Chapter 4

After she hung up, it took half an hour for Yang Siqiong to recover and get the results. The doctor said everything looked good. Just watch her diet, keep it light.
Yang Bufan relaxed. Borrowed a cart, loaded the foam box, returned it after getting it into a taxi.
Yang Bufan planned to drop Mom off at home first, order her claypot porridge, then take the mutton to Jiang’s father. That way nothing got delayed.
The taxi arrived. Yang Bufan gave the Lanyuan address. Yang Siqiong suddenly pulled her aside, said quietly, “I won’t go to your place tonight. I booked a hotel.”
“Why? It’s more convenient at home.”
Yang Bufan was surprised. Mom didn’t explain. Opened her old, laggy phone, pulled up a 138‑yuan budget hotel, leaned down to tell the driver the address.
That location… it was closer to Dongguan.
“Mom, you just had an endoscopy. If you stay at home, I can take care of you. There are plenty of rooms.”
Yang Bufan kept trying. Didn’t get why Mom was suddenly so stubborn. A little anxious.
Yang Siqiong hesitated, sniffed her clothes, said quietly, “This morning your dad and I slaughtered the sheep. Left in a hurry. I smell. That Xiao Jiang likes things clean. He doesn’t like the smell. I don’t want to cause trouble.”
Mom stood in the shade. Her straight, upright back seemed to slump as she finished.
The big‑leaf banyans along the avenue rustled in layers. Wind passed, leaves rippled like waves, slowly rolling from one end to the other.
Yang Bufan didn’t like this conversation. Didn’t like this scene. There was something indescribably bleak about it. Even though Mom was right in front of her, she felt like she’d already left, silently.
And Yang Siqiong, with that 138‑yuan budget hotel, proved she’d already adapted to being apart from her daughter.
Actually, Yang Bufan had grown up helping her parents with the sheep. Mixing feed, deworming. She was good at it, not afraid of dirt or hardship. But then she fell for someone, and vanity grew in secret. Afraid people would see through her, see the country, the poverty. Had to act like she belonged, like it came easy.
She must’ve been seen through long ago. So Mom accommodated, put herself in a farther, lower place, to accommodate her vanity.
For some reason, Yang Bufan thought of Jiang Qishen’s father.
A few years ago, Jiang Qishen had taken her to meet him. Back then she didn’t understand anything. Thought wearing a few‑hundred‑yuan outfit from Nanyou was presentable. After dinner, his father suddenly ordered Jiang Qishen to buy her more clothes, things young women wore.
Back then she’d been grateful. Thought she’d gotten parental approval.
Later she vaguely sensed the real meaning. His father told his son to buy new clothes, new bags, new jewelry. That was just rich‑people politeness. Because the original her wasn’t presentable.
Right now she felt wretched. For overreaching, trying to climb high, making her family bow down too. What parent didn’t want their daughter to soar, to match well? She’d achieved nothing. Achieved shit.
They didn’t say anything else. Yang Bufan watched Mom get in the car. Her backpack was huge, old, made her look smaller. Like she could get lost in this vast, heartless city at any moment.
Through the window, Yang Bufan suddenly asked, “Mom, can you handle things at home?”
“Don’t worry about home.”
Yang Bufan got in, canceled Mom’s hotel booking, ordered a closer one, had claypot porridge delivered ahead of time.
After checking Mom in, Yang Bufan took the half sheep, got back in the same taxi, went to Jiang’s father’s place in Xiangmihu.
Jiang’s father, full name Jiang Guowei, was a typical first‑generation entrepreneur. Poor as a kid, then got into the internet startup wave by chance. That’s how he built Yunchang, the tech giant.
The end of tech was lending. So in recent years, Xinyun.
He was a typical Sichuan‑Chongqing dad. Divorced early, spent most of his life as a boss, used to giving orders. Spoke in imperatives.
He shattered Yang Bufan’s rosy view of Sichuan‑Chongqing “henpecked husbands.” Men, especially middle‑aged men, were still men.
He loved grand narratives. His Moments were all industry news, national affairs. Casual style, unlike Jiang Qishen’s germophobia. If the trash can went three minutes without a bag, he’d spit in it.
That made their already bad relationship worse.
Jiang Qishen and Jiang Guowei couldn’t be in the same room for ten minutes without fighting. Jiang Qishen hated his father, especially couldn’t stand him mentioning his mother. He’d blocked his father’s WeChat long ago.
Usually they didn’t contact each other. When they did, it was through Yang Bufan. She was their message in a bottle.
……
They reached Jiang’s father’s place quickly. Yang Bufan handed the foam box to the live‑in housekeeper. The housekeeper smiled. “Too bad Xiao Jiang Zong doesn’t eat mutton. It all goes to Lao Jiang Zong.”
Yang Bufan smiled. Jiang Guowei ambled out, cigar between his fingers or in his mouth. Cheeks puffed, deflated, puffed, deflated. Wreathed in smoke, like a chimney. Yang Bufan couldn’t even see his face clearly.
“Uncle Jiang.”
Jiang Guowei sat on the sofa, motioned for Yang Bufan to sit too.
