Feverish Spring Night - Chapter 17

Cheng Jingwei chuckled.
It was the first time he had genuinely smiled that night.
While gently smoothing the girl’s messy hair, he handed her the box he was holding.
The slender scroll case, carved from black persimmon wood, carried a faint hint of camphor. She had seen many like it—her grandmother kept a stack of similar boxes in her room, each preserving cherished calligraphy.
The lid featured an intricate carving that gleamed softly even under the dim light. Jiang Zhi’er noticed a string of English letters — the logo of a Hong Kong auction house.
Her fingertips froze. She lifted the lid. The inner lining was made from insect-repellent camphor wood. Before she even unrolled the scroll, she spotted a ribbon, embroidered with the character “Shu” in elegant cursive.
Suddenly, she hesitated and glanced up at Cheng Jingwei.
“Open it,” he encouraged.
Slowly, Jiang Zhi’er untied the ribbon and unfurled the scroll. It was her mother’s lotus painting from early summer — the brushwork vivid, the blooms so lifelike they seemed to glow with her mother’s presence.
Tears welled in her eyes. “This… this is my mother’s painting…”
“Yes,” Cheng Jingwei murmured, sitting beside her bed. “Congratulations, Er’er. You did wonderfully today.”
Jiang Zhi’er held the scroll against her chest. “Thank you, Second Uncle. This is the best gift I’ve ever received.”
Even though Shu Yu was her mother, Jiang Zhi’er had never owned a painting personally created by her.
After Shu Yu’s death, her artwork became a posthumous treasure, soaring in value. Some pieces had been sent to exhibitions by Jiang Guilai, and others were sold into private collections, rarely to be seen again.
“Did you buy this at an auction?” she asked in awe.
“Yes.”
She didn’t know how to convey the shock and gratitude swirling inside her. The painting was too precious — a mere “thank you” felt painfully inadequate.
“Was it expensive?”
Cheng Jingwei’s tone was light. “Otherwise, how would it count as an apology gift?”
In truth, it wasn’t meant to be an apology gift. He had purchased it long ago, but customs delays postponed its arrival.
Still, Jiang Zhi’er couldn’t help crying.
It hadn’t been difficult for him — just a call — yet to her, it meant the world.
For the first time, Cheng Jingwei saw her tears so clearly.
He gently brushed a tear from the corner of her eye with the back of his finger. He didn’t make excuses for missing the performance or dismiss her hurt. Instead, he looked her in the eyes and apologized softly:
“I’m sorry, Er’er. Something urgent happened at the company, and I wasn’t able to go.”
Her heart thumped — anger and disappointment already forgotten.
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
“Didn’t you eat dinner?” he asked.
“No…” She couldn’t take her eyes off the painting. “I wasn’t hungry.”
“Then come have something with me.”
“You haven’t eaten either?”
“No. I just came out of an emergency meeting.”
She hesitated. “Did something happen at the company?”
He answered briefly, “Don’t worry about it.”
Dinner at home had already gone cold, so he took her out. But most high-end restaurants in the district closed promptly at 10 p.m.
He considered arranging a private chef delivery, but the distance was too far, and he was exhausted, unwilling to expend unnecessary effort.
Jiang Zhi’er suggested, “There’s a Hong Kong-style tea restaurant in the back street. I went there with classmates once — the food was really good.”
“Let’s go,” he agreed without hesitation.
On the way, she remembered the luxurious Spanish restaurants and lavish cruise-ship seafood feasts he had taken her to before… and worried whether he could accept something so plain.
“It’s just… that place isn’t fancy. A Guangzhou uncle owns it. It’s really small, but it’s clean.”
“No problem,” he said. “Show me.”
Only upon arrival did he realize what she meant by “a little small.”
The back street was lined with old, inexpensive shops. Since the area hadn’t been redeveloped yet, there were still many humble, makeshift food stalls. It was not a place he’d ever been.
