Feverish Spring Night - Chapter 3
At eleven o’clock in the evening, it was already deep into the night for Jiang Zhier —but for the man, it was the peak of liveliness: lights blazing, glasses clinking, and voices mingling in the air.
Cheng Jingwei had just slipped away from the brightly lit banquet hall.
The red wine served that evening was Romanée-Conti Pinot Noir — rich in aroma, delicate and smooth on the palate, with neither sourness nor astringency.
Cheng Jingwei preferred the wines with higher acidity and tannins; he wasn’t fond of Pinot Noir.
But faced with everyone’s warm toasts and excuses of hospitality, he’d ended up drinking more than usual.
Entering his hotel suite, he unscrewed a bottle of water and rinsed his mouth.
He stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the city’s bustling downtown.
Thousands of lights glowed across the skyline; neon signs shimmered on high-rise towers, and familiar landmarks pierced the dark horizon.
It had been a long time since he’d returned home — and even longer since he’d truly taken in the city’s nightscape.
Just then, his assistant entered with a phone.
“Mr. Cheng, a call for you.”
He took it. The number was unfamiliar.
With a slight gesture, he dismissed the assistant, then sank wearily into the armchair, loosening his tie before answering.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“…”
Only silence responded.
He glanced again at the number on the screen.
He didn’t recognize it — and it was nearly impossible for anyone else to have his private contact.
After a brief pause, he raised an eyebrow.
“Jiang Zhier?”
“…Mm.”
The girl’s voice was soft — truly soft.
Not sweet, but low and faintly cold, as though strained by the effort of holding back a sob — restrained, dry, and aching, like the kind of red wine he actually preferred.
She asked quietly,
“Can I regret it?”
“Of course,” Cheng Jingwei replied, already understanding what she meant.
“Then… can I ask you another question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Mr. Cheng, what do I need to pay for you to take me away?”
The man didn’t answer immediately.
In the dim bedroom, Jiang Zhier sat alone, the echo of her uncle and aunt’s words still twisting painfully in her mind —
as if she were awaiting judgment.
After a long moment, Cheng Jingwei gave a faint, low chuckle.
“I need you to change your name.”
“…What?”
“It always feels awkward to be called Mr. Cheng by a girl more than ten years younger than me.”
She pursed her lips. “…Second Uncle.”
He smiled faintly, not commenting further. “Are you at home?”
“Yes.”
“Come downstairs in fifteen minutes.”
Cheng Jingwei couldn’t leave the banquet, so he sent his driver to pick her up.
The Jiang residence wasn’t far, and on a rainy night with light traffic, the car arrived in less than fifteen minutes.
From a distance, the driver spotted a young girl standing by the roadside, holding an umbrella.
The wind was strong. The girl clutched her suitcase handle with one hand and gripped the umbrella with the other, her slender figure swaying under the downpour as though she might be swept away at any moment.
The driver hurriedly stopped the car and ran to meet her.
“Miss Jiang, why are you waiting out here in such heavy rain?”
Jiang Zhier shook her head. “Thank you—sorry for the trouble.”
The driver opened the door for her and placed her suitcase in the trunk. When he returned to the car, Jiang Zhier thanked him again.
He had previously been in charge of driving Young Master Cheng Jiayao. Having seen his fair share of spoiled and arrogant heirs, he was surprised by how polite Miss Jiang was.
“Miss Jiang, you’re welcome. Mr. Cheng asked me to pick you up—this is part of my job.”
“Where’s Second Uncle Cheng?”
“Mr. Cheng is still at a dinner party. It’s not over yet. I’ll take you to Imperial Water Court so you can rest.”
Jiang Zhier nodded, then, realizing he couldn’t see her from the front seat, softly hummed in acknowledgment.
If not for her grandmother knowing Cheng Jingwei, she would never have done such a ridiculous thing—going to a man’s home in the middle of the night after meeting him only once.
Even in the car, she still felt dazed.
After a moment, she asked, “Uncle, do you know if Second Uncle is married?”
She wondered whether her presence might cause him any inconvenience.
With Mr. Cheng absent, the driver relaxed a little and joked, “Does Mr. Cheng seem that old to you?”
Not really—he actually looked quite young.
But his aura was calm and composed, the kind that only comes from experience and capability, not something easily found in youth.
The driver quickly added, “No, Mr. Cheng is only twenty-seven, and he’s not married.”
“Does he live alone?”
“Yes. Mr. Cheng rarely comes back to China—once every year or two—and he always stays alone at Yu Shui Ting.”
“Will he go abroad again later?”
Jiang Zhier asked casually, though it was a sensitive question.
Cheng Jingwei had returned to China because Cheng Huaixian was seriously ill. If things truly turn dire, chaos may lie ahead. If he succeeded, he likely wouldn’t leave again.
