WRA CH41

Chapter 41: Zhou Sicheng’s Advanced Measures

Professor Xu: “I do happen to know a Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner who has targeted therapies for soothing emotional distress. Colleagues struggling with depression and heavy stress often consult him for prescriptions.”

Zhou Sicheng: “Please give me his contact information.”

Noticing Xiang Zhen’s unusual symptoms, Professor Xu offered a preemptive disclaimer: “This TCM doctor I know mostly treats menopausal women. If it doesn’t work, President Zhou, you shouldn’t make things difficult for him.”

Zhou Sicheng gave a bitter smile: “Make things difficult?”

If he dared make things difficult, Xiang Zhen would just throw up right in front of him.

The moment Xiang Zhen bolted into the bathroom, his symptoms cleared up; he even relished the lingering taste of the cream for a second.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he ruffled his golden hair into a bird’s nest, but because his hair was overly silky-smooth, after a moment, it gradually settled back into place on its own.

Why? Hadn’t he listened attentively in class? Professor Xu’s explanations made complete sense, so why did he still want to throw up the moment he saw the capitalist?

His mind felt cleaved in two—one half corrupted by the capitalist, the other half holding the line, solid as bedrock.

Before becoming husband and wife with Zhou Sicheng, he was, first and foremost, a proletarian Yao.

First come, first served in all matters.

He and Zhou Sicheng were truly finished.

Turning his head toward the window, it had begun to rain. After a round of sweltering heat, the sun rested. In mid-to-late June, the plum rains began to envelop Haicheng.

Humans found it rather uncomfortable, but the vegetation was flourishing wild and rampant.

He wanted to go outside; he wanted the vastness of the open world.

Perhaps, if he and his hubby spent some time apart, things would get better. When longing struck back, any obstacle would crumble to ash.

Xiang Zhen took out his phone and messaged Zhou Sicheng.

[Xiang Zhen: Hubby, I want to move out. Please help take care of the sunflowers.]

The sunflowers he planted, along with his kin sunflowers, were all entrusted to Zhou Sicheng. With the sunflowers here, he would definitely return.

[Zhou Sicheng: No. I’ve already terminated the lease on the rental apartment.]

[Xiang Zhen: I can just squeeze in with Manning.]

[Zhou Sicheng: Wifey, give me another chance, okay? I hired a TCM doctor; he’ll arrive this afternoon.]

Xiang Zhen’s heart softened. Alright then.

In the afternoon, the elderly TCM practitioner arrived, carrying gleaming silver acupuncture needles.

Xiang Zhen, having just extended his fair wrist, panicked and yanked it back behind him like a child getting a vaccine shot at a hospital.

The old doctor attempted to put on a genial, gentle expression like Professor Xu, but having naturally stern features, it wasn’t very effective. “Give me your right hand.”

Xiang Zhen glanced around; only the butler and Ye Yun were there. Zhou Sicheng didn’t dare show himself. That meant he had to be brave on his own.

Xiang Zhen held out his hand. “I don’t want needles.” He quickly added, “And I don’t want to drink Chinese herbal medicine either.”

TCM was the culmination of treating human ailments. He was a sunflower; it wouldn’t work, only cause needless suffering.

The old doctor placed his fingers on the pulse point. Gradually, his expression turned profound.

“When do you feel like throwing up?”

“Whenever I see my hubby.”

The doctor: “What about other times? For instance, while eating? Or right after waking up in the morning?”

Xiang Zhen shook his head, doing his best to prove his body was normal: “Neither. Whenever I don’t see my hubby, I’m completely fine.”

The butler: “I can attest to this. Madam is telling the truth.”

When he couldn’t see Young Master Zhou, Madam was practically a cheerful little sun; the moment he saw Young Master Zhou, he transformed into a sickly little lamb.

“Bizarre.” The old doctor had only ever seen pregnant women suddenly become hypersensitive to a particular thing—either loving it intensely or abhorring it completely.

An unscientific association like that, the old doctor naturally wouldn’t voice aloud.

“Could we ask President Zhou to step in? I want to see if acupuncture can suppress the vomiting reflex.”

His family had an ancestral acupuncture technique specifically for morning sickness. It might not be the exact remedy, but it was worth a shot.

The old doctor casually uttered words that made Xiang Zhen turn pale.

Staring wide-eyed at the door, he knew Zhou Sicheng was definitely standing behind it and had heard the doctor’s words.

