The next day, Jing Hong returned to Beijing. He didn’t even drop by home, heading straight to Fanhai’s office with his luggage, tossing the bags onto his “Feichi” carriage.

However, Jing Hong left just past six o’clock that evening—he missed that man a little. They had agreed during the day that neither would work late tonight, bringing their laptops home instead.

When he arrived home and set eyes on Zhou Chang, Jing Hong actually froze for a moment. Zhou Chang was wearing a free t-shirt from “Fanhai Group.” There had been a few leftover souvenirs from Fanhai’s anniversary event previously, and the HR General Manager had given a few to Jing Hong, who brought them back.

“…” Jing Hong asked, “What are you doing?”

Zhou Chang, completely unbothered, replied, “The wind was pretty heavy last night and blew down some branches in the yard. The gardener only comes once a week, so I picked them up myself first. No big deal.”

Jing Hong asked again: “…Why are you wearing a Fanhai T-shirt?”

“Just grabbed it at random,” Zhou Chang said with his usual indifference. “Picking up branches meant changing clothes. I rummaged through the bedroom closet, saw a few of these free shirts, and took one.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Jing Hong said, carrying his luggage inside with one hand, the tendons on his wrist tightening slightly. “The big CEO of Qinghui Group wearing the Fanhai LOGO right over his left chest, without the slightest psychological barrier. Shouldn’t I take a photo? It could count as blackmail material.”

“What’s the big deal?” Zhou Chang said. “Isn’t a Fanhai employee’s family member also one of Fanhai’s people?”

Jing Hong looked at him, remaining silent.

Jing Hong suddenly remembered a rumor, which supposedly happened back in 2017.

Zhou Chang had dropped by to listen in on a certain Qinghui project meeting, only to spot an employee actually wearing a free Fanhai shirt. On the spot, he glared at the employee and said, “Take it off.”

Once the employee took off the shirt, Zhou Chang still wasn’t done, adding, “Throw it away.”

And yet now, he was wearing a Fanhai T-shirt himself.

Afterward, Zhou Chang showered and changed into fresh clothes. He asked Jing Hong, “I saw the announcement this morning. Fanhai got a bargain this time—snagging it for just 1.5 billion.”

In reality, for every business trip, Jing Hong wouldn’t even tell him where his destination was. Yet learning the outcome from the news afterward somehow felt like a sweet dynamic between them.

It could be considered another version of “Though knowing each other until our hair turns white, we still rest our hands on our sword hilts.”

“Not bad,” Jing Hong said as he lightly pressed against Zhou Chang’s lips. “Used a few special tricks.”

With his lips being rubbed, Zhou Chang asked ambiguously, “What tricks?”

“Playing the homewrecker,” Jing Hong licked Zhou Chang’s lower lip. “That company and its investor were already sleeping in the same bed with different dreams. Their investment funds back then were split into two installments: the investor paid half first, and after that, once the company met its annual performance targets, the investor would pay another 25%. The performance pressure was simply too intense, so the company halted their favorite legacy business to focus on new ventures that could make quick cash. The friction between the two sides kept escalating. The company wanted a ‘divorce,’ and the investor actually wanted to find someone to take the burden off their hands.”

“I heard about that,” Zhou Chang asked. “And then?”

“And then? Hanqing and I were still optimistic about this team. As the news said, after the acquisition, Fanhai will hand over a portion of Fanhai’s European operations to them to manage.”

“Yeah, I saw.”

Jing Hong continued to suckle and lick at Zhou Chang’s lips: “A few months ago, I asked that company’s CEO out for a stroll. Years ago when he was seeking investment, he sent an email to Old Mr. Jing. Old Mr. Jing ignored it, but I replied to that email.”

“So that’s how it is,” Zhou Chang’s voice turned low as he asked, “though, is it really appropriate to be kissing while talking about work, Little Executive Director Jing?”

Jing Hong said, “Then let’s stop talking.”

With those words, the two locked together in a feverish kiss once again.

Unable to resist—never able to resist.

Next, Jing Hong showered as well. When he came back out, he found Zhou Chang sitting quietly at the small dining table, looking at a computer screen.

