Yin Lan placed her hand into the man’s palm. The moment he held it, she felt the temperature of his fingertips—slightly warmer than her own, dry and steady.
The butler stood by the door, silently watching the scene.
Having served the Yin family for thirty years, this was the first time he couldn’t understand the young mistress’s decision.
But when he saw Yin Lan place her hand in Zhou Guchuan’s palm, the butler noticed one detail.
Zhou Guchuan didn’t rush to close his grip. Instead, he waited until Yin Lan’s fingers settled firmly in his palm before slowly closing his hand.
It was as if he were holding something precious—afraid that gripping too hard would shatter it, yet fearing that not holding firmly enough would let it slip away.
The butler averted his gaze and quietly withdrew from the side hall.
He had to report this news, which was enough to shake the entire business world of Jiangcheng, to the master: the Yin family’s young mistress had chosen the son of a nouveau riche.
This was simply unbelievable!
Jiangcheng was about to see another upheaval.
Xie Zhiqiu remained standing where he was, the red tea in his hand now completely cold.
Watching the retreating figures of Yin Lan and Zhou Guchuan walking side by side out of the side hall, his fingers tightened forcefully, and the bone china teacup emitted a faint cracking sound.
Was Yin Lan blind? How could that upstart surpass him?
No one noticed Xie Zhiqiu’s reaction.
Only Zhou Guchuan, who had already reached the garden, paused for a moment and glanced back toward the side hall.
The glance was brief, so brief that even Yin Lan didn’t notice it.
But if anyone had caught Zhou Guchuan’s expression in that instant, they would have understood that the son of a nouveau riche was definitely not someone to be trifled with.
Zhou Guchuan withdrew his gaze and turned to look at Yin Lan beside him.
She was looking up at the jacaranda blossoms overhead, petals drifting down with the wind and landing in her hair.
“This year’s jacaranda is more beautiful than it was five years ago.”
Hearing this, Yin Lan turned to look at him, her eyes reflecting the garden’s purple floral shadows.
“Why do you say that?”
Zhou Guchuan gently removed a petal that had fallen onto her hair, his movements perfectly gentlemanly.
“Because this time, it’s not just ten minutes.”
“?”
The wind blew over, filling the entire garden with the fragrance of jacaranda.
Standing in the shower of petals, Yin Lan looked at the man before her and suddenly felt that in her past life, she had missed far more than she had ever realized.
By the time Zhou Guchuan left the Yin residence, it was almost dark.
The driver parked the car at the entrance of the Zhou residence. As he got out, Zhou Guchuan looked up at the so-called Zhou mansion.
A three-story Western-style villa, its exterior walls had been renovated just two years ago. The beige paint glowed with an artificially crafted warmth under the streetlights.
Zhou Desheng loved this kind of style, eager to display every element that could scream “our family is wealthy” right on the surface.
Zhou Guchuan didn’t rush inside. Instead, he stood at the entrance and smoked half a cigarette.
The cigarette was from the Yin family’s side hall. When he left, the butler had slipped a pack into his pocket, saying it was on the young mistress’s orders.
It wasn’t a luxury brand, just a common, old-fashioned brand available on the market, but it was strong—one puff burned from the throat all the way to the lungs.
Zhou Guchuan didn’t usually smoke much, but today he felt like lighting one.
After finishing half the cigarette, Zhou Guchuan stubbed it out, pushed open the iron gate, and walked inside.
The living room was brightly lit. Zhou Desheng sat on the central sofa, with a few fruits and a cup of over-steeped, yellowish Longjing tea on the coffee table before him. His face was flushed, as if he had just finished a round of drinks.
His stepmother Qin Wan sat beside him, wearing a rose-red silk loungewear. Under the light, the foundation on her face showed an unnatural shade of white.
His younger brother Zhou Yaozu was slumped in the single sofa to the side, scrolling through his phone without even lifting his eyelids.
Zhou Guchuan had been seeing this scene for five years and had long grown accustomed to it.
Ever since he was brought to this house at sixteen, he had been the most superfluous chair in the living room.
No, even worse than a chair—at least chairs still got sat on.