The driver smiled lightly. “I’m not sure about that.”
It was already late when Cheng Jingwei returned home.
He spent most of the year abroad, and even when he came back, it was only for a few days.
He never kept servants—only arranged for someone to clean before his arrival.
His assistant had just messaged him, confirming they’d hired a live-in nanny to take care of Jiang Zhier’s daily needs.
Cheng Jingwei put his phone away and changed his shoes in the entrance hall.
On the shoe rack were a pair of fluffy wool boots, neatly arranged.
He turned toward the interior of the house. Through the crack in the guest room door, he saw light seeping out.
That alone told him a lot about the girl’s personality—
meticulous, sensitive, and possessed of a strict sense of boundaries.
The shoes weren’t placed on the rack, just beside it.
The door wasn’t fully closed, just slightly ajar.
Perhaps because she knew this wasn’t her home—she didn’t have a sense of belonging here—everything she did was cautious and restrained.
Cheng Jingwei bent down and placed the boots properly on the rack.
At that moment, Jiang Zhier was still awake.
In a new environment, she’d expected the insomnia.
Hearing the man come in, she hesitated about going out to thank him again.
But it was so late—it felt awkward.
After struggling for a while, she finally decided to get up.
Suddenly, there were two light knocks on her door.
“Come in,” she said.
The door opened halfway. “Still awake?” came the man’s voice.
Fresh from the glitz and glamour of the banquet, he carried faint traces of tobacco and alcohol, yet his face showed no sign of intoxication—only a calm weariness. The loosened tie at his collar made him seem a little more at ease than earlier that evening.
“…Just getting ready for bed,” she murmured.
Cheng Jingwei didn’t cross the threshold. He knew it wasn’t the right time to talk.
Besides, the girl looked shy and timid, which made conversation even harder.
“I’ll be out of town for a few days,” he said. “If you need anything, contact me.”
“Okay. Thank you, Uncle.”
“Go to bed early.”
He reached for the switch to turn off the light, but—
“Don’t turn it off!” she blurted.
It was the loudest voice he’d heard from her all day—tinged with panic.
Cheng Jingwei paused, then chuckled. “Afraid of the dark?”
Jiang Zhier lowered her head, biting her lip.
“This light is so bright. How can I sleep?” she said softly, embarrassed. “It’s fine—I’m used to it.”
Cheng Jingwei said nothing more, quietly closed the door, and left.
The next morning.
When Jiang Zhier woke, Cheng Jingwei had already left for the airport.
A woman in her forties was preparing breakfast in the kitchen. Seeing her up, she greeted her warmly:
“Miss Jiang, what would you like for breakfast?”
Not wanting to trouble her, Jiang Zhier replied, “Just the usual, thank you, Auntie.”
The woman smiled. “There isn’t a ‘usual.’ Mr. Cheng just called last night to ask me to take care of you.”
Jiang Zhier froze.
Even though she knew Cheng Jingwei was meticulous and considerate, she still felt touched. He had actually arranged for someone to look after her.
Seeing her hesitate, the woman asked, “Would you like a Chinese or Western breakfast, Miss Jiang?”
“Chinese—something simple is fine,” Zhier said. “You can just call me Er’er. What’s your name, Auntie?”
“My surname’s Chu,” the woman replied with a smile. She already liked this polite, well-mannered girl.
Jiang Zhier had thought a Chinese breakfast would be simple—just some corn and sweet potatoes would do.
But to her surprise, Aunt Chu soon brought out an elaborate spread:
beef and eggs, steamed shrimp dumplings, sweet osmanthus dumplings with red bean soup, vegetable juice, and a tray of nuts and strawberries.
The presentation was exquisite, nutritious, and abundant.
Zhier couldn’t finish it all, but she still felt full.
By nine-thirty, her uncle and aunt must have found the note she’d left—but no one called to scold her.
She had a vague feeling that perhaps Cheng Jingwei had handled it.
It was Sunday. After finishing her homework and packing her schoolbag, her eyes fell on a suit draped over the back of a chair.
She checked the time, placed the suit in a bag, and went out to find a dry cleaner.
“Little girl, we can’t take this suit,” said the dry cleaner’s wife. “It’s a special fabric—marked as neither washable nor dry-cleanable.”
Jiang Zhier was stunned. “How can there be clothes that can’t be washed or dry-cleaned?”
“This kind of handmade designer suit needs special care at the brand’s service center,” the woman explained. “Looks like it got wet—the wool’s a bit warped. I’d suggest taking it to the brand’s boutique.”
The suit was clearly custom-made—tailored by skilled craftsmen who catered to the discreet needs of the wealthy.
No brand name was visible anywhere.
Zhier searched every tag and seam but couldn’t find a logo.
Where was she supposed to send it?
