Feverish Spring Night - Chapter 11

Cheng Jingwei didn’t explain clearly to Jiang Zhier — he only said he had something to take care of and hung up.
But Jiang Zhier was all too familiar with the sounds of a hospital.
It was the same when her grandmother passed away.
Ten seconds after the call ended, she snapped out of her daze and stood up abruptly. The legs of the chair scraped against the floor tiles with a harsh sound.
She hurried out of the house. When the elevator doors closed, she suddenly remembered that Uncle Li was on holiday for New Year’s Eve — she shouldn’t disturb him at this hour.
The area was an upscale residential district surrounded by camphor trees, quiet and secluded. There weren’t even any taxis around.
At a loss, Jiang Zhier could only run along the main road toward the nearest busy street. She ran and stopped, her breath turning into white mist in the cold air.
She knew that even if she rushed there, it would make no difference.
But she just wanted to be with Cheng Jingwei — even if she couldn’t say a word.
After crossing the third intersection, she finally stopped a taxi.
“Uncle, to the International Medical Center, please.”
In the middle of winter, the girl ran breathlessly, fine beads of sweat forming on her forehead.
The driver was about to ask something, but when he heard “hospital,” he immediately understood. Without another word, he stepped on the gas.
Outside, the fireworks display continued.
Cluster after cluster of fireworks shot up into the sky, blooming and fading across the night like fleeting dreams.
Jiang Zhier glanced out the window.
Her reflection was faintly visible on the glass — her lower eyelids red, her gaze distant. Her thoughts drifted back to the day her grandmother died, and further still, to the day her parents were killed in a car accident.
…
Back then, her grandmother had hurriedly told her they were going to the hospital.
She hadn’t known anything yet — hadn’t even heard that someone was sick. She thought she was accompanying her grandmother to visit a distant relative, so she didn’t think much of it.
But in the car, her grandmother kept answering phone calls, her tone anxious yet unwilling to say anything — and that only made young Jiang Zhier feel more uneasy.
As they neared the hospital, Jiang Guilai called. “Mom, you must stay strong,” she said over the phone.
The tears the old woman had been holding back the entire way suddenly burst out.
“Zhansheng and Shuyu are both…” Jiang Guilai’s voice faltered, ending in a trembling sigh. “The doctor said their injuries were too severe. They were already gone when they were brought in.”
The car stopped at the hospital entrance.
The old woman gave Jiang Zhier a firm push. “Er’er, hurry — go see your parents one last time.”
Jiang Zhier still didn’t feel anything.
Even when she saw her parents wheeled out of the operating room, covered with a white cloth, she couldn’t process it. She stood there, frozen, unable to cry — until she finally fainted.
When she woke up, everyone was already busy preparing for the funeral.
The death of one of the future heirs of the Jiang family — leaving behind only his young daughter — was major news at the time, broadcast repeatedly on television.
Jiang Zhier locked herself in her room, alone, watching the reports loop again and again.
Her mind was in chaos.
She was too young even to understand what death truly meant.
Her only wish then was for someone — anyone — to stay by her side.
She had been terrified.
—
“Little girl, we’re here,” the driver said gently.
Snapping out of her memories, Jiang Zhier quickly paid the fare, thanked him, and ran toward the hospital.
Only then did she realize — she didn’t even know which floor his ward was on.
Fortunately, she wasn’t the only one who had rushed there after hearing the news. Several financial media outlets had also arrived. Jiang Zhier followed the cluster of reporters upstairs. They reached the eighth floor, but the entire corridor had been blocked off. The air was thick with the scent of chrysanthemums, and stacks of floral tributes filled the stairwell.
She was stopped at the entrance.
Just then, someone grabbed her arm and pulled her aside. “Miss Jiang, why are you here?”
She turned and saw it was the secretary she had met once in Cheng Jingwei’s office.
“Sister,” Jiang Zhier asked anxiously, “is my Second Uncle inside?”
“Yes. I’ll take you in,” the secretary whispered, leading her through a private passage. “But there are a lot of people mourning… It’s a bit chaotic.”
Jiang Zhier nodded.
Old Master Cheng had passed away on New Year’s Eve. For someone of such influence, it was only natural that countless people — whether sincere or not — came to pay their respects.
As they entered the eighth-floor corridor, the air was heavy with grief. People in black mourning clothes filled the space, their sobs and sighs weaving into a suffocating atmosphere.
