“No.”
Fang Qiong said, “Su Qingci, where do you live? I could come visit you.”
Su Qingci: “You’re not welcome.”
“Regardless, I am Xiao Chen’s mother.” Fang Qiong’s voice carried the cold, commanding authority of a female executive in a meeting—imposing without anger.
Su Qingci chuckled at the tone: “So what? Are you trying to act like my mother-in-law?”
Even through the screen, Su Qingci could sense Fang Qiong’s irritation. Oh ho!
Fang Qiong: “Su Qingci, are you afraid to meet me? Is this why you’re avoiding me?”
If this was a ploy to provoke her, Su Qingci congratulated Fang Qiong—it had worked. The only person Su Qingci feared meeting was Pei Haiyang. As for Fang Qiong…
Su Qingci sent her a location and arranged to meet at Wulin Café—not the one where Wu Lü worked.
Su Qingci stepped out with his umbrella. When he arrived, Fang Qiong was already waiting, sipping an iced Americano before dutifully wiping a lipstick smudge from the rim.
Su Qingci said, “Get straight to the point. Skip the pleasantries.”
“Fine.” Fang Qiong lowered her left leg, then crossed her right leg over her left knee. “I hope Mr. Su has the sense to stay away from my son.”
Huh? Su Qingci felt like he’d wandered onto the set of a cheesy romance drama. Wasn’t this the classic, never-failing “Give me five million, leave my son alone” melodramatic plot?
Ah ha! Never mind that inflation has made a measly five million laughable—the casting here was all wrong. He, Su Qingci, should be the one throwing money around: “Here’s a hundred million. Sell Pei Jingchen to me.”
Su Qingci couldn’t help but laugh. So the script shouldn’t be about a powerful foreign executive’s mother verbally humiliating a poor, innocent girl. It should be about the legitimate imperial grandson sitting in Wulin Café, arrogantly bullying men and women alike.
“Mr. Fang, are you saying you couldn’t handle Pei Jingchen, so you came to seduce me instead?” Su Qingci’s eyes twinkled with deeper, more sarcastic amusement. “They say bullies pick on the weakest targets. Looks like you misjudged me—crashing into this durian instead.”
Fang Qiong sneered coldly: “You little punk, you sure talk big.”
Su Qingci retorted, “Indeed. Your life experience is vast—you’ve walked more paths than I’ve eaten meals. You’re a decisive tycoon, a high-ranking official whose command commands obedience, a social elite envied by all… yet you have a gay son.”
Fang Qiong’s face drained instantly. “You!”
Strike the snake at its weakest point. Su Qingci’s tongue was sharp and venomous, striking precisely at vulnerabilities without mercy, deliberately jabbing at people’s soft spots.
Being gay isn’t shameful, but having a gay son is deeply embarrassing—a source of profound humiliation for Fang Qiong. While progressive and bold in her career, she remained conservative in matters of the heart—especially in her youth, when she viewed homosexuality as a psychological aberration. Later, as times changed and she gained exposure abroad, her perspective evolved. She neither opposed nor endorsed same-sex relationships; others could do as they pleased, but she refused to let her son be “played with in the rear.”
Seeing Fang Qiong’s furious expression, Su Qingci thought to himself: Auntie, you’ve got it all wrong—completely wrong. Actually, I’m the one who got fucked in the ass.
Alright, looking back at the beginning of his relationship with Pei Jingchen, the disparity in their power dynamics could easily give the impression that Pei Jingchen was “being played with, kept, and subjected to all sorts of twisted little master antics.” Su Qingci felt utterly wronged. He was perfectly normal in bed, had no twisted tastes, and the BDSM scenarios some bored people in the circle imagined were completely off the mark. He wasn’t Zhang Haonan, after all.
Fang Qiong took another sip of her iced Americano to cool down, trying to stay calm as she said, “Forget about Xiao Chen for a moment. Su Qingci, you’re a man of status and standing. Being with another man—don’t you think it damages your reputation?”
Su Qingci sneered, “You think if this gets out, my livelihood will be ruined? My paintings will plummet in value—not a single buyer at a dollar apiece? People will fear catching homosexuality from them?”
Su Qingci snorted coldly, his tone sharp and accusatory. “You abandoned Pei Jingchen back then, discarded him like trash, ignoring him completely. Then when he became famous—top scorer in the college entrance exams—you remembered him again. Now that he’s made something of himself, standing shoulder to shoulder with your chairman, you’re itching to claim him as your son once more.”
Fang Qiong, stung and enraged, snapped, “Su Qingci, your words are vile!”
Su Qingci retorted, “Vile but true! Pei Jingchen is a thousand times more capable than your Chen Cancan—that good-for-nothing who skipped school with delinquents to hang out in internet cafes the moment he hit middle school!”
Fang Qiong nearly bit her tongue. Her leg swung up too hard, smacking the tabletop with a sharp pain. The impact sent the coffee cup swaying and the sugar cube tumbling across the saucer.
Su Qingci was indeed as arrogant and sharp-tongued as rumored—utterly unreasonable! Fang Qiong gritted her teeth, seething with rage. In her haste, she forgot her duty as an elder to maintain composure, and disregarded the courtesy owed to someone younger: Su Qingci, have you no shame? You used your family’s influence to force Xiao Chen into a relationship with you. He doesn’t like you, he doesn’t love you, yet you cling to him like a leech. Now you’re terminally ill—I can’t bring myself to say those two words, but don’t you know it yourself?”
“How much time do you have left? Three years? One year? Six months? The facts prove you’re not the one who can grow old with Xiao Chen. Look at yourself now—pale and sickly, skin and bones, gasping after a few steps, unable to care for yourself. What can you offer Xiao Chen besides being a burden? Is this the love you keep talking about? Ruining his career, obstructing his life—is this the true love you claim?”
The café’s air conditioning was set too low, sending a chill through his body. Light rain tapped coldly against the window, spreading blurry ripples across the glass.
Su Qingci asked, “When is Pei Jingchen’s birthday?”
The abrupt change of topic left Fang Qiong momentarily stunned.
“But you surely remember Chen Cancan’s birthday, right?” Su Qingci pressed on. “What’s Pei Jingchen’s favorite food?”
“What kind of coffee does Pei Jingchen like best?”
Fang Qiong’s lipstick-coated lips parted slightly, yet no words came out.
Su Qingci continued, “His birthday was three days ago—August 15th. He adores Peking duck and iced Americanos, just like your taste. He sleeps on his left side, wakes up with a stubborn cowlick on top, and drinks warm milk before bed. The cup must be placed on his left side—his right hand hits it when he reaches for the mouse. He disliked suits because they were restrictive, preferring hoodies for their convenience in the rain. He favored watermelon-flavored gum, orchid-scented hand cream, jasmine-scented energizing essential oil, and lemon-flavored toothpaste. He loved warm colors, sunny days, and listening to “Big Windmill” while running.”
Fang Qiong stared in disbelief.
Su Qingci took a breath and smiled softly: “I have no right to justify my own scheming, but you have even less right to question my love for him.”