained suspended in midair, the back of his hand facing her, as if frozen in place.
So that was it—Mr. Zong had been checking her temperature with the back of his hand.
The warmth in Zong Xubai's eyes faded slightly, and the aloof detachment behind his gold-rimmed glasses surfaced.
The corner of his lips curved up, but the arc was so faint that the rest of his face remained unmoved.
His extended hand slowly, imperceptibly, withdrew, then rose to adjust the edges of his glasses.
"My apologies—did I startle you?"
An utterly gentlemanly tone.
She had been a little startled, yes.
He Cheng didn't think stepping back was wrong. In public, a man touching her forehead without consent was inappropriate, even if the sponsor was doing it out of concern.
Yesterday's physical contact between them was fine because a handshake was simply a matter of etiquette.
But since he apologized, she wouldn't hold it against him.
"It's just a stomachache, nothing serious. I'm feeling much better now. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Zong."
Zong Xubai gave a slight nod.
He Cheng's retreat had been seen by everyone, and the surrounding area had already fallen into silence like an isolated island. When they heard that the lofty Zong Xubai had actually apologized—smoothly and with full sincerity—they all thought they'd misheard. Even more incredulous, they exchanged glances before pretending to look elsewhere.
Only Lin Zhongxi wore a look of schadenfreude, clearly enjoying the show.
He couldn't hold it in, the smile at the corners of his lips growing more and more obvious.
He'd already noticed at the high table dinner that Zong Xubai treated this young lady differently. He never expected that today he'd witness Zong trying to show concern, failing, and then apologizing.
Lin Zhongxi cleared his throat twice and said meaningfully, "Indeed, Zong Sheng rarely shows concern for others like this."
He Cheng quickly explained, "That's because I'm a financially disadvantaged student sponsored by Mr. Zong. Mr. Zong is kind-hearted."
Kind-hearted? Lin Zhongxi heard such a fresh term used to describe Zong Xubai for the first time. He glanced at the man in question teasingly, his eyes seemingly saying: You're putting on a good act.
Anyone who'd ever dealt with Zong Xubai knew he wore a kind face over a ruthless heart. Outsiders were always easily fooled by that layer of refined veneer. No wonder this inexperienced young girl mistook an abyss for a warm river.
After being glanced at sideways, Lin Zhongxi suddenly seemed to realize something. "So you're the financially disadvantaged student Zong Sheng sponsors? No wonder, no wonder. The sun is strong today—don't get heatstroke. Did you bring an umbrella when you went out?"
He Cheng shook her head.
"Jason Zhou." Lin Zhongxi called out behind him.
Zhou Qiyun received the message and stepped forward, extending the long-handled umbrella in his hand toward He Cheng.
His gaze lingered on her face for a few extra seconds.
So this was the face that the monthly transfers from the account reached.
Vivid, beautiful, with an untouched sparkle of innocence in her eyes.
In that instant, all those formatted greeting emails and stiff thank-you messages suddenly gained concrete warmth and imagery, coming alive in his mind.
He Cheng's eyes widened.
This was the man who had been holding the umbrella for Zong Xubai just now. How dare the vice dean order around someone from Mr. Zong's side?
"No need, I don't need it."
"Take it."
Zong Xubai's words were brief.
Quiet but not up for debate. He Cheng couldn't very well refuse Mr. Zong's goodwill in public again, so she took the umbrella and thanked him.
The group passed by them and walked ahead.
The tightly shut doors of the auditorium were pushed open. After they went inside, two people remained at the entrance, standing on either side, as straight as pine trees.
"I heard earlier that Kai Zong Group donated 10 Million to HKU, and this auditorium was supposed to be renovated too, but there's been no movement. It's got a hundred years of history, so they were worried that renovation techniques might Damage the building. Apparently they spent a long time looking for building Repairers on the mainland." Reporter He rubbed his chin. "Zong Sheng must be here today for a site inspection. In this heat, really, what a hardship."
Ten million.
How many zeros was that?
He Cheng suddenly understood what Mr. Zong meant yesterday when he said: a hundred thousand yuan couldn't do anything for him.
Having spent time with Reporter He, He Cheng noticed he always mixed Cantonese with English, Chinese with English. It was a bit amusing.
Reporter He caught the smile at the corner of her lips. "Ivy, thinking about something so Happy?"
He Cheng decided to adapt to the person and mimic his way of speaking: "I still don't want to Deception others. I'm not going to say those lines."
Reporter He looked utterly disappointed and accused her with some anguish: "Zong Sheng just gave you an umbrella, you know."
