MW CH57

Chapter 57: Expel Little Yuan?

I printed the photo from the Shannan award day—hung it on my office wall with the plaque.

In it, Mochuan and I stand side by side, both holding the plaque with a big red flower pinned on. Him in white, me in black—at first glance, it’s like some joyous ritual.

Lin Weian peeked at it every office visit—after a few, she cracked: “Clueless folks might think it’s your wedding pic.”

Offhand remark, but it stuck. That afternoon, I splurged—booked a five-star hotel afternoon tea set for the whole studio.

Jiang Boshu’s company’s a top dog—party invites go to elite clients, social bigwigs. A formal gig like that demands a decent suit.

Custom’s too late—I hit the stores.

Only a few Italian brands nail suits right. Tried all afternoon, snagged two—one dressy, one casual.

Swiping my card, I spotted a navy wool suit on a mannequin—SA said it’s the season’s latest, great cut and design. Asked if I’d take it.

Felt the sleeve—pictured Mochuan in it, heart skipped—gave his size to the SA, told him to bag it with the others.

“Sure thing, Mr. Bai—these’ll be delivered home soon.” SA beamed ear to ear.

[Got you clothes.] Texted Mochuan.

Unlike phone-glued kids, he checks his slow—replies lag an hour or two.

This time, luck—half an hour, ping.

[Clothes?]

[Suits.]

[Oh, thought it was a little skirt.]

Grinned—sent the mannequin shot I’d snapped.

[Haven’t seen you in a suit—wear it for me next time. You’ll look killer.]

[You splurged.]

Not long together—even after the closest stuff—he’s still stiff with me.

I’d clocked it—he never pries into my “personal stuff”: friends, work, family views.

He listens more than he asks—like curiosity’s dialed low.

I knew his vibe from the jump, but as lovers, you crave being the exception, want some VIP pass.

[Not much—just a few hundred.]

Three suits, 150 grand—his priciest, over 70. No doubt—if I spilled the real cost, he’d make me return them.

Party day, I picked up Shen Jing—arm in arm through the heavy doors a waiter swung open, red-carpet vibes.

Buffet-style—her company booked a massive hall, live singer on stage. Everyone decked out, glasses clinking—air thick with posh chill.

“That him?” Shen Jing grabbed two orange juices off a tray, handed me one—nodded a direction.

In the car, I’d rerun Bai Zhen’s story—women’s empathy hit harder. She trashed the creep’s heartlessness, pitied Bai Zhen, ached for He Nanyuan, orphaned young.

“Scumbags live, world’s never at peace!” Her final verdict.

Followed her gaze—a gray-suited middle-aged guy, seven-eighths like young He Jun, juice in hand, chatting up someone.

Gotta be He Mingbo.

I was mulling how to approach without seeming off—Jiang Boshu’s voice hit from behind. “Wondered when you’d show.” He joined us, chin-tipped my target. “That’s He Mingbo—want an intro?”

With him leading? Perfect. Nodded. “Thanks.”

The guy He Mingbo was with just left—Jiang Boshu seized it, walked me over.

“Mr. He, this is the friend I mentioned—huge fan, big admirer.” Jiang Boshu grinned, pitching me. “Bai Yin, young jewelry designer.”

Extended my hand. “Hi, Teacher He—heard tons about you.”

He sized me up quick—gauging my worth—then gave a slow handshake. “Hello.”

Can’t just ask about Bai Zhen off the bat—chat stayed light, mostly Jiang Boshu buttering him up. Business pro—knew how to stroke egos. Few lines, He Mingbo was blooming—calling me “Brother Bai.”

“Bai Yin, you tanned lately?” Jiang Boshu tossed me a cue.

“Yeah—past two months in Shannan.” Watched He Mingbo’s face. “Cuoyansong—know it? Got a friend researching Cenglu customs, went to hang.”

He Mingbo perked. “Cuoyansong?”

“You’ve heard of it, Mr. He?” Jiang Boshu, smooth.

He nodded, smile steady. “Been there—ages ago, twenty years maybe. Gorgeous place, gorgeous people. If family hadn’t dragged me back to marry, I’d have stayed longer.” Sighed. “Shame.”

It’s him—dead on.

Gripped my glass tighter—swallowed boiling rage. “Teacher He, that regret—some fling there?”

