Actually, Ouyang hadn’t misunderstood. Jiang Yi had stayed away to avoid him. But now, Jiang Yi wasn’t about to admit it. Another realization emerged: Ouyang’s intuition was too sharp. To avoid future awkwardness, Jiang Yi would have to learn to control and hide his feelings—at least, as Ouyang said, return to normal and try not to think about what had happened between them.
In the past, even if he’d “gone all the way” with a lover, it wouldn’t have unsettled him like this, let alone caused such intense fluctuations. Now he understood: letting emotions take over, even without crossing the line, could leave you feeling stranded. Especially when the other person wasn’t interested. Ouyang had handled it with more art and civility than a simple rejection, which made Jiang Yi lose confidence. His old pretenses of detachment seemed exposed, leaving him heavy-hearted.
He’d thought this big project would be a turning point in his life, but now it felt like a loss. He’d almost sacrificed his reputation and professionalism, reduced to being reminded by Ouyang Jinghui not to be emotional. How humiliating!
Fine, he’d admit defeat. Ouyang Jinghui wasn’t someone to provoke or pursue. Why had he ever tried? There were plenty of beauties waiting outside his door. He’d never been one to play the lovesick fool.
Watching Ouyang enter the house first, Jiang Yi shook his head, stepped on the gas, drove into the villa’s garage, and accidentally knocked over a plastic warning sign. He slammed on the brakes, slumping against the seat, his mind suddenly even more chaotic.
That night, Ouyang was cooperative. Apart from playing Chopin a bit loudly, he didn’t hover or lecture, which relaxed Jiang Yi.
Tuesday was Liang Menghai’s solo exhibition. Jiang Yi had marked it as a workday, and the flower basket he’d ordered was already at the entrance. Details showed sincerity—that was the rule of high society. Neglect meant missed opportunities.
Jiang Yi kept a notebook of people’s likes and dislikes. It gave him an edge in business and showed genuine care for friends.
His feelings for Liang Menghai were now complicated—admiration, pity, guilt, and resistance. After all, she was Ouyang Jinghui’s woman. Without that connection, Jiang Yi could have faced her with ease.
That morning, he deliberately left the house after Ouyang, waiting until Ouyang’s car was gone.
The exhibition center on Qishi Road wasn’t unfamiliar to Jiang Yi. He had a small interest in local art shows and had visited before.
Liang Menghai had held solo exhibitions in Kassel, Germany, and Lyon, France. Her paintings were influenced by French and Russian realism, with inspiration from Rembrandt, Courbet, Millet, and some Impressionist and Expressionist painters. This exhibition’s theme was “Survival.” Jiang Yi had wondered about her style but was still surprised by the soulfulness she drew from ordinary laborers.
Amid the media frenzy, Jiang Yi entered the main hall with the crowd, unnoticed by Menghai for now.
Her oil paintings appeared rough but were actually delicate, with subtle shifts in light and shadow and remarkably lifelike textures. Her brushwork and palette knife techniques created a variety of surface effects, blending classical style with modern artistry.
After viewing most of the works, Jiang Yi was deeply impressed. Suddenly, a portrait caught his eye—a peasant woman from a barren northern region, her face lined like tree bark and stone, her expression a mix of survival’s hardship and stubborn resistance. The painting’s power gripped him.
“This one’s already reserved.” Someone behind him spoke casually, eyes also fixed on the painting.
Jiang Yi’s heart raced. He didn’t turn, just said calmly, “It’s worth collecting.”
“Menghai’s realism has strong expressive power.”
“And a distinctive personality.”
Ouyang asked softly, “Do you like paintings?”
“I’ve bought a few Chinese ink paintings recently, but I’m no expert.”
“I have a few authentic masterpieces from the late Qing dynasty. You’re welcome to visit sometime.”
“Oh?”
“They’re in the display room on the top floor of Longtai. Next time you’re at the company, I’ll take you up.”
They fell silent again. After half a minute, Jiang Yi turned to Ouyang Jinghui. “I didn’t expect Menghai—Ms. Liang—to have such skill. No wonder she’s so highly regarded.”