Drying his hair, Jing Hong walked over and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Zhou Chang smiled slightly, gesturing toward the screen. “Looked it up on a whim and surprisingly found something like this, so I played around with it.”

“…?” Jing Hong followed Zhou Chang’s gaze.

After a long pause, Jing Hong asked Zhou Chang with uncertainty: “…A marriage certificate?”

“Yeah,” Zhou Chang didn’t mind at all. “Enter two names, write a date, and of course ID numbers, then upload two headshots. The AI automatically generates the new composite photo it needs, looks pretty real too—everything that should be there is there. Pay a few yuan, and they can even mail the fake certificate to you. Old Mr. Zhou has been nagging about marriage again, saying he wants to see a marriage certificate, so I suddenly got curious about what a marriage certificate looks like. After all, husband and wife is the most intimate relationship two strangers can achieve.”

“…” Jing Hong looked at the computer screen.

His headshots were everywhere on the internet—he was officially named this or that every single day, and had to submit photos for all of them.

“Alright,” Zhou Chang touched and swiped the computer’s touchpad, closing the webpage, and then folded the laptop shut.

Catching sight of this “fake marriage certificate,” a drop of bitterness welled up in Jing Hong’s chest.

He and Zhou Chang couldn’t possibly get married.

As two men of the same sex, it was impossible; and as the CEO of Fanhai and the CEO of Qinghui, it was even more out of the question.

They could only remain like this—stealthy, hidden from the light.

Jing Hong could only say, “A marriage certificate? I don’t think Old Mr. Zhou is in his right mind either. While other companies are making founders sign ‘Tudou clauses’ left and right, he thinks he has too few problems to worry about.”

Currently, the shareholder agreements of many companies stipulated that the CEO’s marriage or divorce required the consent of the board of directors, especially the consent of preferred shareholders.

This originated a few years ago when a certain video platform was making a push for an IPO. The CEO of that company got wrapped up in a divorce case, and the wife applied for equity preservation and division. The court subsequently froze all of the husband’s equity across three companies, disrupting the IPO process. Half a year later, the two sides finally reached a settlement, and the video company proceeded with a “bloody IPO.” Although in reality the resolution didn’t take too long and the wife didn’t deliberately sabotage her ex-husband’s core business, the capital market was fickle, and that platform still missed the best window for listing.

Hearing this, Zhou Chang let out a soft chuckle: “True.”

“…” Jing Hong used one hand to gently lift Zhou Chang’s chin from behind, forcing Zhou Chang to tilt his neck and raise his head. Bending over, he kissed down deeply, deeply from behind the back of Zhou Chang’s chair.

Naturally, the two lost control once again.

In the bedroom, Zhou Chang embraced Jing Hong from behind, kissing his neck. With his neck arched high and his eyes closed, Jing Hong breathed heavily, enjoying it, raising his right hand to reach back and stroke the back of Zhou Chang’s neck, caressing it again and again.

However, Jing Hong hadn’t expected that right when the two were about to strip off their bathrobes for the next step, Zhou Chang suddenly held the backs of his hands from behind, pushing him all the way to the cabinet on one side of the bedroom. Opening a drawer, he rummaged inside, and finally pulled out a pair of nail clippers.

Jing Hong: “…???”

He glanced back at Zhou Chang behind him.

“Trim them first,” Zhou Chang chuckled softly. “Last time, my back bled.”

Jing Hong: “…………..”

Helpless, Jing Hong had no choice but to let Zhou Chang trim his nails, and then let Zhou Chang use a small file to carefully smooth them out.

The bathrobes finally hit the floor.

When the two intertwined once more at last, Zhou Chang drew in a sharp breath: “My soul almost left my body.”

…………

When it was all over, the two showered once again.

Jing Hong sent a few more emails and handled a few work items. Then, just as Jing Hong closed his laptop and wanted to sleep, Zhou Chang suddenly patted one of his legs under the blanket, saying, “Don’t sleep yet. I have something I want to give you.”

Jing Hong turned his gaze: “…?”

Bending down slightly, Zhou Chang opened the nightstand drawer on one side and pulled out a photo album.

Jing Hong looked at him again: “…?”

