Chapter 67

Jiang Luo took the business card, glanced at it, and smiled. “Sure. I’ll stop by sometime.”

“See you.”

The man said a line in the local dialect, waved, and stepped into the elevator.

“See you.”

Jiang Luo watched him go.

Once the elevator doors closed, the smile faded from Jiang Luo’s face. A sharp glint flickered in his eyes. He knew perfectly well that the tax bureau wouldn’t show up at his door for no reason.

Someone had reported him.

That much was certain.

The only question was—who?

He gave a soft scoff, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

Fine. Let them report him. Report all they want.

He paid every cent of tax he owed. His books were clean and clear. So what if someone reported him?

If there was nothing to find, the tax bureau couldn’t just pin charges on him out of thin air.

Jiang Luo turned back toward the office, glanced down at the card in his hand one more time, then slipped it into his pocket.

Inside, several coworkers were gathered around Accountant Xue, chattering about what had just happened.

As soon as they saw Jiang Luo come in, someone said, “This has to be a report, right? If nobody reported it, there’s no way the tax bureau would come knocking.”

Another person said, “Should we send something over? You know, smooth things out a bit?”

Accountant Xue snapped, “Send what? Are the books wrong? Did we underpay taxes?”

“If there was no problem to begin with, the moment you send a gift, you turn no problem into a problem.”

The coworker who suggested it immediately slapped a hand over their mouth.

Jiang Luo said nothing. He only said calmly, “Back to work,” and headed for his office. As he passed Accountant Xue, he knocked on the desk. “You—come here.”

Jiang Luo went into his office. Old Xue followed and closed the door behind him.

Jiang Luo walked around to sit behind the desk and said, “From now on, keep the books like this. No fake accounts. Unless I tell you otherwise, there’s no need to dodge taxes. Pay whatever we’re supposed to pay.”

“I know,” Accountant Xue replied. “I’ve got it straight.”

Then he added, “Honestly, after following so many bosses over the years, you’re the first one who won’t allow fake accounts or tax avoidance.”

“You really don’t mind spending the money.”

Jiang Luo lifted his gaze lazily. “If I didn’t want to spend money and ended up in prison for tax evasion, would you bail me out?”

“High-minded,” Old Xue said, giving him a thumbs-up. “You’re this young and already think this way—you’ll go far.”

“Unlike some bosses. I tell them not to falsify accounts and to pay taxes properly, and they curse me out for being useless and wasting money.”

He clicked his tongue, then asked curiously, “Where’d you get this level of awareness anyway? Someone in your family get locked up?”

“Yeah,” Jiang Luo said, glancing at him. “Me. I did.”

“Go make tea.”

Old Xue didn’t believe him for a second. He left to make tea.

When the door closed, Jiang Luo leaned back against the chair on his own.

He hadn’t been joking.

In his previous life, because of tax issues, he really had been locked up—for a few days.

Back then, like most bosses, he’d thought paying taxes was just throwing away his own money. He couldn’t bear it.

Only after he got caught and detained did he realize how serious it was.

Luckily, he’d gotten out smoothly—paid the back taxes, paid the fines, and didn’t actually go to prison.

But there was one thing that puzzled him—both in his past life and even now, thinking back on it.

When he was detained, who was it that later pulled strings to get him out?

Back then, several other bosses were detained at the same time. None of them got off as easily as he did—paying money and walking free.

In his previous life, Jiang Luo had asked around, questioned people close to him, but no one ever admitted anything.

Who was it?

Jiang Luo thought about it again, unconsciously, but still couldn’t find an answer.

Who had the power and the clout to get him out—yet never said a word about it?

That night, in his hotel room, Jiang Luo was on the landline with Huo Zongzhuo. As they talked, the topic drifted to taxes.

Jiang Luo asked, “What kind of person do you think would quietly pull someone out of trouble and never say a word about it?”

“Hm?”

Huo Zongzhuo was puzzled. “Why bring up taxes all of a sudden? Because you’ve been paying a lot lately?”

Jiang Luo then told him about the tax bureau coming by that day to check the company’s books.

He joked, “If I’d been even a little bit greedy, you wouldn’t be getting a call from me tonight.”

Hearing that there were no issues with the accounts or taxes, Huo Zongzhuo agreed. “Don’t falsify accounts or dodge taxes. There’s no need. Money can always be earned again, but once you break a fundamental line, it becomes a huge mess.”

“You might feel like paying taxes is taking money out of your own pocket and handing it to someone else. Of course it hurts.”

“But you also have to understand that as goods circulate, the state collects taxes.”

“Taxes aren’t the government’s personal money. They’re funds the country needs to operate.”