“Why correct yourself? Afraid I’ll overthink it? Do you think I’m that narrow-minded?” Ouyang questioned his sudden formality, then added, “I didn’t see you leave your room until after eight this morning. Was it to avoid me?”
Jiang Yi smiled self-deprecatingly. “Seems I’m always adding legs to a snake.”
“Your idioms are improving, Jiang Yi. Just remember, don’t do anything you don’t want to do in front of me. Just be yourself.” Ouyang turned to greet two acquaintances, a professional smile on his face, then added in a voice only Jiang Yi could hear, “You can tell Menghai those compliments. She values your opinion. I hope you’ll attend the charity auction for the exhibition tonight.” With that, he moved toward the guests.
Watching his tall, confident figure, playing the gracious host with ease and authority, Jiang Yi realized he needed to double his efforts to resist this dangerous pull.
“Hi!” Liang Menghai appeared beside Jiang Yi, radiant in an elegant, traditional outfit. “What do you think?”
Jiang Yi nodded. “From your paintings, I see—tolerance.”
“That’s the most touching and apt comment I’ve heard today.” Menghai explained the exhibition’s theme. “As we enter a new era, we should understand and respect our nation’s tolerant, resilient character, not betray, scorn, or bully it. It’s what’s sustained us.”
“You’ve given it the highest respect.”
“Thank you, Jiang Yi.” She linked her arm with his, drawing the attention of two reporters. Both looked natural and composed, a handsome couple attracting attention. “Have you seen Jinghui?”
Jiang Yi nodded. “He just went that way with two people.”
“Will you come to my auction tonight?”
“Of course. I couldn’t ignore such a big poster.”
Menghai was pleased. “Tell me, which one do you like best?”
Jiang Yi pointed behind him. “This one—‘Waiting.’ It’s full of feeling and power.”
“You and Jinghui have similar taste. He liked this one best too, so he reserved it early.”
But Jiang Yi didn’t expect the dramatic scene at the auction that night. Ouyang Jinghui put the newly purchased “Waiting” up for auction—clearly his own decision.
All proceeds would go to charity. The painting, valued at 60,000 yuan, drew fierce bidding. Sitting in the back, Jiang Yi thought it over and raised his paddle when the price reached 100,000.
Eventually, only two bidders remained. A well-dressed man in front kept raising his paddle, glancing back at Jiang Yi as if urging him to quit. Five minutes later, Jiang Yi won the painting for 180,000 yuan—the highest bid of the night. Even Liang Menghai looked surprised.
“Mr. Jiang, congratulations on acquiring ‘Waiting.’ On behalf of Ms. Liang and the charity, I thank you for your generosity.” The auctioneer’s voice was warm and enthusiastic.
Jiang Yi turned and saw Ouyang Jinghui sitting in the back left corner, watching him. He wasn’t sure when Ouyang had arrived, but it was clear he’d witnessed Jiang Yi’s enthusiastic bidding throughout the auction.
When the auction ended, Ouyang stepped forward to help Menghai with the aftermath. Jiang Yi immediately wrote a check for the painting, which would be delivered to his home in two days. After hesitating, he wrote down the address for Xiaozhu Courtyard.
Once in the car, Jiang Yi felt a bit foolish. The painting had originally been Ouyang’s. Ouyang had donated it, but Jiang Yi had paid a high price to win it back and then sent it to Ouyang’s house. It felt like he’d bought back Ouyang’s old possession for him—ridiculous.
Though Jiang Yi was never warm to outsiders, he was earnest about charity. Giving was a matter of sincerity, and when people saw you as wealthy and important, you had to do things that matched that image—the most important lesson being generosity.
When Ouyang Jinghui returned to Xiaozhu Courtyard after escorting Menghai, he found the first-floor lights still on. It was past midnight.
As soon as he opened the door, Jiang Yi, who had fallen asleep at the worktable with his head on his arms, looked up dazedly at his “roommate.”
“Go get some rest. Can’t you skip work for one day?” Ouyang walked over as he spoke.
