After that night in the Maldives, which was also following the “Qinghui Network Security Incident” and before they were shorted by Wall Street, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang actually crossed paths several times.

One of those occasions was shortly after the Spring Festival, when both attended a charity gala in Guangzhou. By then, through the home visit to express gratitude over the “Qinghui Network Security Incident,” the two red envelopes and blessings on Lunar New Year’s Eve, the conversation at the Japanese restaurant, and that touch of ambiguity, the relationship between Jing Hong and Zhou Chang had become far milder than it was before the Spring Festival.

At the gala, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang were not seated together; in fact, they were placed at two separate tables.

Jing Hong was actually quite satisfied with the organizers’ arrangement. Deep down, he was somewhat afraid of seeing Zhou Chang, feeling as though his own destiny was spiraling uncontrollably in a certain direction.

What a unfamiliar sense of “uncontrollable.”

It seemed that whenever Zhou Chang was involved, many things became “uncontrollable.” Previously, it was business; now, even his heart was becoming “uncontrollable.”

On one hand, he felt fortunate that he was far calmer and more pragmatic than Zhou Chang; on the other hand, he harbored a faint envy toward Zhou Chang’s freedom and carefree nature.

“Following one’s heart”—what a difficult pair of words.

On his shoulders rested Fanhai, his parents, the shareholders, and the employees. He couldn’t afford Zhou Chang’s freedom and spontaneity.

Things hadn’t reached that point yet.

He could still cut his losses in time.

Inside the grand banquet hall, crystal chandeliers sparkled exquisitely overhead. Tables were draped in crisp white tablecloths, set with dinner plates, wine glasses, and lush, beautiful floral centerpieces. On the stage background board, ten large characters were written: “Deep Winter Affection, Sincere Charity Heart.”

The charity gala followed the usual “three-part formula”: introducing auction items, bidding on auction items—each accompanied by its own storied pitch—interspersed with mid-event activities.

Occasionally, Jing Hong’s gaze would unconsciously drift toward Zhou Chang. Zhou Chang always seemed to notice, turning his head to glance over, causing their eyes to lock for a brief second.

Both were seated in the head positions of their respective tables facing the stage. Thus, throughout the event, two or three times, both men would lean back against their chairs, gazing at the other table across the room. Amid the sea of guests and the lively proceedings, their eyes met silently.

One of the middle activities involved presenting a foundation certificate to a philanthropist. The young woman had sponsored over a dozen students over the past decade. When she first started working, she had even transferred most of her income to help several impoverished girls attend school and buy books—an act deserving of immense respect. Coming from a mountainous region herself, she wanted to help other girls break the cycle.

The ones designated to sign the certificate were precisely Jing Hong and Zhou Chang. This gala was also an event hosted by the “Aihua Foundation.” Both Fanhai and Qinghui served as board members; since Jing Haiping and Zhou Buqun had already retired from the IT circle, Fanhai and Qinghui were represented by Jing Hong and Zhou Chang respectively.

“President Jing,” a foundation volunteer bowed slightly, handing the certificate to Jing Hong, and said, “Could you please sign here?”

“Sure.” Jing Hong nodded, accepting the certificate and the signing pen. Placing the certificate on the table, he began reading the text attentively, holding the pen in his right hand.

A few seconds later, feeling a slight itch on his chin, Jing Hong unconsciously used the tail end of the pen to scratch his chin while continuing to read.

The end of the pen brushed smoothly against the skin of his chin.

Finishing the text quickly, Jing Hong’s gaze fell upon the signature blocks at the bottom of the certificate.

On the left was “Board Member Signature: Zhou Chang,” and on the right was “Board Member Signature: Jing Hong.”

On the left side of the certificate, Zhou Chang had already signed his name in the blank space. His handwriting was bold, sweeping, and flamboyant—much like the man himself.

Unable to help himself, Jing Hong glanced at Zhou Chang again, only to find Zhou Chang looking right back at him with a subtle, teasing glint in his eyes.

“…” Jing Hong suddenly remembered that the volunteer had come directly from Zhou Chang’s table. After handing the certificate to Zhou Chang for his signature, she had brought it straight to him. Thus, the pen he had just used to scratch his chin was the very one Zhou Chang had just used.

Jing Hong averted his gaze, looking away from Zhou Chang.