Jiang Zhier’s white down jacket stood out starkly among them.
Even before the ward door opened, she could already hear soft weeping.
When it did, she saw a crowd gathered three layers deep around the bed. She immediately spotted Cheng Jingwei’s back — his head slightly lowered as he listened to the tearful words of the elders beside him.
“Mr. Cheng,” the secretary whispered.
Cheng Jingwei turned, startled to see her.
“Why are you here?”
He looked far better than she had imagined.
Though there was a faint trace of exhaustion in his eyes, he was still in a suit and tie, his hair neatly combed. He greeted mourners with composure and courtesy, efficiently managing the funeral arrangements without a single sign of collapse.
In the midst of that silent room, his calm and mature demeanor stood out even more clearly.
And in that moment, Jiang Zhier understood — the grief she had worried about would never show on Cheng Jingwei’s face. Her presence here meant nothing; her company was of no use to him.
She finally grasped the distance that ten years had carved between them.
So much so that she couldn’t even bring herself to say, I was worried about you.
That gap — not just of age, but of worlds — made her concern feel small, even burdensome. ‎
Without further questioning, Cheng Jingwei gently pulled her into his arms.
His movements were incredibly gentle, soothing as he rubbed her head.
He glanced at his secretary and whispered, “Get her a room and let her rest.”
Then, lowering his head slightly, he looked Jiang Zhier in the eye and said softly, “Er’er, it’s getting late here. Go get some sleep.”
Jiang Zhier had run three blocks, hailed a cab, and arrived—only to be whisked away silently.
The rooms in this expensive private hospital weren’t like ordinary hospital rooms; they resembled hotel suites, complete with a bedroom, living room, and kitchen.
The secretary led Jiang Zhier into one of the suites and asked, “Miss Jiang, are you hungry? Should I have someone bring you some snacks?”
“No, thank you, sister,” she said, embarrassed to trouble anyone further.
“Okay then, get some rest. Feel free to call me if you need anything.”
Jiang Zhier nodded.
The door opened and closed. She was alone again.
Outside, the crackle of firecrackers grew louder, and dazzling fireworks lit up the night sky—the countdown to New Year’s Eve had begun.
Jiang Zhier watched the second hand of her watch tick forward. With a soft click, it crossed the number “12.”
The New Year had come.
She looked at the brilliant fireworks outside and whispered, as if only to herself:
“Cheng Jingwei, Happy New Year.”
—
Many people came to pay their respects.
Almost all the dignitaries in Nanshi arrived after hearing the news. Jiang Guilai also came with his wife and children.
By the time Cheng Jingwei sent everyone away and answered the media’s questions alongside his brother, Cheng Gan, it was already late into the night. Even the sound of firecrackers had faded.
Cheng Jiayao was dozing off on a chair in the hospital corridor.
“Brother,” Cheng Jingwei said to Cheng Gan, “you take Jiayao home first. I’ll handle the rest.”
Cheng Gan nodded. “You’ve worked hard, Awei.”
“It’s fine.”
Cheng Gan picked up his coat and walked over to wake Jiayao, but suddenly stopped and looked back at his younger brother.
The man, over a decade younger, slowly and attentively wiped his glasses. His eyes were slightly red from exhaustion, but his posture remained straight, his back firm and unyielding.
This younger brother—so young—had true composure and courage.
Cheng Gan knew the rumors well: people said Cheng Jingwei would eventually take control of the Cheng Group. It terrified him.
In a family like theirs, brothers were rarely just brothers. They were rivals fated to clash.
Though their relationship was distant, it wasn’t as hostile as gossip suggested—but the undercurrents were real.
Cheng Gan knew his own mediocrity, his inability to manage the corporation.
He also knew that Cheng Jingwei, beneath his gentle and polished surface, possessed a dangerous decisiveness. If he wanted power, he would stop at nothing to seize it.
Seizing power would mean a dead end.
Not seizing it left a narrow path to survival amid the turbulence.
Fortunately, Cheng Jingwei had always been kind to Jiayao.
So, Cheng Gan couldn’t help but think—if that incident had never happened, maybe he wouldn’t need to live in fear now, his fate hanging in another man’s hands.
“Awei,” Cheng Gan said.
