Mid-2023, four years into their relationship.

This time, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang hadn’t seen each other for an entire month. First, Jing Hong went on a business trip, but before he returned, Zhou Chang left on one. Then, before Zhou Chang returned, Jing Hong went on another business trip… Thus, a whole month went by without a single face-to-face meeting.

By the time Jing Hong returned, their longing for each other had reached its peak.

They had been “together” for four years, yet to the two of them, the other still held a fatal attraction. They wanted to caress each other’s cheeks, stroke each other’s dark hair, kiss each other’s lips, tease each other’s tongues, smell each other’s necks, gaze at each other’s bodies, and even taste…

It was simply never enough.

Between 2020 and 2023, during those three-plus years, many events unfolded for the two tech giants, Fanhai and Qinghui.

Various crises erupted without warning, catching the whole world unprepared. By this year, the global economic environment had deteriorated to a point no one could ignore; from the United States to China, giant corporations were all struggling. Everyone was cutting costs. Big tech companies once famous for their lush employee perks shrank their spending—no more free snacks, no more free drinks, and even many of the corporate cafeterias were shut down. Layoffs swept across the globe.

Even industry giants no longer dared to speak of terms like “invention” or “innovation,” because there was no money to spare for them. Investment scales shrank drastically, and no one dared to continue buying up companies. Even wealthy householders had no surplus grain left; massive numbers of R&D projects were scrapped, and everyone was simply waiting for the dawn.

Naturally, Fanhai and Qinghui were caught in the crisis as well. Fortunately, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang still had each other. They didn’t have to walk alone; they could intertwine their fingers and press forward together.

Fanhai and Qinghui were not delisted. The two nations reached a new agreement: the Chinese side made a few concessions, allowing the SEC to inspect audit working papers, but the audits had to take place within China, and materials could not leave the country’s borders.

As for “selling their international operations,” the outlook remained far from optimistic. Several Chinese companies proposed a compromise—storing all data on Oracle servers with no access permissions reserved for themselves—yet the proposal was still rejected. A few months ago, CFIUS demanded once again that Chinese enterprises divest their international operations without retaining a single share. Naturally, Chinese companies could not accept such an order. Thus, three years later, the U.S. side raised the threat of a total “ban” once more, subjecting Chinese enterprises to continuous pressure, leaving their future prospects in the U.S. market completely unpredictable.

In truth, amid this atrocious economic climate, the U.S. subsidiaries of Chinese enterprises were the only ones still hiring—and on a massive scale at that. Yet perhaps one day, these “U.S. subsidiaries” would vanish overnight into thin air.

In such a difficult macroeconomic environment, the competitive atmosphere between Fanhai and Qinghui had softened. It was replaced by a sense of “overcoming hard times together”—waiting for problems to resolve, waiting for the global economy, or at least China’s economy, to recover.

Amid the grand tides of history, individual human intelligence felt so utterly small.

On the day Jing Hong returned, the two shared a long, lingering kiss.

As the years went by, they could spot every subtle change on each other’s faces—becoming more mature, more composed—and they felt deep joy in having provided that companionship.

Of course, becoming more mature and composed came at a price. Having weathered countless winds and waves over the past few years, Jing Hong was a bit tired, and Zhou Chang was actually a bit tired too. But they had to hold on; they could only hold on, for the sake of their companies and for so much more.

Still, as the saying goes, fortunately, they still had each other.

Taking Jing Hong’s luggage, Zhou Chang asked, “Did everything go smoothly?” As usual, he asked for no trade secrets or details.

“It was fine.” The corner of Jing Hong’s mouth tugged up slightly. “Though during this tripartite collaboration, one of the parties wanted Fanhai to take the blame for a mistake. Really despicable. I caught them red-handed.”

Zhou Chang asked, “And then? Did you take the blame?”

“I took it,” Jing Hong said. “I don’t mind taking the fall as long as the money is right. Since they were at fault, they yielded a portion of their profits to keep the matter from blowing up.”

Zhou Chang let out a smile.

Jing Hong wasn’t wearing a suit jacket or a tie—just a plain white dress shirt.

Zhou Chang had also just arrived home, wearing an identical plain white dress shirt.

Zhou Chang hugged Jing Hong from behind, and right through the fabric, pressed his nose against his shoulder, gently nuzzling left and right before switching to his lower lip. His lower lip lightly brushed against Jing Hong’s high-end tailored shirt, his neck moving to friction against the shirt’s fabric again and again.

The soft, exquisite texture of the bespoke shirt against his lips, combined with the clean scent of shampoo wafting from Jing Hong, felt immensely comforting.

Then, Zhou Chang kissed his shoulder through the clothes, again and again.

Jing Hong asked, “Why are you always so perverted?”

Zhou Chang immediately shifted the blame: “Why are you always seducing me?”

Jing Hong laughed in exasperation. “How am I seducing you?”

Zhou Chang replied, “Your very existence is a temptation to me.”