“Don’t…”

Xiang Zhen shook his head in fright—scared of Zhou Sicheng walking in, scared of the silver needles piercing him. The sharp needle tips looked just like lightning striking down. For some reason, during this period, he had an overwhelming instinct to protect himself, unwilling to suffer the slightest scratch.

The old doctor washed and sanitized his hands, retrieving silver needles from the case, which the butler took to disinfect once more. The doorknob turned, and Zhou Sicheng walked in. Xiang Zhen squeezed his eyes shut instantly.

Zhou Sicheng coaxed him: “Zhenzhen, open your eyes.”

“Hubby, I’m not sick.” Trembling slightly, Xiang Zhen fluttered his eyelashes open. The instant he saw Zhou Sicheng, his breathing turned shallow and rapid.

“Zhenzhen isn’t sick.” Zhou Sicheng rubbed his head, gesturing for the doctor to insert the needles.

Xiang Zhen hid his hands stubbornly behind his back.

Zhou Sicheng: “Ye Yun, hold his hands.”

Ye Yun had no choice but to pull out Xiang Zhen’s wrists. “Don’t be afraid, it doesn’t hurt. Whenever we get bumps and sprains, we often have TCM doctors stick in a couple of needles to bleed it a bit.”

The old doctor tapped a needle into Xiang Zhen’s Neiguan point.

Xiang Zhen didn’t dare struggle with all his might, because the people holding him down were all people who loved him. He could only gaze pitifully at Zhou Sicheng, hoping Zhou Sicheng would descend like a deity to rescue him.

The more he thought this, the more he longed for Zhou Sicheng to be that deity, and the more violently his stomach churned.

Perhaps sensing this beforehand, he hadn’t eaten anything at lunch. Now, even though he wanted to vomit, nothing came up; he just dry-heaved violently, even the strands of his hair trembling, tears streaming down his face.

Through a thick veil of tears, he met Zhou Sicheng’s eyes. It had been so long since he last looked at his hubby like this; the agony in Zhou Sicheng’s eyes was not a fraction less than his own.

Their respective pain seemed separated by the Milky Way; neither could comfort the other.

It was Ye Yun’s first time seeing Xiang Zhen vomit like this; his grip loosened again and again, but Xiang Zhen didn’t register the eased pressure at all, simply fixing his gaze on President Zhou, as if only President Zhou could save him.

The doctor: “Zusanli point.”

In truth, Xiang Zhen barely felt any physical pain from the needle; it was largely psychological resistance. He stubbornly stared at his husband, waging an invisible battle against Zhou Sicheng.

Subjected to his wife’s terrified, pleading gaze, Zhou Sicheng’s rationality teetered on the brink, his guilt long having burst its dam.

The doctor: “Zhongwan point.”

When he noticed that even Xiang Zhen’s silky golden hair—his absolute favorite—was trembling from pure dread, Zhou Sicheng felt struck by an overwhelming catastrophe.

“Forget it.” Zhou Sicheng reached out and covered Xiang Zhen’s eyes.

Hearing this, the doctor immediately withdrew the needles. Seeing Madam Zhou’s reaction, he was clearly uncooperative, and without cooperation, it had no effect.

Xiang Zhen’s chest heaved. After a long moment, he opened his eyes, and Zhou Sicheng was already gone.

Collapsing onto the bed, his heart felt heavy with sorrow.

The acupuncture hadn’t hurt at all. He had taken advantage of Zhou Sicheng’s soft-heartedness. He hadn’t cooperated with the solution his hubby came up with—he was too wicked.

The adult world was too complicated. When people reached a certain age, they began to miss childhood.

Xiang Zhen missed the simple, carefree days in the hazelnut grove.

Zhou Sicheng silently saw the old doctor out. Detecting President Zhou’s gloomy, oppressive aura, the old doctor sighed inwardly. When high-ranking, powerful young men were at their wit’s end, their natural aura remained imposing without needing to show anger.

Zhou Sicheng: “Since you’re already here, write a prescription to soothe fright and anxiety.” Xiang Zhen had been terribly frightened today.

“Alright.”

Pondering for a moment, the old doctor prescribed a mild antiemetic formula safe for pregnancy; if pregnant women could take it, Xiang Zhen certainly could too.

That evening, the butler brewed a bowl of herbal medicine for Xiang Zhen. It looked dark and murky, but wasn’t very bitter.

