In the two weeks that followed, Weilai’s executive suite underwent further upheaval. Li Zhiyong officially resigned, leaving the CTO to pick up the pieces—a man who had essentially served as acting chairman and acting CEO for the preceding two months. He had previously been the CEO of a star startup acquired by Weilai, after which he joined the tech giant. Word had it that he was personally deeply grateful to Li Zhiyong and harbored a strong dislike for Zhou Buqun. Back then, Qinghui had torn up an acquisition agreement with his startup when he had already taken out a loan to buy a villa based on the deal; with his back against the wall, Li Zhiyong had stepped in with a highly lucrative offer.

All in all, the tech industry was truly its own tangled web of a world—a place of intricate cause and effect where everyone’s paths crossed in ways too complex to fully untangle.

Of course, even with a new leader at the helm, the top brass remained entirely disengaged amid the endless barrage of rumors. Ready to step aside at a moment’s notice—new leader included—the entire company’s future hung precariously in the balance.

As for the “car crash,” Jing Hong and Zhou Chang eventually learned more details.

The person who orchestrated the collision was indeed a woman. She was not Li Zhiyong’s wife—who had long since fled to Japan—but his mistress.

Li Zhiyong had been married to his wife for thirty years and had a daughter with her. Yet now in his fifties, he had fathered twin boys with his twenty-five-year-old mistress via IVF.

The twins were barely two and a half months old, two tiny mouths crying to be fed, right when their father suffered his catastrophic downfall. Left with neither the man nor his money, she was stuck renting a luxury villa that cost over a hundred thousand RMB a month. Driven by hormonal fluctuations, she had been diagnosed with postpartum depression a month after giving birth, and now, two months later, the depression had hit its absolute peak.

With two babies crying non-stop and Li Zhiyong gone without a trace—leaving behind no financial support—she was unwilling to blame herself directly or indirectly. Consequently, she directed all her misplaced rage toward Zhou Chang, the man who had instructed his subordinate to report the case to the police.

In her twisted mind, Li Zhiyong remained a good man, while Zhou Chang was the true villain riding high on success.

“How foolish,” Jing Hong remarked.

“Mm,” Zhou Chang agreed.

Depending on others meant one would never truly be free.

One day before the Lunar New Year, Zhou Chang suddenly proposed taking Jing Hong to visit Zhou Buqun’s house for a bit.

“…” Jing Hong asked, “You’re not planning to come out to your parents, are you?”

“How could I?” Zhou Chang said, buttoning his dress shirt. “Step by step. Let’s just let our parents get used to the idea that the two of us are friends first.”

Jing Hong nodded.

Stepping into the walk-in closet, Jing Hong combed through the wardrobe and dressed up with rare deliberation, presenting an exceptionally mature and composed presence.

After a moment of thought, he walked over to Zhou Chang’s candlestick holder and picked up the cufflink Zhou Chang had retrieved after the entrepreneurship competition, gently fastening it onto his own sleeve.

It was this very cufflink that had brought the two of them together. That day, he had seen it once more, and Zhou Chang had asked him again whether he wanted to “be together.”

Zhou Chang was wearing a black dress shirt today, though in a slightly more casual cut. Seeing Jing Hong like this, he said, “Wearing that to see Old President Zhou? Quite sneaky, Little President Jing.”

The corner of Jing Hong’s lips curved slightly into a subtle smile. He raised his index finger to his lips, signaling him to keep quiet.

Zhou Chang felt as though he were truly being driven wild by the flirtation.

Once sorted out, Jing Hong asked Zhou Chang, “What should I bring for your parents? What do they like?”

“Red wine,” Zhou Chang replied nonchalantly. “A pair of wine lovers—they actually met at a bar. Though back in those days, it was called a ‘nightclub.’ You can just pull a good bottle from my wine cellar in a bit.”

“Taking something from your stash hardly counts as a gift,” Jing Hong said. “I’ll prepare it myself.”