A tall, dignified man in a tailored suit stepped onto a narrow, moss-covered bluestone path. Yellow brick walls still damp from rain flanked both sides, while overhead, tangled electrical wires sagged low.
The contrast was almost comical.
Jiang Zhi’er instantly regretted her suggestion.
“Uncle… maybe we should go somewhere else…”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid you won’t be used to a place like this.”
Calling it a “restaurant” was generous — it was closer to a street stall. And Cheng Jingwei certainly didn’t look like someone who belonged here.
He had never eaten at a place like this. Even “home-style meals” were usually enjoyed in private dining rooms hidden in upscale alleys — rustic in appearance, but still fundamentally luxurious.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Consider it a chance for me to taste the food you like.”
The sign read “Yue Lai Food Stall.” The lettering was faded and coated with a thin layer of grease, the lights flickering — likely affected by the recent rain.
Inside, it lacked the usual charm of Cantonese eateries — too cramped, too cluttered. Plastic tables and stools sat beneath a tarp roof beside the riverside. Rainwater weighed down the corners of the tarp, dripping steadily.
Jiang Zhi’er grew more and more anxious.
But Cheng Jingwei showed no trace of discomfort.
He quietly took a tissue and wiped the rain off the tabletop — and then the stool — each movement composed and natural.
“Sit,” he said gently.
The owner and his wife were authentic Guangzhou locals. Jiang Zhi’er ordered several signature dishes — lemongrass prawns, crispy pigeon, and a BBQ pork platter.
The flavors were surprisingly authentic — reminiscent of Hong Kong.
Across from him, the girl poked at the whipped cream with a fork, milk and cocoa powder smudging the corners of her mouth, which she then quickly licked away.
Rain began to fall again.
Next to them, the river rippled lightly against the stone railing.
The back street was quiet — only the occasional bicycle passing by, its bell blending with the sound of falling rain.
In 28 years, Cheng Jingwei had never lived a moment like this.
Stepping into a corner of the city infused with everyday life — ordinary, quiet, unpolished, yet warm.
This was the world of ordinary people — and he had never been part of it.
For now, just for a fleeting moment, he could breathe outside the glamorous, turbulent world he belonged to and touch the simplicity of normalcy.
But even such ordinary peace was a luxury he rarely had.
His phone vibrated — a flight booking confirmation lit up the screen.
7:00 AM tomorrow —
a one-way ticket to California.
Jiang Zhier glanced up at the sound of the notification and accidentally caught sight of the message.
Out of politeness, she should have pretended not to notice. But before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Are you going on a business trip?”
Before Cheng Jingwei could answer, the phone rang again.
It was Xu Yin.
He picked up, and Xu Yin reported quickly and succinctly, “Mr. Cheng, the flight is booked. The PR team has issued a preliminary response, and the California production line is undergoing a full inspection.”
“Have you found the culprit?” Cheng Jingwei asked in a low voice.
“Still investigating.”
“Alright.”
The situation involved tangled interests, and few were capable of orchestrating such chaos. Cheng Jingwei leaned back slightly, eyes closed. His tone was steady, but fatigue tugged at the edges. “Ensure production safety above all else.”
After ending the call, he opened his eyes.
The girl was watching him with quiet concern.
“It’s nothing serious. Things are stable for now,” he assured her with a gentle smile. “Did the old man’s departure make me a little late today?”
“You didn’t come today… because of that?”
“Yes.”
Jiang Zhier pressed her lips together.
With a 7 a.m. flight tomorrow, he probably wouldn’t get more than a few hours of rest.
She finished her meal in a hurry, while Cheng Jingwei took call after call, barely managing a few bites himself.
She went and asked for two more warm pineapple buns, planning to pack them so he’d have something to eat for breakfast tomorrow. He’d likely be working nonstop…
She only hoped he wouldn’t end up with a stomachache.
Carrying the bag, she walked ahead. “Let’s go.”
