Chapter 10: Lend Me

Fang Yingli’s WeChat name was simply his own name, and his profile picture was a rock. Though it’s not just any rock, but one from the sea.

It looked like a reef stone, worn glossy by the waves. Ren Yu found it vaguely familiar, but the world was full of rocks. Whether it was this one or that one hardly mattered. He opened Fang Yingli’s Moments, and in it, there was very little content—legal analyses, case notes. It might as well have been a work account.

Ren Yu sprawled on the sofa and stared at that θ through the thin shadows cast by the curtains.

Today has brought some progress. He’d gotten the man’s WeChat and confirmed that Fang Yingli wasn’t some dog-abusing sociopath. On the contrary, he was likely taking the strays he picked up to the pet center for care and deworming.

Though someone like Fang Yingli hardly looked like a bleeding-heart dog lover, but still——

A fuzzy face smothered his own. Ren Yu spat out a mouthful of fur, breaking off his train of thought, and lifted his chin to dodge. The little Shepherd seized the opening, and a hot, wet tongue lashed across his lips.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

He sucked in a sharp breath. The little beast had jumped onto the sofa without even getting its paws washed, leaving a grimy, plum-blossom-shaped paw print on his white T-shirt. 

His blood pressure was spiking when the puppy let out a small whimper, its one floppy ear drooping, and abruptly rolled over to expose its soft belly, legs curled, clearly asking for belly rubs.

Ren Yu swallowed his anger.

Fine.

No matter how unlikely a dog lover he looked, who could actually resist a puppy?

His fingers were just getting into a good rhythm, buried in the smooth fur, when his phone rang.

Ren Yu ruffled the dog’s head and stood to answer.

“Wei-jie.” He straightened his expression. Around Deng Weizhi, he always maintained a certain deference for a senior in the media world.

“Xiao Ren, how’s it going? Chen Xin told me you’ve got a direction now. Is it going smoothly?” The wind was loud on Deng Weizhi’s end, and her breathing sounded heavy.

Smooth? What part of this was smooth? Too much to explain. Ren Yu gave an awkward laugh. “It’s okay. Where are you, out on assignment?”

Deng Weizhi cupped her hand over the microphone, her voice coming through more clearly. “I’m out west, working on a story.”

She’d just arrived in Dunhuang yesterday, filming a documentary on artifact restoration. Everyone assumed the unfinished housing story had stalled, that she’d given up and pivoted to highbrow cultural content. It put her peers and Huanyan’s people at ease. None of them knew she still had Ren Yu running a covert operation.

The northwest was familiar ground for Ren Yu. Close his eyes, and he could still see the dust storms, the geese wheeling overhead, the faded murals in crumbling grottoes where he’d once helped with laser cleaning, then grouting and anchoring. Ren Yu clicked his tongue. “Good place. You should stay a few extra days. The noodles are amazing.”

Though every meal lacked vegetables. Back when he’d worked in Dunhuang, toiling under a history professor, he’d been constipated for a month.

“At least three days,” Deng Weizhi said. “Which means I can’t make it to tomorrow’s networking gala—the theme is building the city of the future. But I pulled some strings and got you in.”

She lowered her voice slightly. “I heard Liao Xiuming will be there.”

Liao Xiuming was the head of Shuangcheng Group, the investment holding company behind Huanyan Real Estate. The two companies were tightly intertwined, their inner workings deep and shadowed, making things hard to see clearly.

Ren Yu understood. “Got it. I’ll go take a look.”

“Be careful.” The Liao family had deep roots and long reach. Deng Weizhi couldn’t help worrying. “Gather what you can. If there’s nothing to find, treat it as a night out.”

Deng Weizhi was his employer, yes, but also a comrade, and something of a mentor. She didn’t want to put him in a difficult position, and she certainly didn’t want him in danger. The water in this world ran deep. The truth journalism pursued would inevitably cut into someone’s profits and touch someone’s sore spots.

She still carried a terrible scar on her knee.

Twelve years ago, while investigating a predatory beauty-loan company undercover, she’d been discovered and struck by a speeding car while fleeing, leaving her with permanent meniscus damage.

But as long as she was alive, the physical injuries were minor compared to the psychological toll. Red paint splashed across her front door. Threats against her daughter’s safety. Her husband took their daughter and divorced her.

She didn’t blame her husband, and didn’t resent her daughter. She understood everyone’s decisions. It was just that no one understood hers.

Ren Yu was quiet for a moment, then forced a carefree laugh to hide the stirring in his chest. “Just enjoy your noodles. Leave things here to me.”

The next day, he rented a BMW. A fine car, and with the slightest tap on the accelerator it wanted to fly. Ren Yu cranked the stereo and drove all the way to Cloudtop Grand Hotel. A valet opened his door and took the car for parking.