“You’re back?”
Zhou Desheng stood up as soon as he saw him, a smile plastered on his face—the kind of smile Zhou Guchuan had never seen on him before.
“How did it go? What did Miss Yin say?”
Zhou Guchuan changed his shoes at the entrance and sat down on the chair farthest from the coffee table.
“She chose me.”
The three words hung in the air, and the living room fell silent for a full five seconds.
Zhou Yaozu stopped scrolling, finally lifting his head from behind the screen, his eyes carrying something indescribable.
There was surprise, mixed with a faint trace of annoyance.
Qin Wan’s smile froze on her face, the corners of her mouth still upturned, but her eyes had already turned cold.
Only Zhou Desheng’s reaction was the most direct. He slapped his thigh, laughing so hard the flesh on his face trembled:
“Good! Good! I told you, a tiger father doesn’t have a dog son! What kind of family is the Yin family? The top family in Jiangcheng! For Yin Lan to take a liking to you, that’s our Zhou family’s ancestors’ graves smoking with good fortune!”
Zhou Guchuan listened to these words, his expression unchanged.
The man leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers lightly on his knees twice, as if keeping time to Zhou Desheng’s impassioned speech.
A tiger father doesn’t have a dog son.
He turned these five words over and over in his mind, chewing on them until they tasted of irony.
Zhou Desheng was indeed no “dog son”—he was an old fox.
Over twenty years ago, he married Wen Wen in a rural village in Qu City. The wedding had three tables, and the betrothal gift was a second-hand Jialing motorcycle.
Three months into the marriage, Wen Wen became pregnant. Zhou Desheng said he wanted to go out and make a living, and left with a woven plastic bag on his back.
For the first two years, he still sent money home and returned for holidays. Later, the money became less and less, and he appeared less and less frequently.
Wen Wen raised Zhou Guchuan alone, working as a salesclerk at the town’s supply and marketing cooperative, earning three hundred and twenty yuan a month, raising him from infancy until he could run and jump.
Wen Wen always said, “Your father is working hard outside. He’ll come back once he’s earned enough.”
Later, Wen Wen was diagnosed with advanced-stage stomach cancer. Zhou Guchuan called Zhou Desheng, trying several times before finally getting through.
It was noisy on the other end of the line, as if he was at some dinner party, the clinking of glasses and chatter drowning out Zhou Desheng’s voice.
Zhou Guchuan said his mother was sick, that she needed money for stomach cancer surgery.
Zhou Desheng did send the money—two hundred thousand yuan, not a cent less.
The surgery was performed, but the cancer cells had already spread to the lymph nodes. Six months after the operation, Zhou Guchuan’s mother still passed away.
The day she died was the twenty-third day of the twelfth lunar month, Minor New Year.
Firecrackers were being set off in the town. Wen Wen lay on the old-fashioned hospital bed in the health center, holding Zhou Guchuan’s hand, her hand as thin as a withered branch.
Her last words were: “Your father has it hard outside. Don’t blame him.”
Zhou Guchuan didn’t cry.
After handling the funeral, he locked up the old house, put the key in his pocket, and got into the car Zhou Desheng had sent to pick him up.
He thought he would see a remorseful father, a man who had neglected his family due to years of struggling outside, finally wanting to make amends to his son.
When the car stopped in front of the Zhou family’s gate, he saw Qin Wan, and he also saw Zhou Yaozu.
Zhou Yaozu was only four months younger than him.
Four months—meaning that Wen Wen had just become pregnant with him, her belly barely showing, when Zhou Desheng was already in another woman’s bed.
At that moment, Zhou Guchuan stood before the iron gate of the Zhou family’s house, clutching the key to the old house in his hand. The teeth of the key dug into his palm, leaving deep red marks.
Suddenly, he understood why his mother had said those words on her deathbed—it wasn’t forgiveness, it was letting go.
Wen Wen had no strength left in her life for hatred.
At sixteen, Zhou Guchuan had no mother and no home.
He only had a stepmother who treated him like air, a younger brother who never looked him in the eye, and a father who had betrayed them.