Jing Hong was speechless for a moment before saying, “No one except you has ever said that to me.”

Zhou Chang couldn’t care less: “If anyone else said it, it’d be sexual harassment. Coming from me, it’s sweet talk.”

Jing Hong shook his head, turned around, and asked, “Should I go change first?”

“No need,” Zhou Chang said. “I like you best when you look this formidable.”

Jing Hong let out a soft sigh.

Zhou Chang added, “I just love desecrating and messing up such a formidable Little President Jing.”

Jing Hong raised an eyebrow, looking at him.

The two sat down on the living room sofa. Once Jing Hong settled onto Zhou Chang’s lap, Zhou Chang leaned in to kiss his collar, following it all the way down to the collar points, dropping a few lingering kisses there while his hands rubbed up and down Jing Hong’s waist through his shirt.

Next, Zhou Chang kissed his way down the placket of the shirt.

The top button was undone, but the second button was fastened.

Zhou Chang caught the button between his teeth, tugging at it lightly a few times.

Jing Hong lowered his gaze, running his fingers into Zhou Chang’s dark hair. Amid that gentle tugging, an anxious anticipation flared up inside him.

After teasing for a moment, Zhou Chang straightened his waist, lowered his eyes, and finally unbuttoned it gently.

Even after unbuttoning it, Zhou Chang maintained Jing Hong’s neat, professional style. He pinched the edges of the placket with both hands, parting them wide, and even pressed his fingers from top to bottom, flattening and smoothing the opened fabric so it rested neatly and impeccably against the white shirt and the chest muscles beneath, much like a lapel. His movements were almost solemn and refined.

The collarbone was fully revealed.

Zhou Chang leaned close again, wrapping an arm around Jing Hong’s lower back to kiss that newly exposed patch of delicate skin—just below the midline of the collarbone and above the third button. His kisses were soft, landing gently, one after another.

Jing Hong gripped Zhou Chang’s shoulders, his eyelashes lowered, watching him.

Under those gentle kisses, Jing Hong’s knuckles gradually tightened.

Then came the third button. Doing as before, Zhou Chang pinched the button with one hand, held the fabric with the other, and repeated his meticulous movements. After parting it, he pulled the sides of the shirt taut. Jing Hong’s shirt opened wider, exposing more of his chest—half of his chest muscles were visible, while his… barely remained hidden beneath the white fabric on either side.

Zhou Chang flattened the shirt once more. He smoothed away the wrinkles and pressed the edges flat, moving his fingers up and down repeatedly. Every time his fingers passed over a certain spot, they rolled directly over it without lingering, causing Jing Hong’s breathing to turn ragged.

Zhou Chang began kissing the newly revealed skin once more.

Jing Hong was still in that daytime bespoke shirt—professional, precise, reserved, and abstemious. Yet now, the front was pulled wide open, his skin being kissed bit by bit.

Then came the fourth button. Zhou Chang’s breathing faltered as well, his throat bobbing as his hands slowly parted the shirt. Jing Hong’s body was gradually laid bare before his eyes, already fully aroused by this point.

Zhou Chang finally pulled him into a firm embrace, kissing him passionately.

The two launched into a wild, unrestrained passionate encounter.

Afterward, they took a shower together.

While drying his hair in front of the mirror, Jing Hong looked into the glass and said to Zhou Chang, “Where are your hands? Don’t stop. Keep going. Otherwise it feels unbearable.”

Zhou Chang paused, then let out a low chuckle. Standing behind Jing Hong, his fingers slid open Jing Hong’s bathrobe. Jing Hong’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Zhou Chang leaned his head against Jing Hong’s shoulder, holding his waist with one hand while the other hand didn’t stop stimulating him. Holding the hairdryer, Jing Hong reached back with his hand, looking at the intensely intimate pair in the mirror, and gently dried the hair of the man standing behind him. Zhou Chang rested his chin first on Jing Hong’s right shoulder while one side was dried, then shifted his chin to the left shoulder until the other side was completely dry too.

Then, the two collapsed onto the bedroom bed.

After one round, Zhou Chang suddenly brought out an exquisitely small item and said, “Darling… when I went to the US this time, I discovered this thing.”

Jing Hong stared at it. “…What is that?”

The object in Zhou Chang’s hand looked like a small pill capsule, sitting small in his palm. But it didn’t look like any performance-enhancing drug, because the shell was transparent, revealing intricate technology inside.

“An endoscope. An adult novelty item,” Zhou Chang said. “You know about it, right? For gastrointestinal exams, aside from standard gastroscopies and colonoscopies, a new medical technology emerged a few years ago called capsule endoscopy. The capsule shell is transparent, with a tiny camera inside. After a patient swallows it, it takes a massive number of photos as it travels through the digestive tract—about one photo every two seconds, crystal clear. And now, they have live-video capsule endoscopes. An American company turned this technology into an adult product for couples. Of course, you don’t swallow this one, and it doesn’t go through the digestive system. Where it goes in is where it comes out.”