Ren Yu stepped out, taking in the blaze of lights inside, running his thumb absently along the edge of the invitation. Today he’d dressed in a dark blue suit to hold his own. It had narrow peaked lapels, a round brooch at the chest, the waist cut slim. He rarely dressed this formally, but his lines were clean, and tailored clothes flattered his long frame beautifully.

He smoothed away his usual flippant smile and put on the steady demeanor of a man worth a hundred million, then walked in.

No familiar faces, naturally. He made a show of taking a glass of champagne and stationed himself by the cold buffet, scanning for his target.

Five minutes later, Liao Xiuming appeared at the entrance in a dark gray suit, cutting through the room with a cold, commanding presence. People approached him constantly, and he smiled at everyone, offending no one. But a man like Ren Yu could read the impatience behind his eyes at a glance.

Ren Yu mentally catalogued everyone who managed to exchange more than a few words with Liao Xiuming. When Liao Xiuming took the stage to speak, Ren Yu struck up conversations with those very people, asking with feigned nonchalance, “Why isn’t Huanyan’s Zhang Xiang here? I heard President Liao usually brings him along.”

A man surnamed Fu, twisting his wedding ring idly, gave a cold snort. “After the Yifeng mess, he’s got the nerve to show his face?”

Another chimed in, “Actually, I think I saw him earlier. He went upstairs.”

Upstairs wasn’t the banquet hall but a dimly lit terrace.

Ren Yu swirled his glass, watching Liao Xiuming on stage as a business leader, his voice booming, commanding, the spotlight pouring down on him and illuminating the grand commercial vision he spun. All of it is so polished. Yet Ren Yu caught an unmistakable whiff of rot.

Ten minutes later, the speech ended. Liao Xiuming stepped down, declined several invitations, and headed straight upstairs. Ren Yu splashed a few drops of red wine on his sleeve, set down his glass, and followed.

He moved quietly, each step up the stairs careful. At the top, the light was dim. A round table stacked with white tablecloths and napkins, large potted plants screening the terrace’s sliding door. Perhaps because it had been closed in haste, the door had been left with a narrow gap, through which he could just glimpse what was inside.

A quick scan confirmed no surveillance cameras. Ren Yu crept closer and pressed his ear to the gap.

“Why did you come to me?” Liao Xiuming sat in a white garden chair on the terrace, his expression cold. Zhang Xiang stood with his head bowed, and all Ren Yu could see was the defeated slope of his back.

“President Liao, you can’t cut ties with me now.”

Liao Xiuming raised his eyes slowly, his face eerily calm. Then he kicked Zhang Xiang to the ground with sudden force. He leaned forward, elbow on his knee, lower lids lifting, a dangerous look on his face. “Zhang Xiang, watch your words. What relationship do we have? Hm?”

He kicked again, harder this time, square in the chest, leaving a footprint on Zhang Xiang’s white shirt.

“You couldn’t even handle this one goddamn thing. That pig brain of yours—you can’t run a company, and you can’t even go bankrupt quietly?”

Ren Yu’s pupils jolted. He pressed the brooch on his chest as close to the door gap as possible. It was a micro-recorder, currently running.

“President Liao, the buyers are protesting, I couldn’t keep it under control…” Zhang Xiang knelt, voice trembling. The suit did him no favors now; all the polish was gone, replaced by pure misery.

“There are plenty of ways to shut people up. Use your fucking head.” Liao Xiuming rapped his knuckles against Zhang Xiang’s skull, then seemed to lose interest and leaned back into the chair. “I always said you educated types are too precious. This method’s too dirty, that one’s beneath you… Now that the banners are hanging outside your building, is this dignified enough?”

Zhang Xiang opened his mouth, then froze.

In the sudden hush, the pores along Ren Yu’s spine opened. He clearly heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Heavy, unhurried, making no attempt at concealment. He couldn’t tell if it was some oblivious guest or one of Liao Xiuming’s men.

Inside the terrace, Zhang Xiang moved quickly toward the door. Ren Yu scanned his surroundings and retreated slowly. There was a crumbling floral wall beside him, but it had decorative cutouts—impossible to fully hide behind. Hiding was pointless. Forward meant Zhang Xiang and Liao Xiuming; behind meant an unknown. Trapped between two threats, he hesitated.

Just as Zhang Xiang reached for the door, a force slammed into Ren Yu, pinning him hard against the floral wall.

One hand planted beside his face, cutting off escape. The other seized his wrist with the finality of a predator’s grip. When his eyes focused, Ren Yu saw the scabbed wound on that hand, then the face before him—sharp nose, cold eyes. Someone he knew all too well.

Fang Yingli narrowed his eyes and asked in a low voice, “Boss Ren, what are you doing here?”

The question could just as easily be turned back on Fang Yingli.

But the footsteps on the stairs hadn’t stopped. Whoever was coming, it wasn’t him. Ren Yu didn’t have time to think. He fixed Fang Yingli with an urgent, no-argument stare.

“Lend me a kiss.”