The charity auction was split into two segments. The first was focused on philanthropic items. Lu Pingzhang was seated in the front row, with Qiao Jin beside him.
Since they were late, the host waited until they were both seated before announcing, “The second item tonight is a rare manuscript from renowned author Mr. Ji. This 300-page collection survived both a fire and an earthquake. Though partially damaged, the imperfections add to its uniqueness. Starting bid: 300,000 yuan.”
No one in the room raised a paddle at first.
Qiao Jin tilted his head slightly toward Lu Pingzhang and whispered, “I know him. He made his name writing about ordinary lives—hardship, mostly. Later, he wrote love stories and even some modern poetry.”
Lu Pingzhang glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but Qiao Jin’s gaze was fixed on the yellowed manuscript on stage. All Lu Pingzhang could see was the graceful line of his jaw.
The light caught in Qiao Jin’s eyes, making them shine. His hair, still slightly damp, glowed with a soft sheen. His pale neck practically shimmered under the spotlights.
Lu Pingzhang thought of Qiao Jin in the shower earlier. He wanted to reach out and touch him again.
So he handed him the bidding paddle—and in doing so, grazed his fingers along the back of Qiao Jin’s hand.
Qiao Jin paused, startled, but Lu Pingzhang had already withdrawn his hand.
Just then, someone finally raised a paddle onstage. The host called out, “350,000.”
This wasn’t Qiao Jin’s first time attending one of these events with Lu Pingzhang. Items at charity auctions often had starting prices that far exceeded their actual worth.
He didn’t raise the paddle.
Lu Pingzhang leaned toward him slightly and said, “If you like it, bid on it. We’re donating money either way tonight.”
Qiao Jin couldn’t say he liked the manuscript exactly, but he still asked, “Where would you even put it? In your study?”
The Lu family home was decorated in a minimalist style—anything too elaborate or emotionally evocative had no place there. The study held only books, contracts, and a few select collectibles, all of which were worth far more than this manuscript.
Lu Pingzhang chuckled softly. “Anywhere you want. The study, the bedroom, the safe… or on your hanging chair.”
That circular hanging chair on the balcony—intricate, oversized, and inviting—was perhaps the only object in the Lu Pingzhang residence that served no practical purpose but instead radiated warmth and comfort.
On weekends, Qiao Jin sometimes curled up there with a book. When Lu Pingzhang came home and saw that scene through the open door, he would always tread lightly, unwilling to disturb it—even his footsteps would go silent.
That image fulfilled everything Lu Pingzhang had ever imagined about “home.”
“Three hundred and fifty thousand, second call,” the auctioneer called enthusiastically.
Qiao Jin lifted his paddle. The auctioneer’s eyes lit up. “Four hundred thousand!”
They thought that would be the end of it, but someone else in the room raised a bid again: “Four hundred and fifty thousand.”
Before Qiao Jin could react, Lu Pingzhang grabbed his hand and lifted the paddle higher. The auctioneer announced excitedly, “Six hundred thousand!”
Heads turned. People who knew Lu Pingzhang well were clearly baffled—what on earth had gotten into him?
Qiao Jin turned to look at him too. Lu Pingzhang smiled and said, “We’ll put it on your hanging chair. That way, every time I come home, I’ll see you sitting there reading it.”
The room quieted for a moment. Then, the other bidder raised his paddle again. “Six hundred and fifty thousand.”
It was just a charity auction. Qiao Jin wasn’t as domineering or decisive as Lu Pingzhang.
“Let it go,” he murmured in protest.
But Lu Pingzhang’s expression didn’t so much as twitch. Without a care, he lifted Qiao Jin’s hand again. “If I say I want something, I’ll have it.”
“Eight hundred thousand!” the auctioneer shouted, clearly surprised the second item had reached such a price. He immediately signaled the cameraman for a close-up.
Thankfully, the opposing bidder didn’t push any further. Qiao Jin let out a breath of relief.
The following items didn’t catch his interest. His wrist ached from all the earlier activity, and his throat was starting to sting. Feeling thirsty, he asked, “When will this end?”
“Bored already?” Lu Pingzhang glanced at the time, touched Qiao Jin’s forehead—no fever—and said, “Soon.”
Roughly ten minutes later, the auctioneer finally declared, “We’ve reached the intermission. Please feel free to take a break. The second half of the auction will begin shortly.”
Qiao Jin all but bolted from his seat and headed for the refreshments to grab some juice.
Lu Pingzhang also stood up, but halfway across the room he was intercepted by a group of acquaintances.
“What’s going on, Brother Lu?” asked the hotel owner, holding two glasses of wine. He handed one to Lu Pingzhang and tapped his glass against it. “Since when did you start getting all cultured—fighting people over a writer’s manuscript?”
Lu Pingzhang’s eyes trailed after Qiao Jin. He took a sip of wine, swallowed slowly, and replied without much care:
“Starting tomorrow.”
The man took one look at Lu Pingzhang’s expression and his eyelid twitched hard. He cursed under his breath. “…You didn’t mess around in my bathroom, did you?”
“Isn’t that bathroom made for messing around?” Lu Pingzhang hadn’t gotten what he wanted, but he was still savoring the taste of that soft tongue and searing heat. “It’s not exactly a proper bathroom.”
The man glared at him. “You didn’t use my stuff, did you? Everything in there’s accounted for. If anything’s missing, I won’t be able to explain it to my wife.”
Lu Pingzhang didn’t have the face to admit he’d torn one open and never used it, so he mumbled vaguely, “I’ll replace it later.”
