Chapter Four: He Zheyu’s Restlessness

Mo Qinghan understood what He Zheyu meant. Her time was divided between school and the hospital, where Mo Qingyu lay. Whatever remained belonged exclusively to He Zheyu; no one else was permitted to touch it, not even passing strangers like Zhao Qingwu.

Mo Qinghan followed He Zheyu’s instructions: unless she had an early class, she always returned to that apartment. He Yurou often asked where she spent her evenings, and Mo Qinghan would reply that she was accompanying Mo Qingyu at the hospital. Thus, everyone in the dorm believed that whenever Mo Qinghan didn’t return, she was at the hospital.

Yet He Zheyu never once returned to that apartment—not while Mo Qinghan was living there.

He Zheyu was busy handling documents in his office when a sudden knock interrupted him. Han Mo entered, saying, "Boss, Miss Mo has been returning to the apartment you arranged. Besides school, she’s at the hospital."

"I see," He Zheyu replied, noticing Han Mo lingering, hesitant to speak.

"What is it?" he prompted.

Han Mo quickly said, "Miss Zhao Yiya is here."

He Zheyu paused his signing, his voice cold: "Handle it as before."

Han Mo stammered, "I’m afraid that won’t work today."

He Zheyu shot him a frosty glance.

"She’s right outside. Miss Zhao is your fiancée, so I…"

"Let her in," He Zheyu said.

Han Mo doubted his ears, so he confirmed, "Boss, did you mean—?"

Before he could finish, He Zheyu cut him off. "Or do you want to handle it yourself?"

"Understood, understood," Han Mo replied, hastily turning to invite Zhao Yiya inside.

Zhao Yiya wore light makeup, her waist-length hair styled in soft Korean waves and dyed ash brown. Designer clothes accentuated her figure and bearing. Among socialites, she was certainly outstanding.

Seeing He Zheyu engrossed in work, Zhao Yiya felt invisible, a little displeased but unable to vent. With the grace of a lady, she said softly, "Zheyu, no matter how busy you are, you must take care of yourself."

He Zheyu put down his pen and looked at her. "Is that why you came to see me?"

"My father wants you to come to our house for dinner tonight. I know work keeps you busy, but we’re engaged now. Could you consider my situation and spend an evening with me and my family?"

He Zheyu pondered her words for a moment before saying, "Very well. I’ll come once I finish my work."

Upon hearing his reply, Zhao Yiya’s worried expression transformed into delight. She smiled, saying, "Then I’ll go home and prepare." She kissed He Zheyu on the lips before leaving.

The kiss reminded He Zheyu of that night with Mo Qinghan—their kiss. A strange heat stirred within him. He set aside his work, took a cigar from the drawer, and lit it.

The Zhao family prepared a lavish meal for He Zheyu’s arrival, with ingredients flown in from Europe and Japan, showing just how highly they valued their future son-in-law.

During dinner, Father Zhao spoke first: "Zheyu, do the dishes suit your taste?"

"Uncle Zhao, your hospitality is an honor," He Zheyu replied.

Mother Zhao continued, "Zheyu, what are you saying! The Zhao and He families have been close for generations, and now that you and Yiya are engaged, we’re all family. You must visit more often."

"You’re right, Aunt, but the He company keeps me busy. I rarely have time to spare," He Zheyu answered.

Zhao Guangxiong, perceptive as ever, interjected, "Young men should focus on their careers. Women are a bit short-sighted, Zheyu, don’t mind."

"You flatter me, Uncle Zhao," He Zheyu said.

Throughout dinner, Zhao Yiya kept offering food to He Zheyu, but he politely declined every time. The Zhao family noticed, but said nothing.

After the meal, Zhao Guangxiong invited He Zheyu to the study, speaking earnestly: "Zheyu, you and Yiya have been engaged for years. When do you plan to hold the wedding?"

"You know better than I why Yiya and I were engaged," He Zheyu replied.

Zhao Guangxiong’s face grew somber. "Yes, I used some means to persuade your father into this marriage, but my intentions were good! Yiya truly loves you."

"I fear I will let down your kindness, Uncle Zhao."

Just as Zhao Guangxiong was about to lose his temper, Zhao Qingwu burst in, grinning. "My brother-in-law, since you’re here, I have lots to ask you! Let me borrow him for a bit."

And just like that, Zhao Qingwu whisked He Zheyu away. She knew how much this would hurt her sister, so she couldn’t let her know.

He Zheyu brought Zhao Qingwu to his private club. When men talk, drink is indispensable.

After several glasses of wine, Zhao Qingwu grew agitated. "He Zheyu, are you planning to break off the engagement with my sister?"

He Zheyu didn’t answer. He simply drained his glass.

Zhao Qingwu understood. Silence can be an answer as much as words.

Perhaps the alcohol clouded his judgment. Zhao Qingwu stood and punched He Zheyu hard. "You bastard! What’s wrong with my sister? Is it that she doesn’t love you enough—or that you never loved her?"

He Zheyu wiped the blood from his lip with his thumb. "Consider that punch on your sister’s behalf. I owe her nothing now. Tell her: if she wants to break the engagement, I’ll agree to any terms—except marrying her. That’s impossible."

Zhao Qingwu knew the kind of man He Zheyu was. No amount of words would change anything. If anyone was to blame, it was her sister for loving someone who did not love her. In anger, she slammed the door and left.

Mo Qinghan, as usual, settled all her affairs and curled up in the hanging chair on the balcony with a book, imitating He Zheyu by brewing a cup of tea and placing it on a small table nearby. Her days were tranquil and pleasant. But her leisure was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

Mo Qinghan scrambled out of the chair in a panic, dropping her book to the floor.

Seeing He Zheyu with a bruised lip, she blurted out, "You got beaten up?"

He Zheyu ignored her question, took two wine glasses and a bottle of red wine from the cabinet. "Do you drink?"

"If it’s with you, then yes," she replied.

He Zheyu smiled softly and walked to the balcony.

Mo Qinghan was less reserved than before, perhaps because she’d lived here for a while. She naturally followed He Zheyu to the balcony, carrying the decanter.

The reading nook had become a little bar. Mo Qinghan sat in the hanging chair, legs crossed, swirling her glass like He Zheyu. The only difference was that he sipped, while she drank in one gulp, as if it were water. He Zheyu did not correct her, just smiled.

He watched her pale cheeks flush rosy with the alcohol—perhaps she was already tipsy.

"Yurou says you’re the genius of your department," he said.

The wine made Mo Qinghan less modest. She patted her chest and hiccupped, "That’s right! If I’m not first, no one dares claim second."