Zhou Yuqian always remembered how stubborn that pretty face was; clearly on the verge of tears, yet she stubbornly bit her lip. He thought she was strong back then, only later realizing she was so scared she forgot how to cry because—she had shed many tears for Xie Jiayi. “You haven’t left… to go to work?” Lai Hui raised her wrist, the date on her watch showing July 22nd, a Thursday. Zhou Yuqian quickly composed himself and said, “I was just about to leave. Are you going out?” “I want to visit Cheng Lan at the hospital.” “I’ll give you a lift on my way.”
Lai Hui got out at the hospital entrance, and Zhou Yuqian watched her figure disappear through the hospital doors. Now, that face showed no trace of stubbornness; he knew it was his doing. With money as the medium, Lai Hui became an item, negotiated, signed, and sealed, simple and pure. Her freedom, pride, and stubbornness were all sold, turning her into a bird kept for show, without thought or soul. He realized he wasn’t quite satisfied with his creation. As the car sped towards the bustling city, Zhou Yuqian buried himself in documents. Whether satisfied or not, he was a businessman, only concerned with profit and loss. Love, art—those abstract things—were not for businessmen. He knew how to fill in numbers on a check to withdraw money from the bank, but he didn’t know what to fill in his heart to withdraw something of the same value from elsewhere. All he felt was a desolate emptiness, which could only be filled with money.