Qiao Jin drank two glasses of iced juice and finally quenched his thirst.
He wandered over to the snack table. Someone stepped up next to him to grab food.
“You a fan of Mr. Ji too?” the man asked, sounding a little regretful. “One of the characters in his writing was based on me. Too bad you outbid me.”
Qiao Jin gave him a polite glance. “Sorry.”
“I know this is kind of forward,” the man said with an easy smile that wasn’t unpleasant. “Would you be willing to sell me just that one story for 650,000? The one based on me?”
Qiao Jin wasn’t overly attached to it. He’d always been laid-back—there weren’t many things he absolutely had to have. But since Lu Pingzhang had been the one to buy it, he felt reluctant and unsure. “I’d need to look through it again first. See which piece you’re talking about.”
The man hadn’t expected someone with such a cool, polished air to be so reasonable. He looked momentarily caught off guard. “It’s the piece called ‘The Wind Is Rising’. Would it be alright if I added you? If you think it over, you can reach out anytime.”
His voice was elegant and smooth, with a calm, pleasant timbre that was easy on the ears.
Qiao Jin pulled out his phone. He saw several unread messages from Fu Linxiao pinned at the top, all still unopened.
The man had just finished adding him when he said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry—but is that Fu Linxiao from Nan Pharmaceuticals?”
Qiao Jin paused. “You know him?”
“We go way back.” The man smiled easily. His long, narrow eyes curved into a relaxed arc. “Mention Sui Ran to him—he’ll know.”
While Qiao Jin was over there chatting casually, snacking and smiling, Lu Pingzhang was watching from across the room, fuming.
By the time Qiao Jin walked back, the second half of the auction was about to begin.
“Ran into someone you know?” Lu Pingzhang asked, adjusting the back of his chair for him.
Qiao Jin gave a quiet “mm,” not keen to elaborate.
Lu Pingzhang kept his eyes on the stage, where staff were carefully placing the next item. With his brows pressed low, he asked, “Who?”
Qiao Jin didn’t think much of it. “A friend of Linxiao’s.”
“Then he’s not exactly your friend,” Lu Pingzhang muttered.
That was when Qiao Jin finally picked up on his displeasure. He leaned closer, shoulder brushing his, and said, “That manuscript we just bought—he was the main character in one of the stories. He asked if I’d sell it to him.”
“No,” Lu Pingzhang said flatly.
He glanced at Qiao Jin, who was watching the stage, seemingly indifferent. Lu Pingzhang cleared his throat and added in a warning tone, “Try it and see what happens.”
Qiao Jin kept watching the auction quietly, then turned and asked, “What if he offered double?”
“Even ten times, it’s not for sale.” Lu Pingzhang scowled. “What were you doing with your phone just now? Let me see.”
Qiao Jin was long used to how overbearing he could be. He also knew the fastest way to defuse him and avoid a fight. “I already turned him down.”
He leaned a little closer to Lu Pingzhang. Just a slight tilt of his head and his voice carried right to his ear. “Is there anything else coming up that we’re bidding on?”
He must’ve had grape juice just now—he carried a soft, sweet scent of fruit as he leaned in.
That one word—“we”—instantly pleased Lu Pingzhang. His hand slid down and lightly rested on Qiao Jin’s waist, giving him a gentle squeeze through the fabric. “There is.”
Qiao Jin calmly straightened his posture again.
The first half was just a warm-up—Lu Pingzhang’s real target lay in the second half: a two-hundred-year-old ancestral mansion.
The moment the miniature model of the property was unveiled by the auctioneer, bids began to pour in.
Compared to the earlier items, the prices in the second half skyrocketed. Each raise was enough to make hearts race.
Within minutes, the flurry of bidding gradually died down, leaving only two or three determined bidders. The price had already exceeded the reserve by over six million.
Lu Pingzhang looked completely at ease, his expression calm. Not until the final showdown played out and the auctioneer began the countdown did he casually squeeze Qiao Jin’s waist and say, “Get it.”
In the dim light, Qiao Jin lifted his paddle. “Twenty million.”
Gasps rippled through the room—it was a four-million jump from the last bid.
Seated comfortably in the front row, Qiao Jin didn’t flinch under the sudden attention. His tailored suit hugged his shoulders and neck perfectly. The skin behind his ear was smooth and fresh, like the petal of a magnolia.
The mansion wasn’t local—it had once belonged to a second-rank Qing dynasty official. Grand, yes, but not easy to sell. Quiet murmurs filled the room as people speculated which high-born heir would throw money around so freely.
Hou Wude, president of Xisheng Real Estate, had been bidding earlier. Seeing an unfamiliar face outbidding him, he racked his brain but couldn’t match the man to anyone he knew.
His female companion clung to him, pouting. Irritated, Hou Wude raised his paddle again. “Twenty-two million.”
He thought he had it in the bag—but Qiao Jin raised his paddle again, expression steady.
“Twenty-four million,” the auctioneer called out clearly.
Qiao Jin didn’t turn around, didn’t glance at Lu Pingzhang beside him.
Hou Wude stared at his back, only then noticing the hand resting lightly on Qiao Jin’s chair. The owner of that hand hadn’t moved an inch—not even his gaze had shifted. It was none other than the elusive Lu Pingzhang himself.
Hou Wude knew he couldn’t go over budget—not for a piece of real estate, and definitely not for the model girlfriend by his side. Gritting his teeth, he dropped his paddle.