Zhou Chang looked at him. “How are you going to prepare it? Head back to your place? Is there enough time?”

“I have plenty at home, but that won’t be necessary,” Jing Hong said. “Don’t Old President Zhou and Old President Jing live in the same neighborhood? I’ll swing by Old President Jing’s place first and snag a fine bottle from his collection.”

Zhou Chang was thoroughly amused by Jing Hong’s plan. “Old President Jing’s place? Won’t your dad be furious if he finds out?”

“He won’t find out,” Jing Hong said. His boundary for mischief was technically higher than Zhou Chang’s, but he had always been remarkably practical when he wanted to be. “Where would he even learn about it?”

“Fair enough,” Zhou Chang nodded. “So you’ll head back to Old President Jing’s place first, and we meet at Old President Zhou’s front gate at 11:30 AM?”

Jing Hong tapped his knuckles against the cabinet surface—a habitual gesture of someone long accustomed to authority—and said, “Sounds like a plan.”

Jing Hong left the house first and drove to Jing Haiping’s residence, chatting with his parents for a while. At 11:15 AM, he stood up and said to Jing Haiping, “Mom, Dad, I have an appointment for lunch today, so I won’t be eating at home.”

“Ah,” Jiang Mei said with a touch of disappointment. “Alright then.”

“I’ll take two bottles of good wine with me,” Jing Hong added. “Today’s meeting is quite important, and the other party seems to appreciate a fine bottle.”

“Sure,” Jing Haiping, assuming this gathering was something that could benefit Fanhai, said generously. “Take whatever you like. How about grabbing that top-shelf 1947 Château Cheval Blanc? We’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

“…” Jing Hong actually felt a brief pang of guilt, thinking Zhou Buqun hardly deserved such a bottle, and said, “No need for that. Keep the very best for yourselves.”

In the end, Jing Hong carefully selected two bottles—exceedingly expensive, but still replaceable on the open market—before heading out to drive over to Old President Zhou’s house.

However, he hadn’t driven far down the neighborhood road before his phone rang. It was his mother, Jiang Mei.

“Jing Hong,” Jiang Mei asked, “why are you driving deeper into the neighborhood?”

“…” Jing Hong hadn’t expected his mother to be watching him from the window, but his lying skills had always been top-tier, and his composure remained flawless. “For today’s appointment, cutting through the south gate is more convenient.”

“Oh,” Jiang Mei accepted without suspicion. “Then Mom wishes you smooth sailing with everything today.”

“…” Jing Hong smiled. “Alright. Thanks, Mom.”

By the time he pulled up to Zhou Buqun’s front gate, Zhou Chang was already waiting outside.

Seeing Jing Hong, Zhou Chang walked over and leaned down slightly. Jing Hong rolled his side of the window down just a crack, and Zhou Chang said, “The garage layout is identical. I’ve already opened the doors, so you can pull straight in.”

Jing Hong nodded, looking straight ahead as he rolled up the window and smoothly turned the steering wheel.

Arriving at the front door, Zhou Chang pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner, and the door lock clicked open with a soft mechanical chime.

Jing Hong stepped inside, discovering that Zhou Buqun’s lavish estate was decorated surprisingly like a high-end hotel.

Upon entering the courtyard earlier, the approach to the mansion had featured two sprawling green lawns. In the center of the lawn closest to the main building sat a grand fountain, surrounded by meticulously trimmed waist-high shrubbery and flanked by an intricately paved driveway.

Stepping inside, the marble flooring and surrounding walls gleamed as spotless as new. The main reception area was draped with a heavy carpet featuring elaborate patterns, beneath which hung a magnificent, luxurious chandelier. The dining area carried the same grandiose tone, while further in, one could catch glimpses of the entertainment area featuring a billiards table. The second-floor railings were equally ornate, allowing the owner to look down over the ground floor from an expansive landing supported by several massive marble pillars.

To their surprise, Zhou Buqun was already standing near the entrance to greet them.