The man seemed so busy—she didn’t want to bother him over something so trivial.
Just as she was fretting, she suddenly heard a voice behind her.
“Hey.”
She turned. A young man in a white shirt and jeans stood nearby, a basketball tucked under one arm. He looked freshly off the court, brow furrowed as he studied her.
It was Cheng Jiayao—Cheng Jingwei’s nephew.
Of course, she knew him. They attended the same school—he was a year ahead, already in his third year of high school. They’d seen each other a few times at banquets and family events, though they’d never spoken much.
“Where’s my second uncle?” Jiayao asked, sounding a bit impatient. He’d also heard about the funeral yesterday.
“He said he’s going on a business trip for a few days.”
After a pause, Jiang Zhier added, “Do you know what brand this suit of his is?”
“Why?”
“It got wet in the rain yesterday. Do you know where I can get it repaired?”
“It’s a high-end German custom suit,” Jiayao replied casually. “Can’t be repaired here—it has to be sent back to the headquarters in Germany. If it’s wet, just throw it away. It’s just a suit.”
Zhier’s fingers tightened around the fabric. She hadn’t expected it to be such trouble.
But she couldn’t simply throw away something that belonged to Cheng Jingwei.
“Can you please give me the address so I can send it for repair?”
Jiayao almost scoffed. To him, it was just a suit—his uncle could easily buy a new one.
But instead, he said mockingly, “Is that how you ask for help?”
Zhier pressed her lips together. “Whatever reward you want, I’ll buy it for you.”
“Do I look like I need your money?” Jiayao raised an eyebrow, pointing at himself. “What do you call me?”
“…”
Jiang Zhier blinked, puzzled. “Cheng Jiayao?”
Everyone called him that—only close friends dropped the surname.
He turned to leave. “Then I’m not helping.”
“Wait!” Zhier caught his sleeve. “What should I call you, then?”
“You’re younger than me, right? And now my second uncle decided to keep you around for who knows what reason—what do you think you should call me?”
“…”
He was only a year or two older, yet he insisted on pulling rank.
They’d known each other since childhood, always treated as equals—but now, she had to swallow her pride.
Never good with words, Jiang Zhier blushed, lowered her head, and whispered,
“…Brother Jiayao.”
Cheng Jiayao smiled and took the bag of clothes. “Okay, I’ll send it to you, sister.”
“…”
“One more thing.” Cheng Jiayao turned around and raised another finger. “Remember, you owe me a favor. You have to curry favor with our Second Uncle on your brother’s behalf.”
“…”
After all, he had agreed first.
Jiang Zhier nodded. “Oh.”
—
Jiang Zhier said goodbye to Aunt Chu and went home after dinner.
As she reached the door, her phone rang.
Jiang Zhier stared at the number, stunned, and felt a faint wave of nervousness. She cleared her throat and answered, “Second Uncle.”
“Are you home?”
Perhaps it was the pressure that came naturally from elders, but Jiang Zhier felt a subtle sense of reassurance that she had made it back, and she quietly let out a breath.
“Yeah, I just arrived.”
“Going to school tomorrow?”
Jiang Zhier opened the door, glanced at the new pink slippers placed neatly on the shoe rack, and paused. “Yeah.”
“The driver will be waiting for you at the door tomorrow morning.”
The Jiang family used to have two drivers—one for the adults and one for the children.
Although she and Jiang Chen attended the same school, Jiang Chen refused to go with her no matter what, so she always took the bus.
Jiang Zhier lowered her eyes as she changed her shoes, her eyelashes trembling. “Thank you, Second Uncle.”
“I put a new night light in your bedroom. Turn it on when you go to bed—it won’t hurt your eyes.”
Everything was so kind, so thoughtful—so good that she didn’t quite know how to accept it.
She also didn’t know how to express her gratitude.
Before she could say anything, someone called Cheng Jingwei, and the call ended hastily.
When Jiang Zhier returned to her room, she saw the cloud-shaped night light on the bedside table.
…
After washing up, she climbed onto the bed, turned off the main light, and switched on the small night light.
The warm yellow glow was soft and gentle, just enough to dispel the darkness in the room. It looked like a small white cloud reflected in the girl’s clear eyes.
Jiang Zhier nestled into the quilt, only her eyebrows showing, quietly gazing at the warm light source.
Then, she suddenly felt a heavy thumping deep in her chest, as if something were sprouting from the ground—delicate yet unstoppable—like a bonfire kindled by the damp winter rain.
Her heart seemed to sink into the storm, and the wind rustled all around her.
At that moment, Jiang Zhier didn’t know what that sound was.
Rain or thunder?
Actually, it was neither.
It was the prelude to sixteen-year-old Jiang Zhier falling in love with Cheng Jingwei, who was twenty-seven at the time.