They had walked here earlier since it wasn’t far. Now, the rain made the road muddy and uneven. Jiang Zhier noticed the tips of his Oxford shoes were soiled — like a cold, dim moon splashed with dirt.
“How about we take a taxi?” she suggested.
He held the umbrella in one hand, replying to messages with the other. He inclined his head to listen.
“Tired?”
She shook her head. “Your shoes are dirty.”
Cheng Jingwei lowered his gaze, the corner of his lips lifting faintly. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head again.
It was raining, but the spring night breeze was gentle.
He looked up at the dark street ahead, the sky tangled in overhead wires. His voice was deep, magnetic — almost like a sigh. “Walk with me for a little longer.”
She froze.
She could sense something unusual in him tonight — not just the company’s crisis, not just fatigue — something deeper, beyond her understanding.
All she could do was lightly tug his sleeve and whisper, “Okay.”
Another call came in.
This time, Cheng Jingwei didn’t answer right away. He stared at the screen for a long moment.
Instinctively, Jiang Zhier glanced at it too.
— Cheng Gan.
The eldest son of the Cheng Group.
Cheng Jingwei’s brother.
Cheng Jiayao’s father.
A call this late could only mean trouble at the company.
Cheng Jingwei finally swiped to answer, silent at first as Cheng Gan anxiously asked about the situation.
Expression unreadable, he continued walking. “I’m flying to California early tomorrow. I inspected the production line before the New Year — I don’t believe there are any safety hazards.”
A brief pause on the other end. “This setup is ruthless. Have you identified who’s behind it?”
“Not yet.”
“Foreigners are obsessed with privacy. Even if our production line is flawless, we might still face a blind boycott. What’s worse is the risk of overseas suppliers cutting us off,” Cheng Gan said. “Ah Wei, I know Uncle Fang has investments there. If things continue to deteriorate, we might need to consider asking for his help.”
Uncle Fang — a long-standing board director of the Cheng Group — had always been restless, relying on the prestige he earned from helping the old chairman conquer the business world.
“Help?”
Cheng Jingwei repeated the word rolling off his tongue with a cold laugh. “If Fang Hongzhi is willing to go this far, you can be certain he’s already scheming to profit from the chaos.”
Hearing the chill behind his polite tone, Jiang Zhier lifted her head in surprise.
His expression wasn’t harsh — still refined and composed — yet the gulf between their worlds was unmistakable.
Noticing her gaze, Cheng Jingwei subtly tilted the umbrella more toward her side, his arm brushing against hers.
Silence lingered on the other end of the line, but he wasn’t anxious.
His shoes, stained with rain and splattered mud, finally stepped off the broken path — as though crossing a boundary.
Behind lay the dilapidated old town.
Ahead, the gleaming world of wealth and power.
And he belonged to the latter.
His polished shoe splashed through a shallow puddle as he stepped onto the zebra crossing.
At last, Cheng Gan asked, “It’s Uncle Fang… but didn’t you just say we didn’t know yet?”
“The production line, technical team, and PR staff have all been working nonstop. Indeed, they haven’t had time to investigate — but I’m not blind. If someone has the nerve to stage something this risky, he must be after a massive gain.”
His voice was calm, unwavering. “I just hoped it wasn’t you.”
Cheng Gan said nothing.
He knew very well now — he’d never been part of the real game, had never even held the chips needed to play.
At this point, the only path left was to cut ties completely and throw his lot in with Fang Hongzhi.
There was no turning back — and Cheng Jingwei would not offer another chance.
But the old master was right. He had always been mediocre — not cut out for great things. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that Jingwei could truly outmaneuver someone as cunning as Fang Hongzhi.
“Ah Wei…”
His voice lowered. “I never dreamed of claiming Cheng Group for myself. I was only afraid that one day, once you grew stronger, you’d crush me in revenge… Otherwise, I would have never agreed to Fang Hongzhi’s proposal.”