"One thing is one thing. What doesn't exist doesn't exist. I'm also being responsible for Mr. Zong."
Going back and forth like this, He Cheng grew increasingly drained, her legs barely supporting her. Just as she felt she might collapse at any moment, Reporter He received a text message.
【It's hot. Wrap up the shoot according to He Cheng's wishes.】
Sent by Zhou Qiyun.
Reporter He glanced back at the auditorium. Only two bodyguard-like figures stood at the entrance.
He scratched his head and didn't insist further.
The interview and filming ended at high noon when the sun was at its fiercest. Walking two steps under the sun, her skin felt like it was being seared at high temperatures. He Cheng belatedly realized she had an umbrella in her hand. The cylindrical handle was carved with a butterfly pattern, exactly the same as the embroidered butterfly on the blanket.
It seemed Mr. Zong liked butterflies.
She opened the umbrella, and it was instantly much cooler in the shade.
He Cheng had classes in the afternoon and spent almost all of them with her head on the desk, ears perked up to listen.
She realized her gastroenteritis seemed more severe than Lu Qi's.
Lu Qi texted asking how she was feeling.
She replied honestly that she still felt unwell.
Lu Qi told her to drink more hot water and increase her dosage. She had club activities that evening and would be back late.
He Cheng replied with an "okay."
The morning interview with Reporter He had been a struggle. Following him around, going back and forth for the shoot, had drained whatever little energy she had left. Now she was thinking of ditching the afternoon interview with Reporter Lin.
Just as she was mulling over how to bring it up, Reporter Lin happened to call, saying he had been sent out on a last-minute assignment and couldn't make it over that afternoon—they would reschedule another day.
No interview, but she couldn't muster any joy, because her abdomen was starting to cramp again. She wondered if it had anything to do with not having eaten all day.
After class, she dragged her weary feet back to the dormitory building.
From a distance, she spotted a familiar figure standing beside a black sedan, as if waiting for someone.
She paused mid-step and peered into the car, but the windows were tinted—she couldn't see inside at all.
Uncle Bing saw her and walked over, noticing He Cheng's confusion: "Mr. Zong isn't here."
Good. Not here.
He Cheng breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
It wasn't that she didn't want to see Mr. Zong—it was just that being around him somehow put her on edge, and she couldn't figure out where that pressure came from.
Maybe it was the natural wariness and deference humans feel toward those in power.
The girl's thoughts were written all over her face. Uncle Bing smiled, holding out a wooden lunch box to her: "When you're not feeling well, you should eat something light."
"Mr. Zong didn't know what you can't eat, so he had them make several dishes—pick whichever you like."
He Cheng was baffled: "For me? Why would he suddenly send me food?"
And it was Mr. Zong of all people sending her a meal. It felt so strange.
"That I wouldn't know—you'd have to ask Mr. Zong yourself." Uncle Bing gestured for her to take the box: "There's soup inside, so hold it steady."
The last person who had brought her food was Ye Yanzhi.
She was a boarding student; he was a relative of a school teacher, living in the faculty building. The teacher had been very kind to her—seeing that she didn't go home on weekends and that the school cafeteria was closed, she would always invite He Cheng to the faculty building for a proper meal. He Cheng had a thin skin, so she would only go if other classmates came along.
Eventually, Ye Yanzhi took it upon himself to pack a lunch box full of food and shove it into He Cheng's hands. If she refused, he would threaten to throw it in the trash, so she had no choice but to accept.
Later on, Ye Yanzhi would pack two lunch boxes and sit side by side with He Cheng on a bench at school. There was a wide gap between them, and not far away was the basketball court. A guy walked up after a game, thinking they didn't know each other, and plopped down between them, drinking water coolly.
Ye Yanzhi shot him a look, clearly annoyed: "Dude, you're dripping with sweat—trying to season our food for us?"
The guy muttered an apology, glanced at He Cheng's flushed face, realized something, and got up to leave.
Around this time, people were trickling in and out of Taigu Hall—some heading back to their dorms, others going for dinner.
He Cheng still didn't want to take the lunch box. Mr. Zong sending her food was truly inexplicable.
She knew well that taking things made you beholden, and eating made you soft. She knew she shouldn't think of Mr. Zong that way, but she couldn't help wondering—was Mr. Zong being too good to her?
This kindness, she couldn't afford to accept.
She had nothing to give in return.
"Miss He Cheng." Uncle Bing called out to her: "If you don't take it, I won't be able to report back."