Cheng Jingwei looked up and put on his glasses. “What is it?”
He was calm, his voice low and hoarse with fatigue, yet Cheng Gan’s hands trembled as he stood before him.
How tragic—to lose one’s father and yet have no time for grief, only fear for the future.
“If that incident hadn’t happened back then,” Cheng Gan asked haltingly, “would you still see me as your elder brother?”
Cheng Jingwei’s expression didn’t change. His tone remained gentle. “Brother, what are you saying? You’ll always be my elder brother.”
Cheng Gan’s bl00d ran cold. Sweat dampened his palms as old memories surged.
Cheng Jingwei hadn’t done anything—yet he was already afraid.
Cheng Jingwei walked to Jiayao and gently woke him. “Jiayao, go home and rest.”
Half-asleep, Jiayao stumbled over to Cheng Gan, then hesitated. “Where’s Er’er? Should I take her back, too?”
“No need. I’ve arranged a room for her—she should be asleep.”
Jiayao nodded and followed the distracted Cheng Gan away.
After the mourners and reporters left, the long hospital corridor fell silent.
Cheng Jingwei finished the remaining arrangements and calmly walked into the morgue.
The cool white light chilled the air. Cheng Huaixian lay there, covered with a white sheet—his glory and wealth gone with him.
Cheng Jingwei slowly approached and lifted the sheet.
He lowered his gaze, quietly studying the pale face beneath. His calm expression seemed out of place.
After a long moment, he sighed softly.
A deep, magnetic voice broke the stillness.
“Old man, this is the first time in all these years I’ve been able to look at you like this.”
—
Cheng Jingwei lit a cigarette in the dim stairwell. The fireworks outside had long since faded, only a few faint bursts scattering across the sky.
When the last cigarette burned down to its butt, he stubbed it out and headed downstairs.
Jiang Zhier had just been taken to one of the hospital’s nursing suites. It was nearly dawn. He didn’t bother asking the nurses for another room; he decided to stay on the sofa for the night.
He pushed the door open and entered.
Cheng Jingwei stopped in his tracks.
The room was brightly lit.
A young girl was asleep, her head resting on the dining table. She wore a thick, fluffy sweater, the collar covering her lips and nose. Her long eyelashes cast faint shadows, and her brows furrowed slightly—as if she were having an uneasy dream.
Beside her, a bowl of porridge sat on the placemat, a ladle and chopsticks neatly arranged beside it.
Cheng Jingwei looked toward the kitchen. Fresh ingredients had been delivered daily for patients and families; a few leftovers still sat on the chopping board.
A small Band-Aid was wrapped around her finger.
She had cooked it for him.
His heart, calm and still all night, rippled faintly—as if a pebble had struck the surface.
He stood quietly for a moment, then pulled out a chair and sat down.
The porridge had gone cold, but he ate it spoonful by spoonful.
Outside, the fireworks ended. The night thickened, the world slipping back into silence.
When he finished, his hands—numb from the cold—had grown warm again.
He placed the dishes in the sink, returned to Jiang Zhier, and gently picked her up.
She was lighter than he’d imagined.
Half asleep, Jiang Zhier caught a faint scent—a mix of disinfectant, tobacco, and something familiar. It made her stir. Beneath it lingered Cheng Jingwei’s subtle, woody fragrance.
She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck.
Before she could fully wake, he pressed a broad hand against her head, holding her close.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “Go back to sleep.”
Before she could even wish him a Happy New Year, she managed to open her eyes.
“Second Uncle,” she whispered sleepily.
“Mm.”
“Happy New Year.”
“Mm.” He carried her into the inner bedroom. “Happy New Year, Er’er.”
“Second Uncle…”
“Hmm?”
She pressed her cheek against his chest, murmuring, “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“I’m too young,” she said, her voice thick with guilt. “I can’t help you with anything. I only cause trouble.”
He smiled faintly. “Er’er has already helped me a lot tonight.”
He tucked her in and was about to leave, but paused. “Are you scared?”
The bedroom light was soft and dim.
Her eyes shone clearly in the dark, pure and steady—a quiet light that somehow eased the ache in his chest.
He felt his heart settle.
Jiang Zhier wasn’t really afraid, but she still said, “A little.”
So, Cheng Jingwei sat down beside her, gently ruffling her hair. “Go to sleep. Second Uncle will stay with you.”