Cheng Jingwei remained silent.
Sweat beaded on Cheng Gan’s palms as emotions surged uncontrollably. Suddenly, he burst out:
“Can you swear you’ve never hated me? You spent so many years abroad, never coming home for the New Year — if I did nothing, would you really have let me be?”
“I once called you ‘Big Brother,’” he replied quietly. “I wanted to leave you a way out — for Jiayao’s sake.”
His tone was steady and polite, yet on the other end, Cheng Gan dropped to his knees.
Then, the call ended.
Cheng Gan sat frozen in the dim living room, mind replaying that snowy New Year’s Eve.
—
Though Cheng Jingwei’s composure never faltered, Jiang Zhier still heard the frantic shouting that leaked through the line.
Powerful families all hid their own tragedies — and whatever appeared calm on the surface between the Cheng brothers had already turned into crashing waves beneath.
She didn’t dare ask. She only looked up at him — quietly.
He put his phone away and lowered his eyes. “Let’s go.”
“Okay.”
After a beat, she lifted her hand and gently covered the one holding the umbrella.
His palm was large and steady; hers was small and pale — the contrast almost fragile.
Yet she gripped tightly, knuckles straining, as though willing her strength into him.
His gaze lowered to that small hand, noting the slender wrist exposed beneath her sleeve.
They passed a convenience store, and he bought a bottle of water.
Standing under the narrow eaves, rain falling like a shimmering curtain in front of them, the gentleness normally etched into his features seemed to fade — leaving only a cold, distant edge.
Or perhaps… this was who he truly was.
Suddenly, he called softly, “Er’er.”
“Hm?”
She turned, hair brushing through the misty streetlight, gathering tiny droplets of rain. Her eyes were clear and cool as she asked, “What’s wrong?”
He looked at her for a couple of seconds, then turned away and took a sip of water.
“I said your grandmother once helped me. Did she ever tell you what happened?”
She shook her head.
She had always assumed that, before her death, Grandma simply asked him to help her in a critical moment — and that he valued that promise so deeply that he kept her close and protected.
Calmly, he replied, “I was very young then, maybe eight or nine. I couldn’t go home for New Year’s Eve. I was only wearing a thin layer of clothing… It was such a bitter winter that I truly thought I might freeze to death.”
Jiang Zhier stared, stunned.
The young master of the Cheng family… left to the cold?
“Fortunately, I ran into your grandmother. She never cared for publicity, so she didn’t recognize who I was — but she took me in and gave me a bowl of hot porridge.”
The wind and rain howled harder — biting like the tears he had once held back.
Who could have imagined that the “favor” he had remembered his entire life… was a single bowl of porridge?
“That’s all?” she whispered.
A soft smile curved his lips.
“Er’er, that bowl of porridge was a rare luxury to me.”
She didn’t know how to respond.
He stood atop the city’s highest place of power — all influence within his reach, countless people eager to please him.
But perhaps it was precisely because of this… that warmth was so rare.
“Just like the day my father passed away — also New Year’s Eve — the porridge you cooked for me gave me the strength to get through it.”
So that night, when he told her she had helped him tremendously — he truly meant it.
From that moment on, she was no longer merely the granddaughter of his benefactor.
He wanted to cherish her — make her life smooth and safe.
“But…” she hesitated, voice soft, “Why couldn’t you go home back then?”
Her mind replayed what Cheng Gan had shouted earlier — that he’d stayed abroad for years, never returning for the New Year.
She remembered his lonely expression during the holiday.
Something must have happened that night… something tied to why he left and why he remained away.
His thoughts were pulled back almost twenty years.
He had believed he had buried that memory.
He had believed he would never speak of it.
Eyes lowered, he said quietly, “Originally, aside from Cheng Gan, I had another older brother.”
They say children are born into their parents’ love — and the three brothers of the Cheng family reflected the rise and fall of that love.