He took a drag, squinted, sank deeper into the sofa, crossed his legs, exhaled with satisfaction. Called, “Xiao Yang.”
Yang Bufan sat up straight, ready for instructions.
Jiang Guowei said, “Called you here today because I want your parents to come meet. I had someone pick a good date for you and Qishen.”
He lightly tapped ash. The sofa creaked. “Next year’s a widow year. Bad for marriage. So I figure this year, before year‑end.”
Yang Bufan said nothing. *Widow year? Who’s dying? Not me.*
Jiang Guowei didn’t ask her opinion. Kept puffing, deflating, like a fat, busy goldfish. Arranged: “I’ll transfer that new place in Taoyuan, what’s it called, Mingzhu, to you. Pre‑marital property. Go back, tell Qishen first, then ask your parents if they have other requirements.”
Yang Bufan said nothing. *Did anyone ask me?*
Marriage was so private. And it was being reduced to something that had to happen on command from someone with power. And she knew—this wasn’t acceptance. It was reluctant downward compatibility.
She sat a while longer, listened to Jiang Guowei talk about his glory days in business, then got up to use the bathroom.
On her way out, she heard Jiang Guowei on the phone. She was about to hurry over and say goodbye, but when she heard “what can they do if they’re not satisfied,” she slowed.
Jiang Guowei didn’t notice. Voice still booming. “What can they do if they’re not satisfied? My son, he’s had his own mind since he was little. Plenty of suitable girls. He had to pick this one. So we go with it.”
Then he laughed, said “no, no, no” several times, like modesty. After that, Yang Bufan could clearly feel his whole body radiate satisfaction.
It was just gossip, but Yang Bufan instinctively stepped back. Caught the housekeeper looking at her awkwardly.
She walked around the huge landscape screen, quietly told the housekeeper she was leaving. The housekeeper nodded. For the first time, didn’t ask her to stay for dinner.
It took a long time to walk out of the complex. Yang Bufan saw a cigar lounge, went in on impulse, bought the most expensive one. First time she knew cigars were sold by the piece. After it was cut and lit, she went outside.
She squatted by the roadside, imitated Jiang Guowei. Took a drag, another drag. Imagined she was a successful entrepreneur, managing a hundred‑billion company, ordering ten male models a day. That energy surged. Like injecting two shots of testosterone. She felt confident.
But the smoke rolled through her mouth, down her throat. Felt like a duck‑bill clamp spinning and jumping. She endured it, took a second drag. Went silent. Then started bashing the back of her head against the wall.
She held the cigar in front of her, watched it burn quietly. Like lighting incense for herself.
There was a kind of beauty to cutting garbage with a knife and fork.
She thought, deflated: This world was like this. Between rich and poor there was an invisible wall. Inside the wall, even a dog had a loud surname. Outside the wall, the masses were just insignificant numbers.
There was no passage between inside and outside. No matter what, they’d each return, become two distinct, unbridgeable classes.
Like this cigar that didn’t belong to her. Like another mismatched person.
Yang Bufan went back to Mom’s hotel. On the way, texted Jiang Qishen: staying at the hotel with Mom tonight, not coming home.
Jiang Qishen called. Yang Bufan hung up, texted: going to sleep.
Actually she was still outside. Neon flashing, traffic flowing. She just didn’t want to answer.
Jiang Qishen: 【Why not stay at home?】
Yang Bufan: 【Mom said it’s not convenient】
Jiang Qishen: 【Arrange dinner together tomorrow】
Yang Bufan didn’t agree, so nothing was arranged. Mom took the high‑speed rail home early the next morning. Two hundred mouths to feed at home. Her dad couldn’t handle it alone.
After seeing Mom off, Yang Bufan went home. Remembered she had a private swimming lesson. Texted the coach, grabbed her gear, went to the club.
Her hometown, Wanmei Village, wasn’t by the sea. She’d learned to swim as a kid, but not well. As an adult, wanted to fix her form, so signed up for private lessons at the complex.
After class, ready to go home, the coach followed her out, pecs bouncing, asked if she wanted to renew. Big discount now.
Yang Bufan shook her head.
The coach kept pushing. Yang Bufan said, “Won’t be living here anymore.”
Swimming lessons done. Life felt lighter, easier. Like the other shoe had finally dropped.
Jiang Guowei’s words kept spinning in her head.
At Yang Bufan’s savings rate, a down payment in Shenzhen would take maybe twenty years. A fully paid‑off apartment was a huge temptation. Plus, Jiang Guowei’s villa—one set of renovation drawings cost 850k. The houses were all 1:1 renovations…
If she was willing to be a remora fish feeding on scraps under a whale, parasitic in this family, just grabbing a little warmth and nourishment would be enough for her whole family to live well.
But her attention was in the wrong place.
Because life wasn’t just shiny material things. She didn’t want to squat in hallways waiting for people to talk to fire hydrants. Didn’t want their will to always be above hers, deciding for her. That feeling had nothing to do with comfort.
When Jiang Qishen got home, he saw someone who’d stayed out last night packing.