Jing Hong looked at Zhou Chang in sheer disbelief.

Zhou Chang kissed his shoulder again and again. “Want to see…?”

After relentless coaxing and pestering, Jing Hong gave in and indulged him once more.

When everything finally came to an end, the two unlocked a smartphone screen.

The entire process had been recorded from a unique perspective.

A certain object had slowly parted obstacles, clearing its path, and appeared on the lens, and then—

After watching it, Jing Hong got out of bed. Standing beside the bed, he pressed a hand to his forehead, covering his eyes as he shook his head helplessly, before heading back to the bathroom for another shower.

Zhou Chang leaned against the headboard, watching his retreating back with a relaxed smile, and completely deleted the video file.

When Jing Hong returned, as usual, neither mentioned the wild playfulness from earlier. They simply lay in bed whispering quietly, gazing into each other’s eyes, sharing their inner thoughts. Occasionally, unable to help himself, Zhou Chang would reach out to cup the back of Jing Hong’s head and kiss his forehead.

“Jing Hong, baby,” Zhou Chang asked, “we’ve been together for so long. Have Old Mr. Jing and President Jiang really never noticed anything?”

“No,” Jing Hong said. “They shouldn’t have.”

Zhou Chang ran his fingers through Jing Hong’s dark hair, sliding from root to tip, burying his fingers deep before combing through to the ends again. He said, “On my end… I probably can’t keep it hidden much longer.”

Jing Hong looked at him quietly.

“In fact,” Zhou Chang said, “they’ve probably suspected it for a while now. I’ve been thinking it’s about time I officially tell them.”

Jing Hong asked, “How did they figure it out?”

So Zhou Chang explained.

Jing Hong often stayed at Zhou Chang’s place—about three days a week—making it hard not to leave traces behind, and neither of them had deliberately tried to scrub those clues away.

“Starting two years ago, they knew there was someone else staying at my place,” Zhou Chang said. “For instance, the single pillow on my bed became two, my single study room became two, and the toothbrush and toothpaste set doubled. Every time they wanted to come over in the evening, I turned them down. But they assumed I wasn’t being serious, since we didn’t seem to be officially cohabiting—there were no women’s clothes in the closet, no high heels in the shoe rack, and no cosmetics in the bathroom. Even the perfume was my own.”

Jing Hong rested his head on one arm, asking with amusement, “And then?”

He wasn’t afraid of Zhou Buqun in the slightest.

“And then? Later on, they realized that wasn’t the case. I frequently asked my culinary team to prepare desserts, order flowers, and get other items—it was obvious I was deeply in love with someone. Everything else was locked away, but our two rings were kept in the drawers of the nightstands on either side of the bed. About a month ago, my mother saw them and felt that since we had reached the point of exchanging rings, there was no reason to hide it so thoroughly. Also last month, while staring at that painting on my wall from Budapest—the one of the two men kissing—she had a sudden epiphany.” Zhou Chang let out a low chuckle. “She panicked and started going through my things. She found five bottles of lubricant in my nightstand drawer, but not a single box of condoms. Then she opened my closet, pulled out over twenty tailored shirts and suits, and compared their sizes. She discovered that half of the shirts were slightly shorter than the other half, and half of the trousers were slightly shorter too. Knowing my measurements are fixed and that everything is custom-made without size discrepancies, she nearly lost her mind.”

Jing Hong smiled. “And after that?”

“After that?” Zhou Chang said. “A few days ago, my dad suddenly remembered that AI photo I posted years ago. The one where I transformed your gender. Because my new study was filled almost entirely with computer science books, you looked like a corporate executive. He opened the photo again and realized that person looked suspiciously like Jing Hong.”

Jing Hong let out another chuckle.

“Later, my dad recalled our car accident and searched for the news reports again,” Zhou Chang continued. “He found an old forum thread containing photos of the accident scene, showing the driver’s side of my car facing directly into the vehicle that had crashed into us. He hadn’t paid attention to it at first, but in the comment section below, he saw a few messages like, ‘Zhou Chang loves him so much,’ and ‘I read a report once saying that in a car crash, the passenger seat is the most dangerous spot because the driver will instinctively swerve to protect themselves, even if the passenger is a family member or friend. Yet Zhou Chang made the passenger seat the safest spot—Zhou Chang loves him so much.’ Reading that, my dad panicked, sensing that something was terribly off. Connecting that with how often I brought you home over the past two years, he felt even more uneasy.”

Jing Hong remained resting on his elbow. “And after that?”

“And after that,” Zhou Chang’s voice remained perfectly steady, “they came to question me, laying out this entire elaborate set of deductions. I didn’t answer, just brushed it off with a laugh. Since you didn’t know about this yet, I didn’t want to take the initiative on my own. But it’s pretty much impossible to keep hiding it. Though they seem afraid to press too hard—they want to know the truth, but they also want to keep fooling themselves.”

