Chapter Ninety-One — At a Loss

Sadly, a gaze cannot be wielded as a lethal weapon. If it could, perhaps Wan Xin Heng would already be battered and bruised beneath the murderous glare of Qiao Siming. Qiao watched him depart, as if he were nothing more than an unsightly heap of trash, enough to nauseate anyone.

Tang Dai dialed Xu Shixi’s number, demanding to know why he had gone to Rong City alone, leaving her behind in Yun City. Xu Shixi was in the midst of negotiating with the project manager over there; after hurriedly saying a few words, he hung up.

“Didn’t you just get home from the hospital?” Qiao Siming halted the swinging glass door, and squeezed the metal handle warmed by the air conditioning. “Why not rest well? It’s fine if you come to the company a couple days later.”

A woman doesn’t need to fight so desperately. I myself am unwilling to push so hard. If possible, I truly wish I could bear this burden in her place. Flowers ought to be cherished and shielded inside a greenhouse. No blossom exposed to the elements can withstand the torment of wind and rain; just as it reaches full bloom, it withers. Without the vibrant flower, what value remains in the green leaves that once served only to highlight it?

“Do you think I can truly stay home in peace?” Tang Dai’s hand rested on the plastic keyboard. The cursor blinked on the computer screen at a steady, metronomic pace.

Work seems to have become the lifeblood of today’s youth. To neglect work is to squander one’s life; to abandon it is to forsake life itself. It’s a vessel for hope, for longing. To have something worth striving for, to pour oneself into with passion—though bitter, it is sweet.

“Just stay out of this project.” Qiao Siming walked over. “Half a month ago, the construction team ran into obstacles during the build. The company was forced to convene an emergency meeting.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Tang Dai stood supporting herself on the desk, spreading her hands.

“You were still hospitalized then, hadn’t recovered yet—how could you have the energy to manage company affairs?” Qiao Siming spoke tenderly, his words full of concern and affection.

Tang Dai listened, then sat back down, leaning on the chair. Indeed, after a month of pain, even rising from bed had become a strenuous task. Her abdomen, when compressed, radiated an agonizing, piercing pain. They say the pain of childbirth can reach a level twelve; perhaps her suffering was at least a ten.

When the doctor came to remove the stitches in the morning, Tang Dai could still feel the lingering ache, hovering in her abdomen. She looked down at her fair, delicate skin, now marked by centipede-like scars, and every hair on her body stood on end.

The doctor said the scars would gradually fade, but to vanish entirely would be difficult.

Even through the thin cashmere sweater, Tang Dai could still feel the uneven ridges.

Did she regret it? In countless black nights piled atop one another, she asked herself that question more than once.

Did she regret it? Eight years, thousands of days and nights, gave her thousands of opportunities to recall and reflect. But what use is regret? Even someone as capable as Tang Dai, a woman of iron will, might look up and question the heavens.

“Now that I’ve recovered, shouldn’t I be able to handle this?” Tang Dai was calm, unusually so, as if she had accepted her fate. She picked up the coffee cup from the table, inhaled its aroma, and revived herself. Her body was healed, but after a month of sleep, her spirit was drained. The white that cloaked the room echoed the bleakness outside. Yet inside the air-conditioned office, there was no chill, only a strange, warm winter.

“I told you, leave it be,” Qiao Siming insisted.

Tang Dai glanced at him sideways. He was dressed in a deep gray suit, paired with brown pointed leather shoes. A green-and-white polka-dot pocket square matched the dark green crewneck sweater beneath. He had forgotten to fix his hair before leaving home; his side-parted bangs had grown into a thick curtain, nearly obscuring his deep-set eyes.

When he blinked, his eyelashes brushed against his hair.

“If you want me to stay out of it, I’ll have to return to Shanghai.”

Tang Dai had been sent to Yun City for one purpose: to collaborate with Xunyuan on the Rong City Happy Town project. Months had passed, and a supposedly ironclad case had faltered at a crucial moment. If she returned now, she would receive not a word of praise from the board, but only reproach and ridicule. She had volunteered for this project partly to prove herself. After four years of overseas study, a major success would secure her place in the company. The board elders voiced their doubts, but the chairman wielded absolute authority. Thanks to his support, she had taken charge of major business without resistance.

Tang Jingguo had repeatedly emphasized the project's importance in his calls. He raised his daughter as a son, for he had nearly given up on Tang Chao. Whether Tang Chao had chosen sports school on his own or pursued any other path, Tang Jingguo no longer cared to intervene.

When Tang Dai moaned on the edge of pain, how she longed for even a mote of her father’s concern. But he was too stingy, unwilling to utter even a word.

She lay in bed, the agony returning as the anesthesia wore off, altering her voice. Anyone with normal hearing could sense something was wrong, but not him.

Her lips quivered, sourness surging to her nose, tears blurring her vision.

Qiao Siming strode up to Tang Dai, bent down, and braced himself on the desk. “Why go back to Shanghai!” After finally meeting again, just a few months later, they faced yet another separation.

For a child under ten, a few months feel like years; but for those past thirty, they slip through the fingers like sand.

Tang Dai’s departure was silent, like a summer thunderclap in the sky; while he was still stunned, she vanished into the depths of Yunfeng.

The wind that blew scattered the layered clouds, but left no trace of her passing.

The day Tang Dai left, Qiao Siming rushed to the Tang family home to find her. Tang Jingguo told him she had flown abroad half an hour earlier and would not return for three to five years. Her life had been mapped out before birth, engraved into her bones, infused into her blood; unless she died, escape was impossible.

Now, history repeated itself. Along the same scar, he plunged a sharp knife, tore it open anew.

The scar faded, the wound reappeared.

Qiao Siming pleaded, “Can you not go back?” He had always been the receiver of others’ affections, his pride shaped by it. For Tang Dai, he reversed his nature. Was it sorrow, or pity?

“Then come with me to Rong City.” Tang Dai heard the plea in his voice, hope flickered in her heart; now, the initiative was hers. “If the project is finally completed, I can remain in Yun City.”

A shadow passed through Tang Dai’s eyes. Regarding this key project, the company’s leadership had lost confidence and grown impatient. Just that morning, Tang Jingguo called demanding to know why progress had stalled. She represented the Tang Group, and more importantly, his own reputation. For adults, face is everything—more vital even than life.

Thus, despite intending to heed Qiao Siming and Tang Chao’s advice to rest and recuperate for a day, she was forced to drag her fragile, newly healed body to Xunyuan.

Qiao Siming knew Tang Dai’s request was her unique form of compromise; agree he must, for resistance would be futile even with a knife at her throat.

“Fine!” Qiao Siming was reluctant, “I’ll go with you.” He checked the time. “But it’s late today—let’s go tomorrow.”

“So much can happen between today and tomorrow, unpredictable, uncontrollable.” Tang Dai suddenly stood up. “If you don’t want to go, I’ll go myself!”

“All right. We’ll go today.” Qiao Siming soothed her agitation. “But we should inform the higher-ups.”

“No need. I’ve already told them.” Tang Dai grabbed her coat from the back of the chair.

It was clear she had made her decision long ago; his agreement was irrelevant.

Qiao Siming only followed after Tang Dai had taken several steps out the door, like a puppet drawn by strings. No matter how long the string, once it reached its limit, he could no longer move of his own will, but only be led along.