Chapter 7:
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Jiang Zhi stared at the barren interior—a shell barely distinguishable from an unfinished construction site—and froze. This was what he meant by “sparse”? It was utterly, devastatingly empty! Not a single piece of furniture, not even a stool to sit on…
A grim thought surfaced: Was he so desperate to marry her just to gain a maid?
A gust of wind whistled through the doorway, carrying an imaginary swirl of dust. Jiang Zhi shivered, the desolation evoking an autumnal bleakness. And he expected her to move in tonight? To sleep on the bare floor? Was this torture?
Thankfully, they’d exchanged contacts before parting. Jiang Zhi snapped a photo of the void and sent it.
Jiang Zhi: [Photo.JPG]
Jiang Zhi: President Shang, surely you were joking about moving in today?
To her surprise, the reply was instantaneous.
Shang Chi: Look in the master bedroom.
Shang Chi: Refrain from touching what isn’t yours.
Jiang Zhi glanced at the screen, skepticism warring with curiosity as she headed towards the master suite. She couldn’t believe a man worth billions would inhabit such a “shell.” Pushing the door open, her fox-eyes widened in disbelief.
The stark emptiness of the living area only magnified the room’s opulence. The ensuite bathroom, walk-in closet, and every conceivable amenity were present, executed in a sophisticated palette of cool blacks and greys that screamed Shang Chi’s taste.
As she processed the jarring contrast, another message arrived.
Shang Chi: The adjacent room is identical. Furnish it to your preference.
Her brow arched. So, that’s my room? Separate bedrooms? Was his “no marriage in name only” just a bluff? Was I being overly cynical?
Yet, Jiang Zhi refused to lower her guard based on one message.
Jiang Zhi: Understood, President Shang.
She slipped the phone into her pocket, stepping back into the echoing hall. Just as she considered exploring the garden, her phone rang.
Xiao Ran’s frantic voice burst through the line. “Jiang Zhi-jie! Where are you?! Sister Qing found out about Film Emperor Jiang advancing a million to silence the paparazzi! They’re locked in a standoff! You need to come, quick!”
Jiang Zhi’s heart clenched at Jiang Nian’s name—a reflexive pang of pain. Five years of devotion, even to a pet, leaves scars. But why? Why waste a million to bury the story? She wouldn’t dwell on the possible meaning.
Her long lashes swept down, veiling her thoughts. “Xiao Ran,” she said, her voice calm, “in three years, I’ve never taken a single day of annual leave, correct?”
Confused, Xiao Ran stammered agreement.
Jiang Zhi’s gaze swept the empty expanse around her. A faint, relieved smile touched her lips. “Then taking a week off now… isn’t unreasonable, is it?”
“Of course not!” Xiao Ran replied quickly.
“Good,” Jiang Zhi exhaled. “For the next week, don’t relay any news regarding Jiang Nian to me.”
Understanding dawned. Xiao Ran glanced at the man sitting nearby, his face the picture of composed elegance. “Understood, Jiang Zhi-jie.” She’d witnessed Jiang Zhi’s tireless, thankless devotion for years—skipping meals, losing sleep, absorbing fan vitriol, all for Jiang Nian. This sudden detachment, this request for distance… He must have shattered her heart completely.
Hanging up, Xiao Ran turned to Jiang Nian. His voice, usually so gentle and assured, held a note of expectation. “Is she coming?”
Xiao Ran shook her head, repeating Jiang Zhi’s words verbatim.
Sister Qing, a shareholder at Tianheng Entertainment overseeing agents, was ruthlessly pragmatic. She’d scolded Jiang Nian for the impulsive payout but swiftly dropped it; his value far exceeded the million. Xiao Ran’s call had been solely at Jiang Nian’s request.
His expression flickered, then settled into a polite mask. “No matter. Thank you for your help.”
“Of course, Film Emperor Jiang.” Xiao Ran retreated quickly.
The moment the door shut, the mask shattered. Jiang Nian snatched a water bottle, wrenched off the cap, and gulped it down, his throat working convulsively until it was empty. With a vicious twist, he crushed the plastic bottle in his grip, the ear-splitting crack echoing in the sudden silence. He slammed it onto the desk, bracing his hands on the edge, chest heaving with ragged breaths.
Rage, hot and corrosive, burned through him. She should have come running! Why was this time different?! He wouldn’t tolerate her slipping his leash.
Memories of that night flooded back—Jiang Zhi slamming the door, Wen Nian clinging desperately, her tear-filled eyes pleading, her lips seeking his frantically. “Nian-ge! You love me! You said she was just convenient! She doesn’t love you! Snap out of it!”
Wen Nian’s words had snapped him back—to his original goal: make Jiang Zhi fall, make her devoted, then crush her.
So why did he feel no triumph? Why had she been so calm, so final? Where were the tears, the pleas he’d anticipated? The loss of control was intolerable. He needed an outlet.
Facing Wen Nian’s face—a pale imitation of Jiang Zhi’s—he kissed her back. Their entanglement was frenzied, desperate. Later, lost in the haze, he’d struggled to distinguish who was beneath him. But afterward, only Jiang Zhi remained—her smiles, her frowns, and especially the absolute finality in her eyes as she left. It felt like a knife twisting in his gut.
A restless, gnawing anxiety—a mix of unease, panic, worry—drove him from the bed. Ignoring Wen Nian’s cries, he grabbed a coat and fled into the night.
He’d called her incessantly. At first, the calls connected, then one was cut off, followed only by the cold, automated voice announcing a powered-down phone. Later, Xiao Ran mentioned the paparazzi blackmail. In that moment, possessed by a mad thought—Jiang Zhi hates the rumors with Wen Nian—he acted. He deliberately advanced the million, a signal meant solely for her: See? I did this for you. You’re in my heart.
And how had she repaid him? Blocked on every platform! How dare she?! Now hiding behind a week’s leave? Did she truly think she could escape him?
The realization crystallized through the fury: no one could replace her. He’d fallen for his enemy’s daughter long ago. Pulling up their only photo together—a younger, radiant Jiang Zhi—he traced her face on the screen with an obsessive stroke, his voice low and dangerous. “Run, little rabbit. Run for a week. You’ll still come crawling back to me.”