“Oh, yeah—minority girl, special charm.” He Mingbo’s looks and polish screamed likable—but that line turned him sleazy, heart showing through.

Flash—Bai Zhen with a kid in a shack, Mochuan whipped by the old Yan Guan, young He Nanyuan motherless—slammed against his smug face in my head.

Lips clamped—took all I had not to splash my drink on him.

“Sorry—bathroom.” Didn’t wait—bolted.

No bathroom—hit the terrace, lit a smoke by the railing, dragged deep, exhaled slow.

White haze blurred my eyes—neon city lights softened through a misty filter.

“Beast,” I muttered, leaning on the rail.

He Mingbo’s so vile, it’s physically nauseating—like swallowing a slug, stuck for ages.

Cigarette pinched, I dialed Mochuan—needing soul balm.

His phone’s silent—vibration only. Sometimes he’s out, calls miss—I’d hit the landline. This time, two rings, he picked up.

“Doing what?” Elbow on rail, smoke between fingers—Haicheng’s night breeze against me, asking him in Cuoyansong.

“Just checked Li Yang’s homework.” Tiredness seeped through.

Smiled. “Next time, leave it—I’ll tutor him. Same school as you—I can’t fail him.”

“Start-of-term tests—all subjects teetering on passing. All of them.” His voice alone painted his frown—half-annoyed, half-resigned.

Didn’t dare say it—I love hearing him gripe about failing at kid-teaching. Feels… family. My dream—perfect, sleep-starved fantasy.

Haicheng’s October’s mild—not hot, not cold. Evening river wind, muddy tang—chatted half an hour, phone warming, still didn’t wanna go in.

“Bai Yin!”

Mochuan’s voice cut off—startled, I turned. Jiang Boshu strode over.

Figured he had He Mingbo news—rushed to Mochuan. “Something’s up—gotta go.”

Long pause—then, “Mm.”

Hung—Jiang Boshu reached me.

“You were gone forever—came looking.” He said. “He Mingbo’s your guy, right?”

Nodded. “Yeah, him.”

Not shocked. “After you left, I chatted more. He’s off abroad next week—exhibit, back after New Year.”

Frowned. “After New Year?”

“Post-holidays.”

Winter break, then.

Timing’s fine—I’d hit Pengge in December, talk it over with Mochuan. He Nanyuan’s Haicheng-bound for break anyway.

“Thanks again,” I said.

He eyed me, hesitated, then asked. “You… still single?”

Shook my head.

A knowing look crossed his eyes. “Just as I thought.” No elaboration—what “just,” what “thought”—then, “Congrats.” Left the terrace.

I’d be bouncing Shannan-Haicheng often—hired an assistant for quicker Haicheng handling.

Zhao Laidong—Sun Manman’s age, fresh grad. Green, clueless on jewelry, but steady, hardworking.

Post-party, I dragged Xiao Zhao abroad—gem mines, non-stop.

Back to Haicheng in November—design, prototype, scrap, redo—nailed next spring’s auction pieces. December rolled in.

Gifts for Mochuan—bags galore—climbed the mountain. Last year this time, just reunited with him—said I’d likely not return. Now, what—trip number what?

Knew I was coming—night or not, Mochuan left the door.

“He hit someone? So you’re… expelling him?”

Right foot in the hall—before a word, Mochuan sat cold-faced at the low table. One hand on the phone, the other tapping the wood, impatient.

Expel who?

Soft steps—sidled up, leaned in, straining for the call.

“Got it… yeah, I’ll head over…” He spared me a glance—table hand reached, thumb on my jaw, fingers hooked my neck, squeezed hard.

His chill hit—I shivered, but wouldn’t shake off two months’ missed touch.

Call ended—his hand warmed from me.

“What’s up?” Caught He Nanyuan’s name faintly.

Tossed the phone aside. “Qia Gu fought some guys off-campus.” Rubbed his temple, dropped my neck. “Other side’s hurt bad—school’s involved, wants to expel the two ringleaders. Qia Gu’s one.”

Heart jolted. “Expel Little Yuan (He Nanyuan)? He’s not some brawler—there’s got to be a misunderstanding, right?”

“Planning to hit Gan County tomorrow myself…”

Cut in. “I’ll go—drive you.”

Thought it over—nodded. “Thanks.”