He uncapped the pen, but his pen tip paused over his signature block for a few seconds.

A single certificate, with “Zhou Chang” signed on the left and his own signature on the right, to be presented together to someone else—it inevitably carried a lingering hint of ambiguity. The two of them, joining forces to bestow a gift upon another, even sharing their signatures from the exact same pen.

A few seconds later, Jing Hong let out a gentle sigh. The pen tip touched down on the certificate, swiftly writing his name to the right of “Zhou Chang”: Jing Hong.

His handwriting was also large, nearly matching Zhou Chang’s in scale.

The two names stood side by side, looking at each other from left to right.

The ink was not entirely dry; Jing Hong blew lightly on it a few times before closing the certificate and handing it back to the volunteer.

“Thank you, President Jing,” the volunteer said again. “The foundation chair will present the certificate shortly.”

“Alright, and thank you as well,” Jing Hong said, looking at her. “Please pass along my thanks to the chair, and thank you for your hard work.”

Finding herself thanked directly by him, the volunteer looked pleasantly surprised. “You’re very welcome~!”

Later during the gala, Jing Hong won the bidding for a Thangka painting, while Zhou Chang acquired an antique piece.

Following the main banquet was a small after-party for entrepreneurs to exchange further pleasantries, complete with a silent auction during the cocktail hour. There were too many items to fit within the schedule of the main charity gala.

At the conclusion of the banquet, to liven up the atmosphere, the organizers arranged a “ribbon-tying” interactive activity—volunteers approached guests at their tables to tie ribbons on them, as red ribbons often symbolized care and public welfare.

Consequently, at this moment, a red ribbon was tied around Jing Hong’s left wrist.

The volunteer assigned to Jing Hong had tied far too large a bow. The ribbon was quite long; volunteers at other tables usually wrapped the ribbon around the entrepreneur’s wrist a few times before tying a small knot. However, the girl responsible for Jing Hong was exceptionally straightforward—she didn’t wrap it even once, choosing instead to pick up both ends and tie a massive bow directly. As a result, the prominent bow on Jing Hong’s left wrist was undeniably striking: vibrant red, with four smooth and exquisite “wings,” under which hung two long, trailing red streamers.

Jing Hong didn’t pay it much mind, however. Holding the red ribbon, he went about picking up cakes or holding wine glasses, the red streamers swaying gently with his movements.

The gala volunteer had taken for granted that the red ribbon should be tied on Jing Hong’s left wrist, unaware that Jing Hong was left-handed. Thus, no matter what he did, that ribbon fluttered and swayed alongside his hand.

A crisp white shirt, a sleek black suit, a fair wrist, and long red ribbons.

At a certain moment, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang happened to meet in front of the wine-tasting station while holding their glasses.

Since both were holding wine glasses, it was inappropriate to turn away and deliberately walk past—that would violate social etiquette and further validate rumors of their “discord.” Thus, Jing Hong offered a slight smile and raised his glass for a toast, the ribbon at his wrist exceptionally eye-catching.

Zhou Chang also extended his glass.

Out of habit, both raised their glasses slightly higher, aiming for the superior position.

In wine etiquette, during a toast, the glass of the senior or superior party is held slightly higher, while the subordinate’s glass is held lower.

Thus, just as their glasses were about to touch, separated by a mere few centimeters, both stopped simultaneously.

Habit. Both thought to themselves: they had both zoned out for a split second when facing each other.

Other executives stood nearby. Observing the situation, they unconsciously held their breath and widened their eyes, eager to see how the two would resolve this dilemma of “superior vs. subordinate.”

A moment later, Zhou Chang gave a soft chuckle, lowered his glass, and lightly tapped the rim of his glass against the bowl of Jing Hong’s glass. The two glasses produced a clear clink.

The surrounding executives were universally astonished, thinking: Zhou Chang actually conceded?

“…” Jing Hong’s mood grew slightly complex. He raised his glass, tilted his neck back, and drank the wine down bit by bit, once again revealing his fair neck and smooth Adam’s apple. With one hand in his pocket and the other holding the glass, long red ribbons dangled beside his hand.

After the after-party concluded, the crowd prepared to disperse.

As they walked toward the exit, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang were quite close to each other. Complemented by a sudden shove from nearby people, Zhou Chang leaned closer for a brief moment.