“Sure,” Jing Hong said. “Let’s tell them. It’s not good to leave the elderly worrying and suspecting things. I’ll pay a visit to your home one of these days.”

“Alright,” Zhou Chang said, then asked, “What about your family?”

“Let’s do both together. No double standards.” Remembering Jing Haiping’s personality, Jing Hong added, “Earlier, I didn’t want to tell them because my dad’s illness had a chance of relapse within five years, and I didn’t want to upset him. But for Old Mr. Jing’s condition, if there’s no recurrence within five years, the probability drops to near zero. It’s been seven or eight years since his surgery, and he was declared clinically cured by his doctors two years ago. I’ve thought about it—at our age, it’s time to tell them.”

Zhou Chang’s expression turned extraordinarily tender as he said, “Okay.”

Jing Hong wasn’t nervous either; he had weathered far too many storms. The world was full of malice, and life was littered with traps—so when facing parents who loved him so dearly, what obstacle could possibly be insurmountable?

“Baby,” Zhou Chang spoke again, “what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Going back to Old Mr. Jing’s place.” Jing Hong had long given up on arguing over that pet name, letting out a small yawn. “I’ve been away on business for a month; I need to go see them now that I’m back.”

“Let’s head over together then,” Zhou Chang said. “Old Mr. Zhou and my mother are both in Hong Kong right now, and the house staff is on leave, but my mother has a few potted plants that need watering every two weeks.”

Jing Hong agreed: “Fine.”

He secretly felt that “watering plants every two weeks” was just an excuse; Zhou Chang simply wanted to spend more time with him.

Seeing Jing Hong’s calm demeanor made Zhou Chang love him all the more. He rolled over, pressing down on Jing Hong, and kissed his lips passionately once again.

The next day, the two drove separate cars to visit their respective parents.

Jing Hong sat on the living room sofa chatting with Jing Haiping and Jiang Mei, catching up on family matters. Jing Haiping brought out a famous painting he had won at an auction the night before to show Jing Hong.

The painting depicted mountain rocks and pine trees, rendered with bold, vigorous, and magnificent brushwork.

However, as Jing Hong looked at it, he suddenly recalled Zhou Chang mentioning before… that his father, Old Mr. Zhou, owned the exact same painting by the very same artist.

Jing Hong’s heart skipped a beat, thinking: This couldn’t be a forgery, could it…?

Buying fakes or replicas at auctions was a common occurrence; even top auction houses like Christie’s frequently found themselves embroiled in fake painting controversies.

In lawsuits over such matters, the final ruling was unpredictable—it depended on the judge and sheer luck.

China’s Auction Law stipulated: “If the auctioneer or consignor declares before the auction that they cannot guarantee the authenticity or quality of the auction lot, they shall not bear liability for defect warranty.” In other words, the auction company didn’t have to offer refunds, let alone compensation.

However, some judges relied primarily on the Law on the Protection of Consumer Rights and Interests, ruling that a “prior declaration” could not serve as a shield for selling counterfeit goods.

Jing Hong didn’t tell his parents right away, intending to confirm it with Zhou Chang first. Still, Jing Hong could tell that buying a fine painting had put Jing Haiping in high spirits.

After staying for about an hour, Jing Hong said goodbye to his parents after lunch. Knowing how busy and exhausted Jing Hong was these days, Jing Haiping and Jiang Mei could only watch him go.

Once outside, Jing Hong placed an audio call to Zhou Chang to mention the painting. Zhou Chang recalled for a moment and said, “Come over to my place. It should be inside the safe; my father didn’t hang it up. You can inspect it first while no one’s home.”

Jing Hong tapped his Bluetooth earpiece: “Alright.”

He turned the steering wheel as he spoke, driving a loop through the residential compound before pulling through the gates of Zhou Buqun’s residence.

In front of the safe, Jing Hong sat on a chair, watching Zhou Chang manipulate the dial. Since it was his family’s safe, Zhou Chang naturally knew the combination. He didn’t hide it from Jing Hong, though Jing Hong politely averted his eyes anyway.

Like many tycoons, Zhou Buqun was meticulous about feng shui. The safe was positioned where sunlight hit it directly, because in feng shui, a financial vault must never be kept in the dark—a dimly lit safe symbolized dim financial prospects. There were countless other superstitions attached to it as well.

After pulling out a few scrolls, Zhou Chang quickly located the target item. He asked Jing Hong, “Is it this one?”

Jing Hong focused his gaze. It was identical to the painting he had just seen at his father’s house—every mountain, stream, rock, and tree matched perfectly. He finally let out a sigh and said, “Yes.”

Zhou Chang asked, “Should we have an expert authenticate which one is real?”

Jing Hong thought it over: “Forget it, there’s no need. The two old men just bought them for their own amusement, not to resell. There’s no point in making one of them realize he bought a fake. We can deal with it later.”

Zhou Chang said, “True.” With that, his long-fingered hands carefully rolled the painting back up and returned it to the safe.