When his eyes fell upon Jing Hong, Zhou Buqun froze noticeably, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two young men with palpable uncertainty.

Evidently, Zhou Chang had not mentioned beforehand that their lunch guest today would be Jing Hong.

“Dad,” Zhou Chang introduced calmly, “this is President Jing—Jing Hong, the head of Fanhai Group. You know him well. Jing Hong, this is my father, Zhou Buqun, Old President Zhou of Qinghui Group, whom you also know.” After a brief pause, he added, “My mother isn’t home today; she’s taken a liking to our Hong Kong residence over the past six months.”

Zhou Buqun had still not fully processed the scene: “…”

Zhou Chang smiled lightly: “We’re friends now. Very good friends, actually.”

Jing Hong offered an easy, composed smile, extending his hand: “President Zhou. It’s been a long time. Old President Jing mentions you quite often.”

Not wanting to display any impropriety, Zhou Buqun masked his confusion instantly and put on a polite smile: “President Jing, long time no see.”

The greeting exchanged between them was not the traditional “Uncle” or “Auntie” typical between elders and the younger generation, but rather an interchange between two top industry leaders holding absolute power.

Lunch had already been served.

Once seated, Jing Hong casually observed the dining arrangement. Sure enough, the cloth napkins were folded into elegant swan shapes, the chopsticks rested in meticulous order, and the crystal glassware was polished to a flawless shine without a single water spot. An English-style butler supported the base of each plate with four fingers, serving dish after dish while ensuring her thumb never once touched the rim or interior of the plate. The butler had her hair neatly pinned up, wearing a crisp white shirt, black blazer, a black knee-length skirt, and modest black heels, complete with a clean white mask over her mouth and nose to maintain hygiene while serving.

Jing Hong: “…” Consider my horizons expanded.

As Jing Hong subtly took in the grand scene, Zhou Chang kept his eyes fixed on him, his lips curved in a subtle smile.

Accustomed to such setups, Zhou Chang picked up his chopsticks and said, “Let’s eat.”

Unaccountably, as lunch progressed, the meal gradually turned into a bragging session for Zhou Buqun.

He spun long tales about the early rivalry and history between Fanhai and Qinghui.

“Back in the day, securing investment was brutally tough. People in China didn’t have money back then, so we relied heavily on foreign capital,” Zhou Buqun recounted. “In the internet scene, there was that infamous ‘rejection chain.’ Years ago, two major portal companies actually turned down my pitch for Qinghui. Mind you, I also rejected investments in others who later went on to become giants. In those early years, your father—Old President Jing—and I were both trying to secure funding from a certain U.S. firm, but they only wanted to invest in a single Chinese company.”

Jing Hong had never heard his father mention this particular “failure” before and asked, “What happened then?”

“Heh,” Zhou Buqun boasted, “on the day of the final pitch, several of us from Qinghui wore matching T-shirts printed with ‘1.3 Billion’! We wanted to showcase Qinghui’s absolute resolve to push daily search queries to 1.3 billion—averaging one search per day for every single Chinese citizen! In the end, the investors felt our company possessed far greater ambition and potential, so they chose us.”

Jing Hong raised his eyelids slightly, offering a faint smile: “Old President Zhou, I reckon this story sounds quite different when told by Old President Jing, doesn’t it?”

Zhou Buqun felt his competitive spirit instantly provoked. He pointed toward the door and declared, “Go ask him! Go ask him right now! Ask him whatever you want!”

Jing Hong chuckled softly, raising his glass in a toast: “A blessing in disguise, perhaps. The investor Fanhai secured afterward turned out to be a far better fit for us, given their expertise in email services. Fanhai and Qinghui both flourished in their own rights. Come, let me share another toast with Old President Zhou.”

It was plain to see that Zhou Buqun actually held Jing Hong in far higher regard than he did his father, Jing Haiping.