His bespoke suit trousers brushed against one of Jing Hong’s ribbons and separated instantly. However, due to static electricity, Jing Hong’s red ribbon clung to his pants immediately afterward, reluctant to part.

Jing Hong looked down, grabbed the ribbon with his left hand, and tugged it back.

Too inconvenient, Jing Hong thought: Fortunately, the after-party was over and he could finally untie it.

With this thought, Jing Hong raised his left wrist, examined the ribbon bow, and tried to figure out how to untie it.

He didn’t know how to tie or untie bows properly; he needed to study it.

It would be troublesome if he pulled it into a dead knot.

Noticing his struggle, Zhou Chang’s lips curled into a smirk. Reaching out, he caught one side of the ribbon in his palm and said, “Pull.”

“…” Jing Hong took his advice. He looked at Zhou Chang, who happened to be looking right back at him. With one pulling the ribbon and the other sliding his wrist back, the dual force caused the ribbon to untie smoothly.

It came undone.

With lowered eyes, Zhou Chang caught the other side, and working together once more—one pulling, one sliding—they untied the rest of the ribbon. This time, neither looked at the other.

The ribbon was long. Zhou Chang pulled it through a few times with both hands, removing it entirely. Folding it haphazardly, he said, “Alright, I’ll toss it on my way out.”

The trash can was right outside the door. Jing Hong hesitated slightly, but ultimately nodded: “Then I’ll trouble President Zhou. Thank you.”

Zhou Chang said, “No problem.”

Jing Hong then took long strides out first, while Zhou Chang trailed slightly behind.

Naturally, he didn’t throw the ribbon away.

After getting into his car, Zhou Chang sat in the back seat, looked at the ribbon, and eventually wrapped it around the four fingers of his right hand loop by loop. Pressing his thumb down lightly to secure it, he brought it to his lips and kissed it softly.

Zhou Chang recalled the scene of the red ribbon bound around Jing Hong’s wrist.

Jing Hong had fair skin. In design theory, “red and white” was the most striking and eye-catching color combination; on PPTs submitted by subordinates, the content requiring the most attention was always red text on a white background.

At the same time, owing to his status, Jing Hong’s attire was permanently black, gray, dark blue, and similar tones. Such vivid colors rarely appeared on Jing Hong’s body. Today, for instance, Jing Hong was once again clad in a white shirt and black suit.

Yet red suited him so remarkably well.

Every time this color appeared on Jing Hong, it was breathtakingly beautiful.

Like lip gloss, like ribbons.

Looking at the ribbon in his hand, Zhou Chang thought: I wonder if I’ll ever again see such a striking, eye-catching scene of a red ribbon bound around Jing Hong’s wrist.

At that time, Zhou Chang didn’t realize that not long after they got together, this soft silk ribbon would once again appear on Jing Hong’s powerful wrists.

And this time, it wouldn’t be just one wrist, but both.

One wrist was tied with the ribbon threaded through the bars in the center of the guest bedroom’s large headboard, and the other wrist was bound similarly.

Back then, throughout that entire lost-control experience, Jing Hong had wanted to hold Zhou Chang, wrap his arms around Zhou Chang’s neck, and stroke Zhou Chang’s dark hair, yet he couldn’t. He instinctively wanted to embrace him, only to be restrained by the headboard—his hands catching abruptly every single time, unable to move forward, leaving him with no choice but to let the other man have his way with him.

And Zhou Chang had kept his eyes on him the entire time, watching his fair wrists—devoid even of a white shirt this time—and the red ribbon tied upon them.

Finally, the moment one hand was freed, Jing Hong couldn’t wait to wrap his arms tightly around Zhou Chang, holding him close, while the other wrist still bore that ribbon.

They indulged in another stretch of wild passion.

The sheets on the large bed were black; the red ribbon dangled over the bedsheets or lay draped across Jing Hong’s body. The combination of black, white, and red was intensely vivid and exquisitely seductive.

The ribbon was long. As Jing Hong shifted from lying on his back, to resting on his stomach, and back to his back, the red ribbon ended up wrapped once around his waist. Inside the loop of the red ribbon rested his firm, fair lower abdominal muscles.

After that “Aihua Foundation” charity gala in Guangzhou concluded, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang encountered each other once more on their return flight.

Both were booked on Air China Flight 1386, departing at 6:25 AM and landing at 9:40 AM—a schedule that wouldn’t delay any official business.