Cheng Gan, the eldest, was born to sustain the lineage.
Cheng Yishi — born at the peak of affection.
Cheng Jingwei — born when that love was already fading.
Naturally, Cheng Yishi carried the brightest hopes.
He lacked Cheng Gan’s mediocrity and Jingwei’s reserved nature, and from childhood, he was groomed as the heir — brilliant, kind, respectful, a shining symbol of unity.
Shen Qing adored him beyond measure.
After the old chairman died, expectations only intensified — as though Cheng Yishi alone could carry the family’s future.
But favoritism breeds resentment — more so in a powerful family.
Cheng Gan resented him — resented the attention, the affection, the perfect smile.
He couldn’t help but wonder:
If Cheng Yishi didn’t exist… would everything he dreamed of belong to him?
At the end of the year, the whole family attended a charity gala in a nearby city.
Afterward, they stayed a few days.
They were flying home that night.
Their father went out drinking with old friends.
Their mother went for a beauty treatment.
The three brothers went hiking.
Before leaving, Shen Qing instructed Yishi to take good care of his older and younger brothers.
But at the cable car station… they became separated.
Yishi and Cheng Gan ascended first.
Young as he was, Jingwei remained calm, taking the following cable car up.
He expected to find his brothers waiting at the top.
But he never saw them again.
He searched — thinking they’d simply stepped away for a moment.
But the mountain trails were wild and unpaved, and the deeper he searched, the more lost he became.
When night fell, frost gathered on the leaves, and his thin clothes could no longer resist the cold.
Cheng Jingwei found a place to rest in the lee of a tree.
Apart from being cold and hungry, he was not worried. As a child of the Cheng family, if he disappeared, his parents would send people over the mountain to find him.
Sure enough, not long after, flashlights were sweeping the slopes from below.
But those searchers were not calling his name.
They were calling, “Cheng Yishi!”
Cheng Jingwei answered and joined the search party.
The team leader turned and told the others to head down the mountain first to inform the Chengs that Cheng Jingwei had been found, and they were still looking for Cheng Yishi.
Cheng Jingwei was surprised. “My brother hasn’t returned yet?” he asked.
A searcher wrapped a blanket around the shivering child and tried to comfort him. “Don’t worry, we’ll find your brother.”
“What about my eldest brother?” Cheng Jingwei asked.
“He’s gone down the mountain and is waiting for news with your parents at the foot of the trail,” the man said. “Are you cold? Were you scared?”
Cheng Jingwei shook his head and said nothing more.
He was simply puzzled. His eldest and second-oldest brothers had boarded the cable car together, yet one had been missing for a long time while the other had already descended. The second brother had been groomed as heir and trained in wilderness survival—how could he have disappeared?
As they neared the foot of the mountain, Cheng Jingwei could see his parents and eldest brother from a distance.
His mother was in tears, sobbing uncontrollably. His father stood beside her, solemn and more furrowed than Cheng Jingwei had ever seen him.
“Mom, Dad,” Cheng Jingwei called.
His mother looked up through her tears and rushed forward. “Where’s Yishi?”
The searchers set Cheng Jingwei down. “We’re still looking. We’ll do our best to find the second young master.”
The breath Cheng Jingwei’s mother had been holding seemed to leave her in a sudden gust; she stumbled, then turned on him. Driven by grief, she shoved him hard enough that he tumbled onto the rough path, his palms bruised and a small stone embedded in his skin.
The normally graceful lady of the house collapsed into tears and fists, sobbing at the top of her lungs. “Why didn’t you listen? Why didn’t you listen to Yishi? If anything happens to Yishi, I will never forgive you!”
Cheng Jingwei, bewildered, assumed his second brother had gotten lost trying to find him.
Time dragged. The search teams returned with no news. Night turned to day; his parents wept; still, there was no sign of Cheng Yishi.