“This is for you,” Zhou Chang offered a light smile, flipping open the first page of the album. “The photo album from Old Mr. Zhou’s house. Old Mr. Zhou, Old-Old Mr. Zhou, and Old-Old-Old Mr. Zhou all said that this thing has to be passed down from generation to generation.”

Jing Hong focused his eyes.

Zhou Chang’s great-grandfather must have come from a prominent family—the background of the black-and-white old photo looked like an American university. The man in the middle wore glasses and played the piano, performing a song together with his classmates. Small characters written beside the photo read: 1911, Cornell.

The photo album itself wasn’t old and worn; the photos had likely been transferred through several moves. Now, the yellowed, aged photos were arranged on pure black background paper and covered with protective plastic film.

Flipping further back, it was still this great-grandfather.

Most were at Cornell, with a small portion in China—including a photo with a Banner woman and her son in a hutong, a photo with a temple lama, and so forth, with notes beside them: 1912, Early Republic of China.

Further back, there were wedding photos.

The wedding location was in New York State. The marriage partner beside him was a beautiful Chinese girl. Beside a clear lake, the girl wore a white wedding dress and held a vibrant bouquet, while the man wore a suit, a bow tie, and a boutonnierre.

Further, further back, this great-grandfather returned to China, taught at a university, and had children, but he seemed to have passed away quite early, even before the founding of the PRC.

Following that was the “second generation” of the Zhou family photo album—Zhou Chang’s grandfather.

Born in 1919—by which time, the great-grandfather had already returned to China.

Admitted to Zhejiang University in 1937, he moved westward along with the school. After graduation, he designed bridges at a design institute in Nanjing and participated in major engineering projects.

There were also wedding photos inside, taken in a photo studio of that era.

Grandma wore light makeup, and Grandpa seemed to as well; the two made a striking pair.

There were also middle school graduation photos, university graduation photos, photos with colleagues, and so on.

Further back was Old Mr. Zhou’s section.

Jing Hong understood now—in the Zhou family, Zhou Chang wasn’t the genetic anomaly; Zhou Buqun was the actual genetic anomaly.

The only ugly one across several generations.

The mystery from over a decade ago was solved.

Reaching Zhou Buqun, the entire style completely shifted.

Born in 1959, he was the fourth child in the family.

Married in 1982, the photo was also the kind of photo studio marriage certificate from that time, barely staying conventional.

Everything else was wildly uninhibited—shoulder-length hair, aviator sunglasses, bell-bottom pants. One photo was taken in front of the main gate of a research institute in Beijing, seemingly when he was about to start a job.

A single photo album, and Zhou Buqun occupied more than half of it.

Founding Qinghui under a giant LOGO, giving speeches, attending major conferences—a dizzying array.

Sandwiched in the middle was Zhou Chang’s 100-day baby photo from the photo studio in 1985.

Zhou Chang let out a soft chuckle: “They actually only put what they consider extremely important into this album. Wedding photos, 100-day baby photos, and so on. Or things that can represent a certain period of their lives, things they feel exceptionally proud of and want to show off to future generations.”

“Mm,” Jing Hong nodded, assuming there wouldn’t be anything else at the back of the album. After all, given Zhou Chang’s personality, it was impossible for him to dutifully put anything of his own inside.

At most, he’d just slap something together before dying.

Yet the moment he turned the page, Jing Hong’s hand froze.

There was one more page of photos.

A group photo of all attendees on the day Zhou Chang picked up the cufflink—the two of them standing side by side.

And the photo from the day of “trekking through the Gobi”—the side-by-side silhouette of the two of them from Jing Hong’s Moments post back then.

Jing Hong lowered his gaze, looking at it for a very, very long time.

He had entered this photo album as well.

As the single “important event” currently chosen by Zhou Chang.

“Go to sleep,” Zhou Chang gently set the photo album down on the nightstand on Jing Hong’s side. “It’s yours now, Little Executive Director Jing.”

Jing Hong asked, “What if there’s no one left to pass it down to?”

Zhou Chang let out a yawn: “Then you can just give it to Zhou Qingyuan. With our photos inside, let it keep being passed down through the generations. When future generations look at the album, they’ll say: ‘Woah, this fourth-generation guy named Zhou Chang—just because of the person beside him, the line couldn’t be passed down from his branch anymore.'”