The flight had no first class, only business class. Jing Hong and Zhou Chang’s seats were separated by merely a narrow aisle, flanked by their respective assistants.

Once the aircraft leveled off, Jing Hong and Zhou Chang focused on their respective work.

In the middle of the flight, Zhou Chang took an audio call, likely from Qinghui Group’s partners in the UK. Jing Hong didn’t overhear any confidential information, but he heard Zhou Chang speaking with a British accent once again.

An authentic British accent, complete with proper, formal intonation.

Jing Hong: “…”

Upon finishing the call, Zhou Chang noticed that Jing Hong seemed to be looking at him from across the aisle—and likely had been for several seconds. He turned his gaze over, questioning with his eyes: “…?”

Jing Hong asked directly, “President Zhou’s British accent is quite authentic. Where did you learn it?”

Zhou Chang chuckled faintly. “High school. The first English tutor the elder President Zhou hired was a Londoner. Besides, I also did an exchange program in the UK during my undergraduate years.”

Jing Hong nodded: “I see.”

Zhou Chang asked, “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing. Just…” Jing Hong paused, omitting the word “sexy” that he actually thought, and said instead, “Just quite distinct.”

It was rare among Chinese people to speak with such an authentic British accent.

Unable to contain himself, a curve of a smile drifted across Zhou Chang’s lips. Using that formal British accent once more, he said, “Thank you. I do appreciate.”

Two very old-school expressions of gratitude. Some young people even felt that “Thank you” was outdated, preferring “Cheers,” let alone “I do appreciate.”

Zhou Chang did it on purpose.

Jing Hong turned his neck back, ignoring Zhou Chang.

Zhou Chang watched him silently for a moment before shifting his gaze back, though the smile at the corners of his lips remained.

Since it was an early flight, the airline provided breakfast.

The business class breakfast setup was far superior to economy, complete with a dessert that tasted quite good.

Jing Hong didn’t touch the fried rice, choosing only to eat the salad, eggs, and dessert, along with a cup of milk.

Finishing his meal, Jing Hong set down his cutlery and sat up straight again.

As a CEO, he ate very quickly, as did Zhou Chang. Both had honed this habit over years.

Unexpectedly, just as he set down his cutlery, Jing Hong saw Zhou Chang extending his own portion of dessert across the aisle. His distinct, well-defined left hand held the small, square plastic bowl containing the dessert. Zhou Chang said nothing, merely lifting it slightly to signal to Jing Hong. The plastic bowl appeared remarkably small in his large hand.

“…No need,” Jing Hong said. “Thank you, President Zhou. If I’m not full, I’ll order another portion myself.”

Zhou Chang smiled without a word, withdrew his hand, placed the bowl back on his tray table, and resumed replying to emails on his phone.

Jing Hong’s mood grew slightly complex once again.

The flight schedule was simply too early, taking off at 6:25 AM, and Jing Hong often went to sleep very late, frequently around three or four in the morning. Therefore, shortly after finishing breakfast, Jing Hong felt a wave of drowsiness. Realizing he would have to conduct a full day of meetings upon returning to Fanhai, Jing Hong packed his things, reclined his seat partially, and prepared to sleep.

His sleep was restless, devoid of clear dreams, filled only with vague fragments and subtle lingering sensations.

As the plane was about to begin its descent, Zhou Chang looked over at Jing Hong again. Jing Hong’s eyes were still gently closed, a thin blanket draped over him, while beside his seat, the seatbelt buckle hung loosely.

Assistant Tan Qian had gone to the lavatory. With the lavatories closing soon, a line had formed at the door, and he had not yet returned.

“…” Zhou Chang stepped over, gently pulling back the thin blanket covering Jing Hong to reveal his lower abdomen, then gathered the seatbelt straps from both sides and clicked them together with a soft snap.

Before buckling it, he looked at Jing Hong for two seconds.

Jing Hong closed his eyes peacefully, devoid of his daytime sharpness. The bridge of his nose was tall and straight; his lips were not thick, almost thin, yet exquisitely full in shape.

The moment the buckle clicked, suddenly and abruptly, both of Zhou Chang’s hands were tightly seized.

Sensing someone touching him, Jing Hong had instinctively grabbed the other person’s hands in an instant, subduing the movement. Opening his eyes at the same time, his gaze was already crystal clear.