At noon the next day, Cheng Yishi’s body was found, having fallen off a cliff on the far side of the mountain.
They brought him back to Nancy that New Year’s Eve for a funeral.
After the funeral, Cheng Huaixian drank himself into unconsciousness, and Shen Qing, crushed by grief and rage, needed an outlet.
Cheng Jingwei became that outlet.
So, on New Year’s Eve, she kicked him out of the house—barely dressed—and ordered the servants not to open the door for him. She cried that she no longer had a son like him.
Over time, overwhelmed by grief, Shen Qing suffered intermittent bouts of mental illness; whenever she saw Cheng Jingwei, she would falter. He was sent abroad early, and from then on, he grew up alone.
…
He spoke of these events with a calm face, eyes downcast, his voice steady as if recounting someone else’s story. Yet Jiang Zhier felt a pang in her chest.
“So… is that why you didn’t come home for the New Year all those years?” she asked.
“My second brother died around that New Year,” he said. “At first, they wouldn’t let me return. Later, I just didn’t care.”
Jiang Zhier pressed her lips together; her throat felt hollow.
“But why did Cheng Gan sound so frantic on the phone—talking about revenge and hatred?” she asked.
“I later discovered the truth,” Cheng Jingwei said. “My eldest brother descended first and told our parents that I’d gotten separated because I was playing around and that our second brother had lost contact while looking for me…”
“But you’d only gone up the mountain on the next cable car. How could that happen?”
“Cheng Gan pushed him down the mountain.”
“What…” Jiang Zhier’s eyes widened; a chill ran down her spine.
The Cheng family’s vast network of interests bred bitter resentments. Cheng Gan had pushed Cheng Yishi off a cliff; now Cheng Gan and his allies were scheming to ruin Cheng Jingwei.
“So, nothing could be done?” she asked.
“It was too late,” Cheng Jingwei said calmly. “Perhaps some refused to believe it; they only needed an outlet, no matter who it hurt.”
He tried to explain, but Shen Qing, consumed by grief and rage, would not listen—she lashed out, blaming him.
As he grew older and stronger, he realized more explanation wouldn’t change the past.
Cheng Gan was cowardly, reckless, weak, and heartless. Perhaps he hadn’t planned the whole thing, but when it happened, everything fit together perfectly.
Jiang Zhier found herself at a loss for words. Nothing she could say seemed able to comfort him—she was too young, the wounds too deep.
They continued walking in the rain, umbrella between them. Silence reigned.
She had so much to say, yet could not find the words. A thousand thoughts condensed into a single, awkward question: “Want to listen to some music?”
Cheng Jingwei looked down.
Jiang Zhier took the earphones from her pocket, handed one to him, and tapped the song he had been listening to.
They stepped into the empty elevator together.
Each wore an earbud; the cable stretched between them, taut from the height difference.
She reached out and clasped his hand again, holding it tightly. Her small, soft hand felt firm and determined—where that courage came from, she did not know.
Cheng Jingwei lowered his gaze to their joined hands.
She said earnestly, “Second Uncle, everything will pass.”
“I know,” he answered. “Having come this far, I know nothing in this world is insurmountable. It’s just—” He bowed his head; his tall frame seemed to slump, the nape of his neck bearing the ridges of a rugged past.
After a moment, he half-smiled in self-mockery. “Er’er, maybe no one really loves me.”
“I love you,” Jiang Zhier said.
He curled his fingers gently under her palm and tilted his head to meet her eyes.
Her heart raced.
Gathering all his courage, he did not look away. He said plainly and earnestly, “I love you.”
At that moment, Faye Wong’s “Undercurrent” flowed through their earbuds:
“How I longed to be close to
your heart and eyes. Our mouths
and ears were not meant for us.
I couldn’t hold on tight.
There’s no reason to be in love without undercurrents…”
The gentle voice and swelling piano echoed the truth in Jiang Zhier’s words and the tumult in both their hearts.