Just as he was closing the safe, Zhou Chang suddenly noticed a few items on the bottom shelf.

They were actually items from his own childhood.

Precious photos from before the popularity of digital cameras, video tapes, optical discs, drawings and writings from when he was very young, various certificates from before he reached adulthood, trophies, report cards, acceptance letters, published journal articles… item by item, detailing every step of Zhou Chang’s growth. There were even textbooks from various subjects he used as a child, complete with doodles in the margins.

There were also items from later years, such as interview articles. However, in this modern digital era, Jing Hong guessed that Zhou Chang’s mother probably maintained an online storage archive as well.

Additionally, that shelf held gifts from his deceased grandparents and maternal grandparents: a wooden sailboat wishing him “smooth sailing,” hand-sewn cloth tigers…

Unlike Jiang Mei, Zhou Chang’s mother was a homemaker, but she clearly loved her child just as deeply.

The two looked through the items for a long time. Jing Hong sighed, “Your mother loves you very much.”

“She does,” Zhou Chang said. “Her doting played a huge role in shaping my personality.”

“Then I ought to thank her,” Jing Hong said. “I happen to love this personality of yours.”

Zhou Chang locked the safe. The two shared a quiet look from across the space, then walked toward each other, falling into an embrace to kiss.

They tasted each other’s lips, bit by bit.

Without realizing how long they had been kissing, the light at the room’s doorway suddenly dimmed. At the same time, Jing Hong caught sight of a figure in his peripheral vision. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before snapping his head around—only to come face-to-face with a slack-jawed, petrified figure.

Zhou Buqun.

A second later, Jing Hong realized with a shock that it wasn’t just one slack-jawed, petrified figure—there were two!

Standing right beside Zhou Buqun at the doorway was his own father—Jing Haiping!

One a ruthless businessman, the other a refined scholar-entrepreneur—yet in this instant, both of their faces wore the exact same expression.

The scene was so bizarre that the room fell into a dead, suffocating silence.

A few seconds later, Jing Haiping felt a surge of dizziness. His body swayed, and he quickly reached out to steady himself against a nearby cabinet.

“Dad?” Zhou Chang was surprisingly calm. “Why are you back today?”

Zhou Buqun didn’t speak.

In truth, after reading in the news that Jing Haiping had spent 30 million yuan at an auction for a certain master’s painting, Zhou Buqun had scrambled to buy a plane ticket and fly straight back.

Knowing that Jing Haiping took a walk around the residential neighborhood after lunch every day to digest his food, Zhou Buqun had deliberately timed his arrival to “happen to run into” him.

All so he could rub it in Jing Haiping’s face: You spent 30 million yuan on a fake!

It was meant to infuriate him.

To teach that hypocrite a lesson for looking down on him.

Naturally, such news had to be delivered right after Jing Haiping had won the item, when his mood was at its absolute peak.

Sure enough, after Zhou Buqun “nonchalantly” spilled the truth, Jing Haiping’s face had instantly turned dark.

He refused to believe it, thinking Zhou Buqun was lying to trick him.

So Zhou Buqun had led him right over to his house to let him see his own painting with his own eyes.

Who could have guessed they would walk straight into this scene?!

Because Jing Haiping had been in such a foul mood, neither of them had uttered a word on the way up. The heavy carpeting on the upper floor had completely swallowed their footsteps.

Having done plenty of mental preparation over the months, Zhou Buqun actually appeared more composed than Jing Haiping.

Staring at Zhou Buqun, Jing Haiping found himself thinking in that split second: Has Zhou Buqun really weathered more storms than I have? Why is he so calm?

For the first time in his life, a faint thread of respect for Zhou Buqun rose within him.

“You… you…” Unable to hold it in any longer, Zhou Buqun asked Zhou Chang that same old question again: “You really like men? And you… like him?”

“Yes,” Zhou Chang and Jing Hong both remained remarkably composed. Zhou Chang replied, “The answer to both questions is ‘yes.’ I only like men, and I only like him.”

Zhou Buqun had always hoped Zhou Chang would marry and have as many children as possible—seven or eight if possible. Disappointment washed over his heart, and he blurted out, “Doing this isn’t fair to your parents!”

Unexpectedly, Zhou Chang immediately counter-attacked. The corner of his mouth curved up slightly: “Giving birth to me like this wasn’t fair to me either. My genes make me like men, make me like him. I’ve been under an immense amount of pressure.”

The logic behind his counter-attack hadn’t taken even a second to formulate.

“…???” Zhou Buqun was completely dumbfounded.

Even Jing Hong went silent for a moment.

He knew that Zhou Chang was different from him; Zhou Chang wasn’t strictly a exclusive homosexual. Truth be told, before the two of them were deeply drawn to each other, Zhou Chang probably only liked himself, finding everyone else utterly uninteresting.

