Marked by My Scummy Ex-Wife’s Boss (GL) - Chapter 22.2
“Oh?” Zhu Sui drawled, deliberately drawing it out. “So, you just picked something at random earlier?”
“…It’s not like that,” Song Zhen said under Zhu Sui’s amused gaze. “That’s the one I was going to get. But…”
She had, in fact, chosen it randomly.
Before she could finish, Zhu Sui laughed out loud—bright and unrestrained.
Embarrassed, Song Zhen abruptly stood up, grabbed the menu, and walked off. When she returned, she handed Zhu Sui a cup of the café’s best-selling coffee, as recommended by the barista.
Just then, Zuo Tian and the rest of the team wrapped up their discussion and rejoined them.
Zhu Sui took a sip and, instead of teasing her further, casually shared the names of the people on the review panel.
Song Zhen felt a little more reassured after hearing them.
Zuo Tian patted her chest and said, “With Vice President Rong and Director Zhu on board, we’re in good hands.”
Cao Fan, ever calm, smiled. “Anyone’s fine. With the military court overseeing it, they’ll follow proper procedures.”
Zhu Sui nodded in agreement. “Exactly. Huaguo’s laws are thorough—there won’t be any loopholes. Just relax.”
Those last three words, though, were said while looking directly at Song Zhen.
She paused.
Zhu Sui checked the time. “It’s about time. Shall we?”
That afternoon, they returned to the military court.
The review session was open to observers, and as one of the project’s founding members, Cheng Lang was allowed to attend.
Unlike the morning’s packed courtroom, the gallery was nearly empty now—just two observers.
And one of them was Zhu Sui.
She made no effort to hide herself, sitting right beside Song Zhen. After all, she wasn’t officially part of the research institute anymore. Everyone knew she’d be reassigned soon, so no one paid much attention to her. She didn’t matter—right?
With the session about to begin, everyone from Song Zhen’s team was in place. She was the last to settle in, organizing her materials.
Zhu Sui propped her chin on one hand, watching her with a lazy smile. Then, in her usual casual, almost offhand tone, she said:
“Good luck~”
And then, “Oh right—it’s pretty good.”
The comment came out of nowhere. Song Zhen blinked.
Zhu Sui pointed behind her.
As the military tribunal’s observers entered, she gently nudged Song Zhen forward. “Go on. Don’t be late. And relax.”
Only when Song Zhen reached her designated spot did she realize—
That “pretty good”… was about the coffee.
She looked back.
Zhu Sui, dressed in crisp military uniform, gave her a distant but gentle smile.
It wasn’t ingratiating or saccharine.
But somehow, it was deeply reassuring.
Just as Song Zhen was marveling at how enigmatic Zhu Sui could be, the review session began right on time.
The materials were submitted.
She was asked to outline her contributions to the project over the years.
Then came the formal application once more.
And soon, they reached the critical question. Vice President Rong asked again for confirmation:
“As a co-founder, are you certain you want to form a separate team, independent from Dr. Cheng Lang’s group?”
Song Zhen took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, I confirm.”
She preempted the follow-up questions and explained further.
“It will be a separate team, still under the umbrella of the Z-serum project. However, from this point on, all honors and setbacks will be clearly distinguished. My name will no longer be credited in any of Dr. Cheng Lang’s lab achievements. Likewise, her name will no longer appear on any results produced by my team.”
“And going forward, for the Z-serum results…” someone began.
“If Dr. Cheng’s team is the first to succeed, credit goes entirely to her group. If mine is the first, then our team members alone will be credited,” Song Zhen stated firmly, leaving no room for debate.
Her decisiveness made the deputy directors and department heads glance at one another.
They all understood—this was an official split.
In China’s scientific community, it’s not uncommon for large projects to have multiple founders. Nor is it rare for co-founders to split midway through the research.
According to national regulations, if a disagreement arises between founding members, a new project for the same compound can’t be initiated. Instead, a separation into distinct teams must occur.
Even then, there are different models.
Some groups split but continue to share credit—regardless of which group completes the work, both teams are acknowledged.
But what Song Zhen proposed was the other kind: a complete division. From now on, whichever team succeeded would receive sole credit. The other would be entirely omitted from the final achievements.
That…
Vice President Rong looked at Cheng Lang, then cautiously said, “Ninety percent of the journey has already been completed. At this stage, to split off a second team and not share recognition…”
He paused, choosing his words with extreme care. “Professor Song, if your team produces results, Dr. Cheng won’t be credited. But likewise, if Dr. Cheng reaches clinical trials first, your name can’t be used either.
It would mean your three years of work…”
“I understand,” Song Zhen cut in.
Her expression did not waver. “I understand fully.”
“If Dr. Cheng’s team is the first to overcome the challenge of developing the stabilizing agent’s ‘reconciler,’ then those of us who were once affiliated with her lab will be completely erased from the Z-serum’s contribution list. Our work will not be acknowledged. And vice versa—if my team succeeds first, Dr. Cheng’s name will not appear.”
“I’m aware. And I insist.”