Jiang Yi gave a dry laugh, rubbed his temples, and stretched his arms, feeling sore and numb.
“How could lying like that feel good?” Ouyang stood behind Jiang Yi, his tone chiding, as if speaking to a naughty child.
Suddenly, he placed his warm hands on Jiang Yi’s shoulders and began to massage them, his wrists applying even pressure. The rhythmic kneading and precise acupressure sent waves of soothing numbness through Jiang Yi’s body, easing the ache in his shoulders and arms.
Ouyang Jinghui was—giving him a massage!
Jiang Yi went from shock to calm, then to acceptance, closing his eyes and enjoying the sensation. He didn’t want to overthink it anymore. He let the pressure of Ouyang’s fingers seep through his clothes, igniting a fierce heat on his skin. Maybe his shoulders would bear Ouyang’s fingerprints—deep, shallow red marks, like the ones he’d left on Ouyang that night. When a gentle push from Ouyang’s thumb elicited a frank, relaxed moan from Jiang Yi, it was pure relief. The hot breath from his lips formed a mist in the air, and then a magnetic voice murmured above him: “Feel better?”
“Mm.” Jiang Yi slowly opened his eyes, raised his left hand, and calmly pressed it over Ouyang’s right hand on his shoulder. He could feel the steady rise and fall of Ouyang’s knuckles. In a quiet, slightly hoarse voice, he said, “That’s enough. Thank you.”
“That painting—” Ouyang bent down, his lips nearly brushing Jiang Yi’s ear. “Did you really like it that much?”
Jiang Yi flinched and leaned forward, standing up as naturally as possible. “There’s no need for a reason to support charity, is there?”
Ouyang seemed to realize something and stepped back. He nodded at Jiang Yi’s reserved, proud expression and turned to go upstairs.
The peaceful atmosphere that had gathered around them vanished instantly. Jiang Yi slumped back into his chair, exhaling heavily at the ceiling.
Fifteen minutes later, Jiang Yi appeared at Ouyang’s door, meeting his slightly surprised gaze. “Ouyang Jinghui, I accept your suggestion. Nothing will change. Let’s keep working together.” He extended his right hand, showing sincerity.
It seemed that every time they said “let’s keep working together,” the context and mood were different. It was hard to say who was restraining whom.
Ouyang took his hand, his expression flickering. “Actually, I’ve always wanted to say, it’s an honor to work with you.”
“I’m not worthy. I’ve always seen Longtai as a ladder to the sky.” Now that Jiang Yi had let go, he was frank. “We have a strong team. We’ll do the best job possible.”
“Want to go downstairs for a drink?”
“No, it’s too late. See you tomorrow.” Jiang Yi took two steps back, turned calmly, and walked down the hall to his room. Though he didn’t hear the door close behind him, he didn’t look back.
Over the next few days, Jiang Yi focused on integrating the second phase of the Fang Enterprises hotel project, meeting with senior executives before closing the case. Fang Enterprises had already begun media advertising. His dealings with Longtai were limited to fine-tuning the Yunxi project, with Ali, Xiao Le, and Mira each handling a section while Jiang Yi oversaw everything. He visited the construction site every other day to monitor progress.
Ouyang Jinghui entrusted all the interior design for Yunxi’s first-phase villas to Yifan, forcing Jiang Yi to call in designers from their overseas branch. Jiang Yi himself took charge of the Nordic-style model homes.
Amid this fast-paced work, Jiang Yi finally set aside his personal feelings. Their handshake that night wasn’t just a way to save face—it was a real effort to cut off his own fantasies. Finding someone special was hard, but drawing a clear line wasn’t easy either. Jiang Yi chose to forget.
The painting “Waiting” now hung in his bedroom. He thought about shipping it back to his home in the US when he left Xiaozhu Courtyard.
Ouyang didn’t return to Xiaozhu Courtyard every day, and their spaces were very independent, so they rarely crossed paths. When they did, they only discussed work, as if everything had returned to normal. Jiang Yi settled into this routine, at most feeling a bit melancholy, but didn’t dwell on it further. He treated it all as a dream.
Chapter 08
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