Jing Hong didn’t really want to listen to this father-son pair’s conversation anymore—both of them were complete eccentrics. He walked over, gently taking hold of his father’s arm, and said to Zhou Buqun, “Old Mr. Zhou… today was far too sudden. The two of us will take our leave first so you and your son can talk privately. Let’s all calm down, and I will pay a formal visit another day.”

His gaze was calm, and his tone was calmer still.

Throughout the entire confrontation, because Zhou Buqun was standing right there, Jing Haiping had tried his absolute best to maintain his composure and dignity.

Zhou Buqun nodded slowly and said, “Then I won’t see you out.”

Jing Hong said, “Thank you.”

Jing Haiping didn’t say a word, allowing Jing Hong to lead him out of the house.

Before walking out the door, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang shared another deep, silent gaze for a few lingering seconds.

After driving Jing Haiping back home, Jing Hong didn’t step inside his parents’ house. He simply said to his mother, Jiang Mei, “Mom… something happened just now. Dad will definitely tell you. Please both take some time to process it and calm down. One week from today, at 12:00 PM, I will come back to explain everything.”

Jiang Mei couldn’t guess what had happened, but seeing the grim expression on Jing Haiping’s face, she knew it was extremely serious. She nodded to Jing Hong: “Alright, Hong-hong, you go ahead.”

“Mm,” Jing Hong glanced at Jing Haiping again. “Dad, let’s both take time to cool down before we talk. I love you both—never doubt that.”

The way he acted wasn’t like a gay son who had just been caught kissing another man red-handed; instead, he seemed like a composed ruler arranging matters with absolute authority.

And in truth, he was a ruler.

With those final words, Jing Hong cast a deep look at his father, twirled his car keys, and left.

One week later, Jing Hong arrived punctually at his parents’ house.

Aunt Fu was away; the house held only Jing Hong, Jiang Mei, and Jing Haiping.

Jing Haiping was, after all, Jing Haiping. A week had passed, and on the surface, his state appeared no different from usual—still refined, steady, yet bearing a subtle aura of authority.

Having rushed over straight from a meeting, Jing Hong was wearing a suit today. Unbuttoning his jacket with both hands, he sat down on a low sofa stool directly opposite Jing Haiping. He clasped his fingers together, leaning slightly forward—though a powerful executive, he assumed an attitude of humble respect, saying, “Mom, Dad.”

Jiang Mei looked at Jing Hong with an expression filled with worry.

In truth, Jiang Mei had already largely accepted it.

Compared to Jing Haiping, President Jiang was better at facing reality and accepting it. The moment she heard that Jing Hong had been kissing Zhou Chang, Jiang Mei knew: Nothing could change this.

Jing Hong was no hot-headed boy. As Jing Hong’s mother and the former COO of Fanhai, Jiang Mei understood her son inside and out. She knew Jing Hong was clear-headed and formidable, possessed a rare and unyielding tenacity, and had extraordinary self-control backed by years of disciplined habits. Yet he had still chosen this path.

She knew that Jing Hong could only have chosen this after absolute, deliberate consideration.

Jing Haiping, however, still clung to a sliver of unrealistic hope.

“Dad,” Jing Hong explained slowly, “regarding ‘wanting to be with Zhou Chang,’ I fought it, I struggled against it, I resisted it. But I couldn’t even hold out for a single year.”

Pausing for a moment, Jing Hong added, “It wasn’t anyone else’s ‘couldn’t hold out for a year’—it was me, Jing Hong, who couldn’t hold out for a year. I’ve settled on him, and the two of us have the capability to handle our relationship properly.”

Jing Haiping understood full well what Jing Hong’s “couldn’t hold out” entailed, yet a wave of despair still washed over him as he asked, “Why did it have to be that father and son pair?!”

“Dad,” Jing Hong said, “I know you don’t like Zhou Buqun…”

“It’s not that I don’t like him,” Jing Haiping corrected him. “It’s that everyone dislikes him. The outside world always says I dislike Zhou Buqun, but in truth, if you look around, nobody likes him.”

Jing Hong smiled, saying dotingly, “Fine, fine, everyone dislikes him. But Zhou Chang is actually very different from Zhou Buqun. Zhou Chang has already helped Fanhai several times, and he agrees with the principle that ‘Fanhai and Qinghui should engage in healthy competition and a positive feedback loop—there is no need for Chinese internet companies to tear each other down.’ In this relationship, I don’t have to deal with anyone else from his family.”

Jing Haiping was aware of some of Zhou Chang’s actions; he was, after all, still the Chairman of the Board at Fanhai Group.

When Fanhai was being shorted by foreign investors, Zhou Chang had taken the initiative to enable “interconnection” between their platforms. When Chinese enterprises faced global crises, Zhou Chang had never shown weakness. Every product he launched and every corporate battle he fought was executed brilliantly—his vision was unique, and his methods were experienced and refined.