Her gaze flickered for a moment, then sharpened with resolve as she added something shocking:
“Because all the effort we put in earlier doesn’t really matter. The real challenge lies in developing the reconciler. District Three has been stuck at this stage for nearly a decade. Yes, maybe 90% of the foundational work is done, as Vice President Rong said—but it’s this final hurdle that marks the leap from zero to one.”
“I am confident in this. And that’s why I insist.”
To some, it might sound like she was trying to monopolize credit.
Vice President Rong and the other deputy directors murmured to each other. Then Director Zhu asked:
“Professor Song, may I ask why you’ve chosen this path?”
His expression was serious. Though she bore a physical resemblance to Zhu Sui, his demeanor was worlds apart—solemn and proper.
“In principle, the Academy does not want to dismiss the contributions of any researcher. We’d like to understand your reasoning.”
Song Zhen’s long lashes lowered slightly. She was silent for a moment, then finally spoke—her voice gentle.
“First, because of the growing divide in our research philosophies, it’s no longer possible for us to work with one heart and mind. If credit is shared, it opens the door to interference between the two teams. My side will not interfere with Dr. Cheng’s group—and I hope the same courtesy will be extended to us. Every decision, every direction must be guided by my will alone.”
“And that’s something Dr. Cheng cannot promise me. So, in the absence of mutual trust, this is my decision.”
“Second… well, there are personal entanglements.”
In the gallery, Cheng Lang’s heart tightened. She braced herself, thinking Song Zhen was about to expose something—but instead, Song Zhen looked up and gave a faint, pale smile, tinged with calm resignation.
Her voice was hoarse.
“There was a time when I was willing to lend my own research to Dr. Cheng, so she could submit it to the Military Medical University. That was because we shared the same ideals, the same goals. Our mutual passion made us strong, made us partners. But now, that no longer exists.”
“Dr. Cheng was once the dearest companion on my scientific journey. But because of the breakdown in our personal relationship, I see things differently now.”
“Time changes people. Roads that once ran parallel may cross or split. Old friends leave. New ones arrive. No one escapes fate. And I am no exception.”
“If we can no longer trust each other, then I choose a clean break.”
“I am severing my ties with Dr. Cheng, and with that, the career I have pledged my life to will also be severed from her. I stand by this.”
She chose her words carefully.
She used terms like “dearest companion” and “side by side,” but never once mentioned marriage.
Cheng Lang exhaled a quiet breath of relief, yet her hands tightened into fists.
After Song Zhen finished, the department heads were silent. The vice presidents, all older and more seasoned, were visibly moved. They had each experienced their own moments of academic conflict—splits with colleagues, betrayals, the kind of professional heartbreak that younger researchers often underestimated.
They understood.
Working with someone who no longer shares your vision is agony—especially if that someone was once a beloved partner. The vice presidents chuckled and shook their heads, a helpless, knowing sort of smile.
There was nothing more to be said.
Just as Director Zhu was about to consult the others, Song Zhen dropped a final bombshell.
“And one last thing. Based on our current progress—I’m confident that my team will complete development of the Z-serum within six months.”
Vice President Rong’s eyes widened in shock. His voice trembled. “Do you understand what you’re saying?”
“I do. And I will take full responsibility for what I’ve said.”
For years, people had said the Z-serum was on the brink of clinical trials—but no one knew how long that final stretch might last.
The last public update from District Three was nearly a decade ago. They, too, had hit the wall with the reconciler. From “almost ready” to actual clinical testing—ten years had passed, and they were still stuck.
Now Song Zhen was saying—
Director Zhu and another deputy director stood up, startled.
But Song Zhen remained composed.
“That’s why I need six months of complete autonomy, a team entirely under my command, and zero interference for the final stretch of research.”
Then she delivered the next shocker, making even the department heads leap to their feet.
“If District One refuses my application to form a second team today, I will take my research to District Five. China has three military districts, each with its own research institute. District Three has the Tong family. District One has Dr. Cheng. But District Five has made no progress in stabilizer development at all. I don’t think they’ll turn me away.”
The project was already at this stage. Who would say no to such a gift?
“And during the final phase, we will still open trials to pregnant women and provide all the support we can offer.”
“That’s all I have to say.”
Song Zhen handed the mic to Zuo Tian and refused to discuss it further.
Her words left the three vice presidents in a bind. It was a serious matter—no one wanted to risk losing such a critical scientific breakthrough. In the end, they had no choice but to call the institute director.
The official hearing was already halfway through its process—still no verdict.
But after hearing everything, the director gave his final word:
Approved.
The moment the result was announced, Zuo Tian let out a cheer of joy.
The two male lab members embraced instinctively.
Only Song Zhen… looked up quietly in Cheng Lang’s direction.
From a distance, her eyes shimmered faintly with tears. Not enough to blur, but enough to soften the light. Her gaze saw nothing clearly anymore.
At that moment, the once-entwined paths of their lives were truly, irreversibly severed.
Whatever expression Cheng Lang wore didn’t matter anymore.
Because for the first time since the fallout, Song Zhen felt it deep in her bones.
This was goodbye.
Goodbye, former partner.
Goodbye, once-beloved.
From now on, just like their separate research teams, their lives would no longer intersect.
Different paths—one walking a sunlit road, the other a narrow bridge—each making their own choice.
Each… living their own life.