“Taken from the people, used for the people.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jiang Luo said. “No need to lecture me. I get it.”

Huo Zongzhuo’s voice was gentle. “As long as you understand.”

Jiang Luo pressed, “I’m asking you—what kind of person would pull someone out quietly and never say a word?”

Huo Zongzhuo thought for a moment. “Maybe someone with a lot of clout. To them, it’s just a casual favor, not worth mentioning. And maybe you’re not exactly close, but not strangers either. You don’t see each other often, and when you do, there’s no need to bring it up.”

“Mm,” Jiang Luo said. That made sense.

Huo Zongzhuo added, “Or maybe they deliberately didn’t want you to know.”

“Deliberately?”

Jiang Luo frowned. “What kind of logic is that? Do a good deed and intentionally stay anonymous? What are they, Lei Feng? Like you?”

“I don’t know,” Huo Zongzhuo said. “There’s always a reason.”

Jiang Luo asked casually, “If it were you, would you quietly pull someone out and then just walk away—no name, no word?”

Huo Zongzhuo suddenly said, “There’s another possibility.”

“Hm?”

“An admirer.”

Jiang Luo froze.

Huo Zongzhuo said, “If you like someone, you really might do things for them without announcing it—especially if the other person has no idea about that kind of affection.”

Jiang Luo held the receiver, stunned, silent for several seconds.

An admirer who liked him—and also had the ability to get him out of a tax scandal?

A faint, mocking smile curved Jiang Luo’s lips.

Impossible.

In his last life, aside from Wang Chuang and the others, no one loved him.

…………………………………….

The landline sat on the bedside table. Jiang Luo lay on the bed with one arm under his head and one leg bent, staring at the hotel ceiling, lost in thought.

Love?

He had never—never—had it.

In his previous life, Jiang Luo had kept trying to get close to his biological parents, Su Lan and Zhao Guangyuan, but they didn’t love him.

As for everyone else, he divided them into two categories.

Those tied to him by利益—and those who weren’t.

Friends?

He had far too few.

Only Wang Chuang. Later, Wang Chuang’s wife, Mo Wanzhen.

That was it.

He barely had any friends at all.

Back then, after spending two years at Dongfang No. 1, he’d seen human nature and the ways of the world far too early. Barely in his early twenties, he already understood one thing: there were only two kinds of people in this world—the rich, and the poor.

He wanted to be rich. He didn’t want to be poor.

That was why he left Dongfang No. 1, struck out on his own, and went into business.

But that climb had been brutal. He’d seen enough of people’s hearts, enough of the filth and monsters that crawled through the business world.

So even though he was only in his twenties, he’d already stopped believing in things like friendship.

There were no friends in this world—only利益 and compromise.

And yet he’d lived like a carefree playboy, drifting through life. Once he left the world of women and realized he actually liked men, he simply switched genders and continued living with arms full of lovers.

Back then, he had countless women—and later, countless men.

He had money. He was generous. Plenty of people were willing to be with him, all of them good-looking, well-built, polished.

He knew it clearly in his heart—these people weren’t with him because they liked him.

Maybe they liked his face, but they definitely liked his money more. They liked that he was generous, that he spent freely.

Everyone was just messing around together, pleasure without attachment, bodies without hearts. How could that ever count as love?

But people—damn it—people change.

Jiang Luo had been a delinquent before eighteen, a carefree libertine in his early twenties. Yet once he fell ill, lying in a hospital bed at Peking Union Medical College, he’d suddenly started wanting something real—a sincere heart.

What made even him laugh bitterly was that, on his deathbed, he felt it was all retribution.

So many women, so many men—he’d never given a single one of them a true heart. And so heaven never gave him one in return. He lived nearly thirty years and died alone, utterly alone.

That was why, after being reborn, Jiang Luo never went back to the same old path with men and women.

Because he’d died once—and regretted it.

He’d changed.

This time, he wanted a sincere heart.

He wanted, in this life, to have a lover.

Someone he loved, and who loved him back.

And now someone was telling him that in his previous life, there’d been an admirer—powerful, capable, and secretly in love with him?

Jiang Luo didn’t believe it. Not for a second.

He knew exactly what kind of person he’d been back then.

Inside and outside business circles, who didn’t know that President Jiang was a spoiled, debauched playboy?

He hadn’t even bothered to pretend otherwise.

Who would like someone like that?

Back then, even Huo Zongzhuo had met him only a few times at formal occasions—and every time, he’d frowned at him with a cold face.

Let alone anyone else who knew him, or understood him.

Jiang Luo didn’t believe it. He was very clear about one thing—

In that life, no one would have quietly loved him.