Furthermore, after Zhou Chang took over, he overhauled many of the business models from Zhou Buqun’s era, focusing more on product quality rather than sheer aggressive marketing. During 2020 and 2021, Qinghui hadn’t followed the industry trend of massive, blind hiring splurges. Zhou Chang didn’t believe the sudden surge in IT traffic caused by external circumstances would last forever. Consequently, when 2022 and 2023 arrived, Qinghui didn’t suffer from brutal, massive layoffs either.

He was far more grounded and reliable than Zhou Buqun.

During the first two years after Zhou Chang took the helm, Jing Haiping had assumed Zhou Chang was just like his father. But as time went on, Jing Haiping gradually realized that Zhou Chang was a force to be reckoned with. Qinghui was originally on the verge of falling behind, yet Zhou Chang had single-handedly dragged it back into the lead.

“I just can’t figure it out—how did a thing like this even start?” Jing Haiping spoke again. “How did you end up…”

Jing Hong thought for a moment: “To put it in a single sentence: through endless clashes, feelings grew out of friction. Mutual admiration, mutual attraction. Trying to conquer each other, and being conquered in return. I really like his style, and he really likes mine. Later, we had too much to drink once—I won’t go into details, but we didn’t go all the way. After that, Zhou Chang was the first to suggest ‘being together.’ I resisted for a while, but after the short-selling crisis, I finally decided to give this hidden relationship a try.”

“After the short-selling crisis?” Jing Haiping asked. “What year was that?”

Jing Hong replied calmly, “2019. We’ve been together for almost five years.”

Jing Haiping went silent.

Almost five years.

Yet the tenderness in their kisses and the deep affection in their eyes when they looked at each other clearly resembled a couple in the passionate honeymoon phase of a romance.

“Dad, Mom,” Jing Hong began laying out his future plans. “It’s been almost five years, and we haven’t run into any trouble. Both Fanhai and Qinghui have only grown better. We’ve never been exposed or even suspected. Of course, as long as there’s no solid proof—and as long as you two pairs of parents don’t randomly bring people back to our homes unannounced—even if shareholders harbor faint suspicions, faced with strong financial performance, they will convince themselves otherwise. To protect high-profile privacy, aside from necessary public areas like compound gates, there are no security cameras inside the residential areas; owners can only install monitors inside their own private homes. Cleaners and private chefs rarely visit, and even when they do, they leave at fixed times, with digital locks logging door activity.”

Knowing with absolute certainty that he couldn’t stop his son, Jing Haiping fell silent for a long moment before asking, “What about the future? Do the two of you have plans? Who will inherit Fanhai Group?”

Their family truly had a corporate “throne” to pass down.

“The future?” Jing Hong’s lips curved slightly. “That’s such a distant matter. I’m not particularly fond of children, nor am I suited to raising them. Zhou Chang feels the same. I like having absolute control over things, but I know children are not something adults can or should control. I’m not cut out for it, and Zhou Chang probably isn’t either. As for Fanhai… again, that’s a distant issue. U.S.-listed tech companies like ours all have sunset clauses; after the founders pass away, super-voting rights automatically downgrade. By that time, Fanhai won’t belong to us anymore, but to the public shareholders. The Jing family will merely be one of many shareholders, holding a tiny percentage of equity. Look around at the corporate world—the vast majority of enterprises are handed over to professional managers, including American tech giants. Compared to them, you two have done quite well—at least you passed it down for one additional generation, didn’t you? Since the next generation won’t serve as CEO and won’t hold controlling voting power, all that remains is the financial value of the stock. As for money… I didn’t care all that much about it while alive, so why would I care after I’m dead? In my view, when the time comes, equity can be transferred to trusted individuals or other companies so that Fanhai can continue forward. That’s enough. Bill Gates currently holds only about 1% of Microsoft’s shares, having continuously reduced his stake since 2008, but what of it? Microsoft still carries his bloodline and his tech DNA into the future. His name is forever carved into the history of that company and human technology—those are the things that can never be erased. Whether his 1% stake is inherited by biological children or not, does it really matter all that much? As for the cash converted from stock, after I retire, I can use it to support whatever causes I wish. Isn’t it great if your son spends all the wealth you built during his lifetime? It beats having it squandered by irresponsible descendants. How many spoiled heirs ruin themselves after inheriting vast fortunes? They’d be better off without it.”

Microsoft currently had no ultimate controlling shareholder, and its board didn’t overly interfere with the CEO’s management decisions, yet the company was thriving better than ever.

Jing Haiping remained speechless.

Jing Hong had always been extraordinarily persuasive; even Jing Haiping found himself drawn into his logic.

“Besides,” Jing Hong smiled, “Jing Yu’s little daughter looks exceptionally sharp to me. Fanhai can be passed to her.”

Jing Yu’s daughter was only a year old, yet she already acted like a little genius.

Jing Haiping adored his granddaughter, so his heart settled a bit, though he still let out a long sigh.

Since Jing Hong had laid everything out so clearly, Jiang Mei had completely come around. Many women adapt to life’s “unforeseen changes” far better than men, understanding that “change” is simply a part of “living.” Moreover, immersed in internet culture and literature over the years, her open-mindedness was quite high. She spoke up: “Since that’s the case, your mother gives you both her blessing. Just make sure your relationship stays strong and harmonious—never destroy each other or yourselves.”