Later, the conversation shifted to the regulatory scrutiny and financial audits of U.S.-listed Chinese stocks, prompting Zhou Buqun to boast once more: “Wall Street definitely wanted to keep Chinese tech stocks around. When Qinghui went public in the U.S., the initial offering price was set at $30. But because the demand from investors was so overwhelming, the price was raised to $40 on the morning of the IPO. On the final night, we settled on an offering price of $45, which made me very happy. The next day, traders estimated it would open at around $60. Once trading opened, institutional investors poured in order after order, and the traders kept shouting out numbers: 65, 67, 68, 70… 72, 73, 75… By late morning, when the first trade cleared, the opening price hit $88! At the time, bids were already topping $90, and we closed the day at $150. The market was in an absolute frenzy.”

Jing Hong merely smiled. The market landscape back then was vastly different from today’s, a reality Zhou Buqun was well aware of himself.

It was obvious that Zhou Buqun loved to talk big. Yet when standing before Fanhai, Qinghui didn’t actually have much to boast about, making Jing Hong one of the very few people before whom Old President Zhou found it difficult to exaggerate.

Throughout the meal, whenever an opportunity presented itself, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang would exchange quiet, meaningful glances without raising any suspicion, while Old President Zhou dug into his food, completely oblivious.

Jing Hong and Zhou Chang sat side by side. At one point, when the older man’s remarks bordered on slightly disparaging Fanhai Group, Zhou Chang noticed Jing Hong’s hand resting on his knee and reached under the table to give his hand a gentle, reassuring pat.

Though Zhou Buqun’s lunch was served with immense flair and theatricality, the menu itself remained heavily traditional and unpretentious Chinese cuisine. A few regional dishes from Old President Zhou’s hometown stood out in particular—steamed Wuchang fish, stir-fried cured pork with garlic moss, and deep-fried stuffed lotus root patties.

Alongside those were classic Beijing staples—Beijing roast duck, shredded pork in sweet bean sauce, and more—in a rather eclectic mix of culinary styles.

Midway through the meal, Jing Hong accidentally got some sauce on his fingers. Realizing a paper napkin might not clean it thoroughly, Jing Hong leaned over and asked Zhou Chang in a low voice, “Where is the restroom?”

Instead of summoning the butler, Zhou Chang pushed back his chair and stood up, saying, “Over that way. Follow me.”

Jing Hong offered a polite nod to Old President Zhou before trailing behind Zhou Chang.

The restroom area was equally opulent, featuring an outer powder room and an inner bathroom. Jing Hong casually glanced inside and noticed that the three walls surrounding the bathtub were painted with intricate murals of a serene bamboo forest—allowing one to bathe amidst a “bamboo grove,” a design that managed to be delightfully elegant despite its extravagant ostentation.

Zhou Chang said, “Cold water on this side, hot water on that side, and towels are right here.”

Jing Hong looked at Zhou Chang, then shifted his gaze toward the hallway outside—finding it completely deserted. He raised his left hand, using his index finger to gently pry open Zhou Chang’s lips, and slid his sauce-stained middle finger between Zhou Chang’s lips, smearing the sauce directly onto his tongue. He then raised his eyes, staring intently at Zhou Chang as his left middle finger slid rhythmically in and out between the other man’s lips.

Each stroke went remarkably deep, reaching all the way to the base of his finger.

Zhou Chang simply bit down gently, his eyes brimming with uninhibited desire.

Right inside Old President Zhou’s mansion, right beneath Old President Zhou’s very nose, the two of them stared at each other while indulging in this quiet provocation.

A moment later, Jing Hong chuckled softly, withdrew his finger, turned around, and turned on the faucet, putting both hands under the rushing water to wash them thoroughly.

Once finished, Jing Hong raised his eyes. Because he was leaning over the sink, he stood half a head shorter than Zhou Chang. The two of them stared at each other in silence through the mirror for a few seconds. Zhou Chang stepped up beside him, reached his right arm behind Jing Hong’s shoulder, and used his fingers to gently lift Jing Hong’s chin from the opposite side, turning Jing Hong’s face toward his own. He then leaned down slightly, bringing his lips until they were mere centimeters away from Jing Hong’s.