Upon discovering it was Zhou Chang, Jing Hong froze for a moment.

“Awake?” Zhou Chang said. “Sleep a bit more? There’s about twenty minutes left.”

Jing Hong said nothing.

“We’re preparing to descend, and Assistant Tan isn’t back yet,” Zhou Chang said. “I was helping Little President Jing buckle his seatbelt.”

Jing Hong still said nothing, though his body relaxed.

“President Jing,” Zhou Chang’s eyes lowered slightly. “Your hands. Let go of my hands.”

Only then did Jing Hong realize, releasing his ten fingers. Zhou Chang withdrew his hands and pressed the control button on Jing Hong’s armrest, returning the seatback to an upright position.

Thus, the two stared at each other, slowly drawing closer as the seatback automatically adjusted.

“There,” Zhou Chang said after finishing. “Sleeping a bit more?”

“No,” Jing Hong replied. “That’s enough.” For people like them, a five- or ten-minute power nap was usually sufficient.

Zhou Chang nodded, walked back to his seat, and buckled his seatbelt with a clear snap.

At that moment, Tan Qian returned. Seeing that Jing Hong had awakened on his own, he remarked, “Strange, there were so many people today.”

Passengers were not allowed to lower tray tables or use electronic devices during descent. Thus, Jing Hong refrained from working. He lightly clasped his hands, fingers intertwined, resting over his lower abdomen.

Yet both of his palms felt burning hot, the heat threading from his palms along his blood vessels all the way into his chest and lungs, accompanied by a tingling sensation that left him craving more.

His palms were hot, and his lower abdomen felt warm and restless.

Jing Hong couldn’t help but think: Can I truly hold out for a lifetime?

Can I truly resist this kind of temptation for an entire lifetime?

That might be a somewhat painful, somewhat agonizing lifetime.

On the other side, Zhou Chang spread the five fingers of his right hand, looking at the back of his hand with its distinct knuckles and prominent veins.

Looking at the people around him, Jing Hong suddenly recalled a rather absurd “guide” he had seen online, which claimed that if one wanted to meet the top echelon of society and experience a luxurious romance, one should grit their teeth and buy a first-class ticket.

The comments below were far more realistic, stating that relying on oneself was better than relying on others, and that people at the top of society were actually very difficult to trigger—their threshold for neural excitement was extremely high, and they wouldn’t easily become interested in just anyone; focusing on oneself was the right path.

Jing Hong reflected on it and realized that his threshold for neural excitement was indeed exceptionally high. Over all these years, the only person who continuously touched that threshold and stirred his nerves was Zhou Chang.

Lately, from time to time, he found himself slipping out of order, drifting into reverie within the walled city.

Savoring the secret sweetness and silent joy.

Inside him, a tightly tuned string seemed to stretch. If they were to play upon it, it would either produce a powerful chord, a thunderous roar, or break completely.

He didn’t dare to gamble yet.

No one knew that beneath his calm exterior over these past few weeks lay a wild, reckless thought.

Twenty minutes later, the plane finally touched down at the familiar Capital International Airport.

Passengers in business class disembarked first.

Tan Qian and Zhou Chang’s assistant carried the luggage on either side to clear the path ahead, with Jing Hong and Zhou Chang following behind them.

Walking out of the jet bridge, they entered the airport terminal hall.

Jing Hong glanced left and right, saying to Tan Qian, “Let’s grab a cup of coffee first. We’ll head straight to the partner’s place afterward.”

“Alright.” Tan Qian pointed toward a seating area nearby. “President Jing, would you like to wait a moment?”

“No need,” Jing Hong replied. “Let’s go together.”

Tan Qian added, “Understood.”

Thus, Jing Hong headed to the left while Zhou Chang moved to the right, intending to go straight down to the parking garage.

The morning sun flooded the Capital International Airport, filled with surging crowds.

Jing Hong thought: I wonder when we’ll meet again next time.

The two assistants walked ahead while the two CEOs followed behind.

And then, for reasons unknown, amidst the bright sunlight and the bustling crowd, the two of them turned back simultaneously once again.

They gazed at each other’s figures while outside the expansive sky, a flock of wild geese flew across the early spring sky like a sudden downpour, their wings rustling sharply.

Spring had arrived, and the wild geese had returned home.

(End of Side Story 3)