No replies to messages. Asked to arrange dinner, no response. This afternoon he’d been thinking: if she needed a checkup, why not tell him? The company had matching premium healthcare. No need to queue, waste time. What was she doing?
Creating hardship where there was none?
He loosened his tie, asked, “Where’s your mom?”
“She left early this morning.”
Yang Bufan looked up. Was about to ask what he wanted for dinner. But she saw his face—cold, stern, don’t mess with me. He turned and went upstairs. She didn’t push it.
Jiang Qishen spent the evening on the phone in his study.
Actually he wasn’t like the second‑gen stereotypes online, throwing money around. He wasn’t even interested in travel, shopping, entertainment, sports. Spent almost all his time working, and worked out intensely to be able to work long hours.
He was naturally highly sensitive to ROI. Daily consumption equaled wasted time. He had no time to waste.
His lifestyle wasn’t exactly luxurious, but his ambition for power and need to control people far exceeded the norm.
Yang Bufan went to bed early. Was drifting off when he woke her, movements as forceful as ever.
Yang Bufan opened her eyes. Saw his face in the soft night light, carved by desire’s blade. Even in this sentimental night, it didn’t hide its sharpness.
But his deep eye sockets had thick, long lashes. His irises were amber. Compared to his angular profile, there was something deceptively soft, tender.
When he looked at someone quietly like this, it was very deceptive. Easy to misunderstand, to fall in, unable to pull back. Actually, he could look at a pig with that expression and seem deep.
But it was all an illusion. He had little patience, was rough. Saying he only cared about himself wasn’t quite right, but he didn’t make Yang Bufan feel very comfortable.
When she was younger, Yang Bufan thought you at least needed love to do it. Now she wasn’t that naive. Actually, a lot of couples didn’t have love. Just sex.
Intimate relationships and intimacy were two different things. Some relationships that looked close couldn’t stand scrutiny. Worse than strangers. Some that seemed like nothing could ignite with the right spark.
But if you lowered expectations, sex was fine. At least it solved her needs now. He was pretty good at it.
Just as Yang Bufan was getting into it, Jiang Qishen suddenly asked, “Why didn’t you arrange dinner?”
“You’re too busy. Hard to coordinate.”
Jiang Qishen thought this was probably an excuse. She hadn’t planned to let him meet her parents. Over a little workplace thing, how many days had she been sulking?
He didn’t know where it came from, but anger flared. His movements got rougher.
Then he gripped her waist, heard her make that familiar, fragile sound. Head thrown back, full lips slightly parted, redder. Jiang Qishen knew what that meant. But his gaze was clear. He bent down, looked for her eyes.
Before, at times like this, if he moved close, she’d eagerly reach out to hug him, kiss him.
Today she was lost in her own desire. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t wrap around him like a vine.
She looked like she was into it, and also like she wasn’t.
Jiang Qishen turned her face, forced her to look at him. They stared for three seconds. He realized: Yang Bufan lying in bed on her phone had been more focused than this. Her gaze was empty. No content.
A feeling: this was different from her usual sulking. Now she was just compliant. No passion.
Jiang Qishen let go.
Before, he didn’t understand why Yang Bufan had so much energy, so much passion, so many unreasonable expectations for the world. Big things, small things in life—she’d excitedly send them to him, tell him about them.
He couldn’t remember what that employee Yin Yao even looked like, but he knew her divorced mom had twin daughters, the family dog got parvovirus, she almost got scammed buying an apartment.
Those trivial things went in one ear, out the other. He forgot them. But one day in the elevator, seeing Yin Yao and Yun Siyu laughing together, he suddenly remembered: Yang Bufan hadn’t mentioned this person much lately.
Or maybe he hadn’t gotten those trivial, boring messages in a long time.
Saw some sappy line somewhere: what was it about the collapse of the desire to share?
So that’s what had been missing lately.
Where had all that energy gone?
If she wasn’t depending on him, who was she depending on?
Yang Bufan saw Jiang Qishen suddenly zone out, leave her hanging, up and down. So she arched up to meet him. He firmly, decisively pressed her waist down. Expression very dark.
Yang Bufan got angry too. “What?”
“Did I say we were doing this?”
Yang Bufan went quiet. Now she could skip sex, but she needed dignity. She put her clothes back on, lay down, pulled up the covers. Honestly thought Jiang Qishen was a moody asshole.
Dating someone like this was very painful. Even after all these years, she couldn’t tell when he’d suddenly turn. A voice in her head asked: *If he’s so bad, why have we been together so long?*
Because there were good parts too.
No. Not that he was good. The love was good. It felt good when they were in love.
Jiang Qishen put on his robe, left for the bathroom without looking back. Water rushed over his skin. He showered quickly, stood under the light, opened a browser, expression scornful, searched for the full quote: “The collapse of the desire to share is what love’s disappearance looks like.”
He laughed arrogantly, got angry for a while, closed his phone. When he came back to the bedroom, the person in bed was already asleep.
Jiang Qishen lay down. Her calf habitually pressed against him. He yanked the covers off. “Don’t touch me.”
—
The first day back from leave, Yang Bufan was still adjusting. Kept yawning in the morning meeting. After a long period of zoning out, she submitted her resignation.