Uncle Bing was just following Mr. Zong's orders—if she refused, she'd only be making things hard for him. She bit her pale lips until they turned red, worrying them between her teeth, then took the heavy lunch box and said thank you.
"This umbrella—it's also Mr. Zong's. Please take it."
Uncle Bing didn't take it; he raised a hand to decline, offering a polite smile: "Mr. Zong didn't instruct me on that. I'm only responsible for delivering the meal."
Having been by Zong Xubai's side for so many years, he was more than just a driver. He understood every word and gesture of Zong Xubai's—sometimes a single look was enough to know what Zong Xubai wanted.
Being a driver wasn't a job just anyone could do well. And when had Mr. Zong ever given his personal belongings to anyone else? From the blanket to the umbrella to the meal delivery—he had made exception after exception for He Cheng.
He was a man of experience; he understood all too well.
He Cheng's heart sank. She carried the meal back to her dorm.
In the dormitory hallway, she ran into He Shuxia, who raised an eyebrow at her with a fawning smile: "He Cheng, do you know the owner of that Cullinan downstairs?"
He Shuxia was a mainland student, but she knew the gossip about Hong Kong's wealthy circles like the back of her hand.
Everyone knew that [HK·ZHB6] was the license plate of Zong Xubai, the second young master of the Zong Group—a gift from his grandfather for his 18th birthday, which had fetched a six-figure sum at auction that year.
What was even more jaw-dropping was that Zong Xubai owned six such six-figure license plates.
On their own, they looked low-key and unremarkable. But if you were lucky enough to see his family's underground garage, you'd find they were all sequential: [HK·ZHB5] [HK·ZHB6] [HK·ZHB7] [HK·ZHB8] [HK·ZHB9] [HK·ZHB10]
Quite a sight to behold.
In Hong Kong, the Cantonese romanization of Zong is Zung, Xun is Huk, and Bai is Baak—ZHB being the initials of Zong Xubai's name in Cantonese.
The reason his grandfather gave him sequential plates was also straightforward: a blessing for smooth sailing ahead in his future.
The several young masters and misses of the Zong family—the eldest, Zong Boyan, had been in the public eye since childhood, following his mother around in the entertainment industry. After his mother retired from the industry, the two children she bore afterward were kept well-protected, barely exposed to the media or the public.
Influenced by his mother, Zong Boyan became a director in the entertainment industry. Last year, one of his art-house films won an Academy Award, causing quite a stir at the time.
Reports about Zong Xubai were pitifully scarce.
Now, to think his license plate was somehow connected to He Cheng.
He Cheng didn't know much about cars—there had been several vehicles downstairs just now, so how could she possibly know which one He Shuxia was referring to?
Too exhausted to say much, she replied, "I don't know which one is the Cullinan. I'm not feeling well, so I'm heading back first."
It was an answer that wasn't really an answer.
With that, she entered the dormitory and closed the door behind her.
The firmly shut door left He Shuxia frozen in place, words caught in her throat. She let out a cold laugh and went into her own room.
Sitting in her chair, fuming, she pulled out her phone and sent a voice message to her friends to vent: "I'm telling you, I've never seen anyone this pretentious. What's she putting on airs for…"
"And she says she doesn't know which one is the Cullinan… wasn't she chatting just fine with the driver?"
"Could it be she's afraid I'll find out she's hooking up with the driver?"
"She's definitely messing around with that driver in his forties or fifties! She probably thinks that driver is the owner of the car! It's terrifying how clueless she is—I can't even be bothered to warn her she's being scammed."
"Turning down a proper rich young master for some old geezer…"
Whatever had caught Zong Xubai's eye must have been excellent in both presentation and taste, but unfortunately, He Cheng wasn't feeling well and had little appetite. She drank half a bowl of the savory soup, sampled a few fresh and delicate dishes, then set down her chopsticks.
She replaced the lid on the carved wooden box.
Climbed into bed to catch up on sleep.
As the sun sank westward, pink and golden light filtered through the glass as day gave way to night. Shifting, dreamlike colors refracted across the white walls of the room, until finally the cramped space fell into complete darkness.
He Cheng's sleep was restless. In her dreams, she kept cradling her abdomen, which ached in intermittent waves. Her throat was parched, and she wanted hot water, but the thought of getting up and going to the communal kitchen to boil some was too much effort, so she kept her eyes closed.
The silent space was broken by the creak of the mattress as she turned over, followed by the ring of a phone.
"It's me."
The voice on the other end was low and gentle.