Through the live feed from Xiao Kui Bao, Zhou Sicheng watched as Xiang Zhen poured the entire bowl resolutely down the toilet without taking a single sip.

Clenching his hand into a fist, he pressed his protruding knuckles hard against the solid wood desk until pain surged, restoring his rationality.

Pulling his childhood Planting Diary from the bookshelf, Zhou Sicheng walked with muted footsteps to the bedroom door, crouched down, and set it on the floor outside.

Xiao Kui Bao rolled out to pick it up, transferring it to Xiang Zhen.

Instead of herbal tea, Xiang Zhen drank a bottle of sour plum juice Xiao Kui Bao had sneaked in for him—dark, tangy, and immensely refreshing.

“Master, Master, quickly take a look at this book.”

Sitting up cross-legged, Xiang Zhen flipped it open. Opening the title page, he saw a line of vigorous, bold characters penned in gold ink:

“Zhoufu was passed down to me by my father; protecting Zhoufu is my responsibility. This planting diary was passed down to me by my mother; like you, I simply grew from a boy who fell in love with growing sunflowers into a young man.”

“Within social relationships, a person holds many identities. Could you consider me merely an ordinary fellow sunflower enthusiast?”

“If not, we can step back into the past. The BYD is fully charged; I will wait for you in the car.”

Tears streamed down Xiang Zhen’s face. Flipping to the next page, he saw childish handwriting neatly recording: Today the sunflower sprouted,Today the sunflower grew two leaves…

Zheng Ai had developed photos of the sunflowers and Zhou Sicheng into stickers. Xiang Zhen saw the young Zhou Sicheng.

He didn’t possess the adult Zhou Sicheng’s decisive, chilling demeanor; he was simply an outstanding, carefree boy. Just like… just like the sunflower in the hazelnut grove.

Xiang Zhen suddenly understood: what couldn’t be reclaimed was the past. He could never return to the hazelnut grove, and he could never abandon Zhou Sicheng.

Closing the book and cradling the Planting Diary, Xiang Zhen leaped out of bed, turned the knob, and ran to find the BYD.

As if anticipating he would come out, Zhou Sicheng had stationed people along the way to guide him, helping him escape this palace-like villa. Only when he spotted the familiar white BYD did Xiang Zhen halt his steps.

Chirp, chirp. The BYD’s taillights flashed twice.

Xiang Zhen hesitated, the image of Zhou Sicheng playing the piano under the daylight flashing in his mind. He couldn’t forget it.

In that split second, he realized everything was in vain. Seeing Zhou Sicheng inside the BYD would still make him vomit, because he couldn’t forget.

Zhou Sicheng was born to control everything. He belonged here.

Xiang Zhen took two steps back, lacking the courage to step forward. Lowering his head, he messaged Zhou Sicheng.

[Xiang Zhen: Hubby, it’s useless.]

[Zhou Sicheng: Why not give it a try?]

The BYD’s high beams turned on, casting a brilliant white illumination across the path ahead, resembling a radiant boulevard. Zhou Sicheng pushed the car door open and stepped out with a long leg.

Xiang Zhen looked at him. Was Zhou Sicheng truly preparing to abandon a lifetime of luxury for his sake? This was far higher than throwing away fortunes or erupting in fury. Zhou Sicheng chose his wife over his empire.

Xiang Zhen’s blood roared. He wanted so badly to kiss his hubby, press flesh to flesh, make love to his hubby—even right in the car.

Stepping fully out of the car, the headlights framed Zhou Sicheng like the radiant glow of the sun: “Wifey, let’s go home.”

Xiang Zhen gripped his trouser legs tightly, digging his fingernails into his flesh. Yet his body screamed violently for him to get away, threatening dire consequences otherwise. Because his head was completely filled with making love to his hubby, this punishment was especially severe.

Terrified of making Zhou Sicheng hurt by seeing him like this, Xiang Zhen turned and sprinted back in panic, even stumbling in an uncharacteristic stumble.

Zhou Sicheng stood alone in the wind until all the lights clicked off.

Even this won’t work? Does he have any other way left?

Yes.

After a long silence, Zhou Sicheng pulled his phone from the car and dialed a number.

…

The phone call Fan Hao had dreaded the most over the past few days finally arrived.

Zhou Sicheng: “Pick up my wife tomorrow and take him back to work at the bank.”

Fan Hao: “You made up?”

Dead silence on the other end.

Zhou Sicheng: “You know what you need to tell him.”

Fan Hao: “…” He didn’t want to know.