Unable to actually kiss for fear that their reddened lips would give them away, Zhou Chang hovered just two or three centimeters short of Jing Hong’s mouth, making a soft, teasing kissing sound.

“…” Jing Hong flicked the water off his hands and said, “Let’s head back.”

When they resumed their seats, Zhou Buqun hadn’t noticed anything amiss in the slightest, immediately diving back into bragging about several other past achievements he had just remembered.

Having finished his meal, Jing Hong requested the butler to clear his setting and wipe down the table. He rested his forearms on the table with his fingers loosely interlocked, the pair of cufflinks catching the light with a soft sparkle.

After lunch, Zhou Chang took Jing Hong upstairs to tour his personal room.

Zhou Chang’s private space was immense, divided into an outer study and an inner bedroom. The interior decor and overall atmosphere were completely distinct from the rest of the estate—cool, minimalist, and deeply refined.

“This place was bought over a decade ago,” Zhou Chang noted, “so the layout still reflects how I set it up during my freshman year of college.”

Jing Hong nodded: “Mm.”

He walked slowly along Zhou Chang’s bookshelves, scanning the titles and occasionally pulling one down to flip through its pages.

There was a vast array of genres, though almost all were non-fiction.

Tucked within the shelves were even several stacks of technical magazines from over ten years ago, such as complete collections of English computer science periodicals arranged meticulously by issue number.

Jing Hong was surprised to discover that Zhou Chang was a genuine lover of books.

Given Zhou Chang’s carefree and uninhibited nature, Jing Hong had assumed he would be the type to dog-ear pages and scribble heavy marginalia while reading, treating books purely as practical tools.

Yet to his surprise, for certain textbooks and reference materials, Zhou Chang had neatly used color-coded sticky notes to mark important passages instead.

“…” For reasons he couldn’t quite name, a soft warmth bloomed in Jing Hong’s chest.

On an upper shelf sat a few photo albums.

Jing Hong reached up and gently took one down.

There were actually very few photos of Zhou Chang—mostly from his childhood or standing alongside his parents, proving he was never someone who particularly enjoyed taking pictures.

Jing Hong flipped through the pages one by one.

His facial features had been strikingly handsome even back then.

Occasionally, looking at the younger Zhou Chang in the album, Jing Hong would raise his eyes over the top of the photo album to glance at the present version of the man standing before him.

Whenever he did, Zhou Chang would raise an eyebrow in response.

Toward the back of the album, Zhou Chang had clearly grown wilder with age.

There were photos of him participating in a friend’s band during his freshman year, and unharnessed free solo climbing during his sophomore year…

Jing Hong sighed, “Wild indeed.”

“What about President Jing?” Zhou Chang teased him. “Always the obedient top student?”

Jing Hong let out a soft laugh: “I’ve certainly never done anything wild back then. Though right now, I am feeling a bit tempted to do something out of line for once.”

Zhou Chang asked, “How about going for a motorcycle ride sometime?”

“Sure,” Jing Hong said, sliding the photo album back into its slot on the shelf. “Though compared to that, I’m thinking of doing something a little unconventional all on my own.”

Zhou Chang didn’t press him further.

The two stayed upstairs until half past two. When Zhou Buqun was about to retire for his afternoon nap, Zhou Chang finally brought Jing Hong downstairs to take their leave.

As Jing Hong was departing, Zhou Buqun even expressed a touch of reluctance to see him go: “You are indeed far easier to get along with than your father.”

Jing Hong merely offered a polite smile: “Well then, Old President Zhou, we’ll take our leave. Please get some rest.”

Zhou Chang added, “Alright, there’ll be plenty of opportunities to visit again in the future. President Jing is a friend now.”

Zhou Buqun suspected nothing, nodding heartily: “Right. Anytime.”

