Inside the office, Gu Yuzhou clicked on the article once again.
His cursor hovered over the paragraphs suggesting capital manipulation, but his gaze drifted to the snippet of Bai Muzhi’s forum speech from last year, which the article had cited at the end:
“True cultural heritage does not lie in the glass cases of museums, but in the daily life and value choices of every household. This is true for families, and it is true for society.”
It was a well-turned phrase.
Gu Yuzhou thought of the yellowing ancient books in the Bai family study, the focused brows of Bai Jianjia as she looked down at her manuscripts, and her clear, calm analysis over the phone earlier.
Perhaps Bai Jianjia was right.
Some things were better said by the Bai family than by the Gu family.
The sun outside the window was brilliant, streaming through the glass onto the desk, gilding his fountain pen with a rim of light.
He suddenly remembered the first time he met her at the Bai residence.
Back then, he had thought her docile and well-behaved—the perfect marriage candidate that the entire Gu family had expected.
Now it seemed that beneath that docility hid a cleverness and resolve that didn’t reveal itself easily.
This discovery didn’t make him feel offended; on the contrary… it was a pleasant surprise.
When Gu’s mother, Lin Shuying, received her daughter-in-law-to-be’s phone call, she was having afternoon tea with a few old friends. After listening to Bai Jianjia calmly explain the cause and effect, there was a moment of silence on the other end, followed by a very soft, amused sigh.
“These people…” Lin Shuying said leisurely, “they insist on viewing everything, no matter how good, through the lens of profit. Fine, Mother understands. I will let your father know as well.”
That afternoon, at a private tea gathering of several cultural luminaries in Jin Du, someone casually brought up the article that had been causing such a stir.
Lin Shuying, holding a celadon teacup, paused slightly upon hearing it, then let out a soft laugh.
“What ‘capital operation’ or ‘industrial chain integration’…” She shook her head with a smile, her tone as gentle as if she were discussing something trivial. “That child Jianjia has been chasing after Yuzhou calling him ‘brother’ since she was five. Twenty years of friendship, yet they insist on calculating it in terms of capital and industry… Young people today are certainly working too hard on their writing.”
She paused, set down her cup, and looked at her old friends:
“But that’s alright; it’s rare to have someone so concerned about them. I’ll have Jianjia send them a box of wedding candies later to thank them for worrying on our behalf.”
A few sentences, no refutation, no explanation, not even a mention of the article itself.
Yet, that light mention of “over twenty years” had effectively dismantled the “capital operation” narrative; and the proposal to “send a box of wedding candies” relegated the sensational “industrial integration hypothesis” into nothing more than a joke to be shared over tea.
That evening, when news reached the weekly magazine, the editor-in-chief was drinking with some peers. After hearing the account of what had been said, his fingers tightened around his glass, and he was speechless for a long time.
They hadn’t even engaged with the premise.
They didn’t deny it, they didn’t clarify it, and they certainly didn’t issue legal notices or attorney letters.
With just a flippant remark about “sending wedding candies”—that “in-depth report” was, in their eyes, not even worth as much as a box of candies at a wedding banquet.
They weren’t even considered “opponents.”
At most… they were just idle busybodies waiting for candy.
That night, links to the article were quietly removed from several core group chats.
The next day, Bai Muzhi was asked about his daughter’s marriage at a public cultural event. The old gentleman adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses and smiled kindly.
“That boy Yuzhou? I watched him grow up. When he brought candies to our Jianjia as a child, he already knew to instruct her that she could only eat one a day—tell me, where would you find a better boy than that?”
When asked about the recent public discourse surrounding the Gu-Bai marriage, Bai Muzhi adjusted his glasses again, smiling peacefully.
“An arranged marriage? There is no such thing.”
He paused, as if recalling some old affair, his tone conversational and casual:
“Our families have been close since the days of our ancestors. If it weren’t for the fact that the old Mr. Gu and I both had sons, we would have been the ones to marry into each other’s families back then. Later, he had a son, and I had a daughter. The two grandmothers got together for tea and laughed, saying that the families were destined to be in-laws.”
He spread his hands with a frank expression, as if speaking of the most ordinary thing in the world.
“That’s all there is to it.”
The reporter looked visibly stunned, but professional habit still pushed her to try and pull the topic back on track: “So… there is no consideration regarding industrial integration or resource complementation?”
“Industry?” Bai Muzhi rolled the word around in his mouth as if tasting an unfamiliar term. He thought about it seriously, then shook his head.
“I still don’t quite understand what kind of business Yuzhou does.”
Speaking of this, the old gentleman suddenly smiled, his eyes creasing into gentle wrinkles.
“I only know that he used to come to my house to practice calligraphy when he was a child, and he has a good foundation in regular script. I figure at least their future children will have someone to teach them how to write.”
The reporter, unwilling to give up, pressed on with a few more questions about the cooperation and resource alignment between the two families.
Bai Muzhi didn’t interrupt, listening patiently until the end. Then, he tilted his head slightly, appearing genuinely perplexed or perhaps just making small talk:
“Young comrade, are you married?”
The reporter, clearly not expecting the turn, paused: “N-not yet.”
“Then, when you talk marriage in the future, and your father invites your future in-laws to the house for a meal—” he paused, his tone remaining gentle, even smiling, “—is that also called ‘capital operation’?”
The reporter opened her mouth but couldn’t find a response.
The scene cut to the next segment.
Bai Jianjia was practicing her calligraphy in the study when Lin Shuying set her phone on the edge of the table without a word, simply saying:
“Your father has never been more eloquent than when he’s putting someone in their place.”
Bai Jianjia put down her brush and dragged the progress bar back a bit.
Then a bit more.
The video froze at the second where her father said, “At least their future children will have someone to teach them.” He was smiling faintly, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were full of sincerity.
She pursed her lips, lowered her head, and her shoulders shook slightly for a long while.
She knew her father hadn’t said those things to help her, nor to help the Gu family.
He simply couldn’t stand seeing someone putting the decades-long friendship of the two families onto a scale to be weighed and measured.
She imagined the writer who had meticulously prepared the agenda, determined to label the Gu-Bai union as a “capital marriage,” watching this video.
It must have felt like punching a ball of cotton.
Or like taking a full-force kick, only to land on empty air.
Gu Yuzhou’s call came through.
“I saw the video.” He paused, as if weighing his words. “That part about Father Bai teaching the children how to write—”
“That was him ad-libbing,” Bai Jianjia cut him off quickly, blocking his question before he could finish. “It wasn’t my idea, and I didn’t know about it beforehand.”
There was a two-second silence on the other end.
“I didn’t ask if it was your idea.”
Gu Yuzhou’s voice was very low, carrying a hint of imperceptible laughter.
“I just wanted to say—he put it very well.”
Bai Jianjia gripped her phone and fell silent.
Outside the window was the deep night, and the ship lights on the distant Jin River flickered on and off. She suddenly felt that some people, even over a telephone line, could make her ears flush for no apparent reason, even when she hadn’t done anything wrong.
Yet, there was no denying it—she had watched that segment quite a few times herself…