“Thank you, Mom,” Jing Hong kept his hands clasped. “Though the word ‘blessing’ sounds as if we need good fortune or luck. In reality, we believe that whether we encounter good luck or bad luck, we can walk through it together. We have full confidence in that.”

Jiang Mei looked at Jing Hong.

In the past, she could never have imagined her son acting like this.

It seemed utterly irrational. Yet at the same time, this “irrationality” was backed by absolute, logical reasoning.

“Alright, it’s 12:30,” Jiang Mei stood up and said. “Let’s eat lunch first. We can talk more after eating.” Due to Jing Haiping’s medical history, Jiang Mei was extremely strict about maintaining set meal and sleep schedules.

Jing Hong said, “Alright.”

Because Jing Hong was extremely busy, halfway through the meal, an emergency situation arose at Fanhai. Jing Hong had to rush to the office immediately to manage the crisis. He put down his chopsticks, stood up, and excused himself to his parents.

Jing Haiping walked Jing Hong to the front door. Hesitating for a moment as if struggling to find the words, he suddenly asked, “Jing Hong, you—”

Jing Hong turned his head: “Hmm?”

“You…” Jing Haiping still found it difficult to bring up, taking several seconds before finally asking: “Are you the one on top, or the one on the bottom?”

Jing Hong’s eyes remained as calm as still water. He answered Jing Haiping: “The relationship between the two of us is not something that can be defined by superficial labels like ‘top’ or ‘bottom.’ Using the word ‘love’ sounds cliché, but… do you believe my mother loves you? 26 years ago, she resigned from her job to join Fanhai and help you. When Fanhai faced a crisis, my mother led a team across the country, visiting internet cafes big and small to promote our games and prepaid cards. Giving birth to me, raising me—my mother has always sacrificed more. When you fell ill, my mother gave up her executive power and flew with you to the United States, researching hospitals and doctors, resigning from her work once again to care for you all the way until now.”

Jing Haiping didn’t say a word.

“My feelings for Zhou Chang are just as unwavering,” Jing Hong said. “You might not have noticed it. Years ago, in the split second right before our car accident, he yanked the steering wheel to face his side of the car toward the oncoming vehicle. That was an instinctive reaction. That is the nature of our relationship.”

With that, Jing Hong raised his wrist to check his watch and said, “Alright, I must take my leave now.”

Because Jing Hong had left midway, it was unclear whether that conversation had brought full closure, but afterward, neither Jing Haiping nor Jiang Mei brought the topic up with Jing Hong again.

It was as if Jing Hong and Zhou Chang’s relationship had become a unspoken secret.

Later, Zhou Chang mentioned to Jing Hong that Zhou Buqun had also asked about “who was on top.” Zhou Chang hadn’t answered either, giving a response almost identical to Jing Hong’s: “Our relationship isn’t something that can be defined by superficial labels like top or bottom.” The wording differed slightly, but the core meaning was identical.

After coming out to their parents, everything remained the same as before—with just one minor exception.

Sometimes, when running into Jing Haiping and Jiang Mei during walks in the residential compound, Zhou Buqun would call out loudly: “Old Mr. Jing!”

Jing Haiping ignored him completely.

Yet Zhou Buqun only grew bolder, even starting to add: “Old Mr. Jing, Little President Jing just came over for dinner!”

Jing Haiping’s face would turn as black as charcoal.

Once, while Jing Hong was accompanying Jiang Mei and Jing Haiping on a stroll through the compound, they happened to cross paths with Zhou Buqun and Zhou Chang. Jing Hong and Zhou Chang’s gazes met—intense, lingering, and thick with affection—until they passed each other by.

At that moment, Jing Haiping said in sheer despair, “You two only separated two hours ago.”

As for the complex dynamic between the older generation, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang didn’t bother to meddle. Right now, the fates of Fanhai and Qinghui were still rocking in the stormy sea of global economic tides, leaving them with no energy to spare for trivial matters.

Yet occasionally, Jing Hong would jot down brief notes for the upcoming second volume of 25 Years of Fanhai—just simple, short sentences. That financial journalist had once said: “In 2047, if Fanhai and I are both still alive, I will write the next 25 years.”

Jing Hong believed that the next volume of 25 Years of Fanhai would still feature a vast amount of content related to Zhou Chang.

He was deliberately recording it all.

Their new collaborations, their new conflicts.

Everything that transpired between them.

After the second volume of 25 Years of Fanhai, there would perhaps be a third 25-year chronicle, recording the years from 2047 to 2072.

Jing Hong thought that when he sat down for interviews back then, looking at his own handwriting, he might reflect: It turns out that, volume by volume, biography by biography, the story between him and Zhou Chang had accidentally worn down countless pens, and written their hair all the way to white.

【Incompatible — The End】