After stepping out of the estate and standing near the main gate, Jing Hong suddenly recalled the web novels his mother, Jiang Mei, loved to read, and let out a low chuckle, asking Zhou Chang: “If we told Old President Zhou that you’ve fallen for a man, do you think he’d pull out a checkbook and say, ‘Here’s 10 million RMB, leave my son’?”

Zhou Chang gave him a dry, amused look: “That would certainly be quite a spectacle.”

That very evening, Jing Hong departed on a business trip to Northern Europe, visiting Denmark and Norway before returning to China five days later.

Before setting off for Europe, because he had an evening flight to catch, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang had exercised immense self-control. The suppressed desire ignited at Zhou Buqun’s mansion had remained unfulfilled; they had simply shared a long, lingering kiss, reluctant to part, leaving everything to wait until Jing Hong’s return.

Having endured those five long days, the moment Jing Hong walked through the front door carrying his luggage, the two instantly fell into each other’s arms once more.

Why were they so hopelessly addicted to kissing?

It was never enough, simply never enough.

After a long, breathless kiss, they retreated to separate shower stalls.

When Jing Hong emerged, he was wearing a white plush bathrobe and cotton slippers, stepping softly across the hardwood floor while drying his damp hair with a towel. His features were clean and relaxed—lacking his usual corporate sharpness, yet still radiating his stubbornly fierce personality.

Then, wrapped in each other’s arms, they collapsed onto the bed together.

“Zhou Chang,” Jing Hong said suddenly, “while I was in Northern Europe this time, I did something ‘wild’… It’s completely out of character for me, and it will definitely be a one-time thing. But it really was quite thrilling—an absolute rush for the brain.”

“Oh?” Zhou Chang leaned down to kiss the space between his eyebrows and his strikingly sharp brows. “Little President Jing, what did you do that was so ‘wild’? Rock climbing? Street racing? Or some other extreme sport? Was it something involving speed, or height? Given it was Northern Europe, alpine skiing perhaps? That combines both speed and height.”

“None of the above,” Jing Hong tilted his slender neck upward, letting out a soft laugh. “Those things aren’t nearly enough to be considered a ‘one-time thing.’ I can indulge in them whenever I want—I already know how to ski anyway, I’ve just been holding back. Besides, if I ever want to chase an adrenaline rush in the future, I can do those anytime.”

Zhou Chang asked, “Then…?”

Jing Hong’s lips hovered tantalizingly close to Zhou Chang’s, his warm breath softly brushing against the other man’s lips as he articulated each word with quiet deliberate emphasis: “A tattoo.”

Indeed, this was entirely contrary to Jing Hong’s habitual personality—in fact, it stood as its absolute polar opposite. While Jing Hong never passed judgment on others, for himself, he had always viewed permanently altering his skin with a graphic design as an utterly meaningless endeavor.

As he spoke, Jing Hong raised one knee, parting the robe on that side.

Zhou Chang focused his gaze—and froze instantly.

Inked clearly into the smooth muscle of Jing Hong’s inner thigh was a lip mark tattoo.

Its size, shape, and delicate contour—Zhou Chang recognized it immediately as his own.

Now, his lip print was permanently tattooed onto the inner surface of Jing Hong’s thigh.

“It was a tattoo parlor in Copenhagen,” Jing Hong said softly. “Hardly anyone recognized me there. Plus, the artist at that shop only takes a single client a day, so there were no other customers around.”

Zhou Chang’s fingertips gently brushed against the inked lip print before he lowered his head with burning intensity, pressing his own lips over the tattoo in a flawless, seamless fit. He kissed and sucked at the skin, stroke after stroke, until the tattooed lip mark flushed into a vivid, fiery crimson.

Then, his lips and tongue trailed elsewhere.

“Zhou Chang…” Cherished by those lips and tongue, Jing Hong closed his eyes, his fingers threading through Zhou Chang’s dark hair as he murmured again and again in a low, breathless sigh, “Zhou Chang—”

My immortal beloved.