After all, those little brushes and dresses weren’t made of expensive materials. They were tiny, cheap, and hardly worth anything.
Zhang Zhiqiang happily headed straight to the design department at the factory.
Meanwhile, in Haicheng, Jiang Luo and Wang Chuang weren’t just selling dolls at the small market—they were branching out to other districts. After all, Haicheng was huge, and Jing’an wasn’t the only place with a market.
They drove their truck to Changning and Xuhui districts, even crossing the river to Pudong.
The dolls sold extremely well—these kinds of dolls were all the rage throughout Haicheng recently.
Both Wang Chuang and Jiang Luo had plenty of selling experience now. Fifteen yuan a doll, no bargaining. If someone wanted one, they bought it; if not, fine—there were plenty of buyers.
With the truck’s rear doors open, they stood at the back, pulling dolls from boxes, bagging them, counting money, giving change—everything done with practiced ease.
Even Wang Chuang had become adept. If someone tried to question him, he’d respond in his own mix of Cantonese and Mandarin: “Of course, looks like Hong Kong goods, right?”
“Selling for 15 yuan seems cheap—go buy it at Pacific Department Store for 68 yuan!”
After a full day driving around Haicheng, all the dolls were sold. They parked the truck by the roadside, counting the money in the front cabin, counting with enthusiasm.
While counting, Jiang Luo began singing in Cantonese: “Ah… so many times my heart was restless…”
Wang Chuang joined in: “Today, today, as the clouds fade away…”
Together, in unison: “Listen to the birds, watch the raindrops fall, gentle wind, giving me true blessings…”
That night, after parking the truck near the silk factory dormitory and Wang Junwei and Bai Ting’s building, neither Jiang Luo nor Wang Chuang went home to eat. Arm in arm, they went to a nearby disco.
Inside, the lights blazed, the atmosphere was loud, and the music filled the room. Wang Chuang danced energetically in the center of the floor, while Jiang Luo lounged in a booth, snacking on fruit and sipping cola, equally content.
When the song shifted to a slow, melodic tune, Wang Chuang waved desperately at Jiang Luo from the dance floor. Jiang Luo smiled and got up.
On the floor, he snapped his fingers, swaying slightly, spinning in rhythm with the music. Wang Chuang mirrored him, twisting and turning as if using a hula hoop.
They were carefree, having fun at the disco like old times.
The difference now? Both Jiang Luo and Wang Chuang had money in their pockets—not like before, when they were poor students with barely a few coins between them.
While Jiang Luo and Wang Chuang reveled in the disco, back at the silk factory dorm, Jiang Jianmin returned from work. He noticed the truck parked on the first floor and couldn’t resist circling it to take a look.
From the second floor, Wang Junwei’s voice called out: “What are you looking at?”
Jiang Jianmin glanced at the truck again and asked, “Did Jiang Luo bring this truck?”
Wang Junwei sneered, “Why do you care? It’s not your son.” He added, “Stop staring. If something happens, it’s on you.”
Jiang Jianmin walked to the back of the truck, looked up at the second floor, and pointed to himself. “Not my son? I raised him for eighteen years!”
“I’ve been his father for eighteen years. He eats my food, uses my stuff—he owes me a lifetime of respect!”
“Respect me for life!”
Wang Junwei said nothing, only showing a hint of mockery in his eyes. “He eats your food, uses your stuff,” yet you hand him the keys, give him a bed, but don’t cook for him.
Annoyed, Jiang Jianmin kicked the rear tire of the truck and walked off.
Wang Junwei was uneasy. The truck was still rented—what if Jiang Jianmin, on a whim, damaged it with bricks or something?
He watched from the second floor for a long while. Seeing Jiang Jianmin didn’t come back downstairs or do anything, he finally returned inside.
But in the dead of night, when the streets were empty, Jiang Jianmin quietly went downstairs. He approached the truck and tried to open the rear, but it was locked. He went around to the front, stepped on the brake pedal to reach higher, and shined his flashlight through the window. He spotted a small pouch on the handbrake.
The next morning, Bai Ting and Wang Junwei got up early to light the stove, boil water, and make breakfast before going to work.
Wang Junwei, as usual, pushed open the door holding the chamber pot, walked down the corridor, and glanced at the truck below.
At first, nothing seemed amiss. Then his eyes widened.
“What…?”
The driver’s side window had been smashed!
Returning from a night at the disco at the Jing’an Hilton, Wang Chuang and Jiang Luo arrived at the silk factory dorm to find Wang Junwei and Jiang Jianmin yelling at each other on the second floor.
Wang Junwei shouted at Jiang Jianmin, “Damn it! You call Jiang Luo your son, and you go smash your own kid’s truck!?”
Jiang Jianmin cursed back, “Screw you, you bastard…”
People on the third floor craned their necks to watch, while those on the first floor looked up at the second.
When they saw Jiang Luo and Wang Chuang, someone shouted, “Stop fighting! Stop fighting! Jiang Luo and Wang Chuang are back!”
At first, Jiang Luo and Wang Chuang had no idea what had happened—they just knew Jiang Jianmin and Wang Junwei were fighting.
But Jiang Luo knew Jiang Jianmin well. Seeing even the usually mild-mannered Wang Junwei arguing with him, he immediately guessed what Jiang Jianmin had done.
They walked toward the truck. The rear lock was intact. At the front, the driver’s side window had been smashed.
“Damn.”
Wang Chuang widened his eyes, looked up at the second floor, then at Jiang Luo. “Your dad…”
He corrected himself quickly: “Jiang Jianmin did this?”
Jiang Luo didn’t say anything. Showing no emotion, he turned and headed upstairs.
On the second floor, Jiang Luo grabbed Wang Junwei’s arm and called, “Uncle.”
Wang Junwei, furious and red-faced from yelling, finally quieted when Jiang Luo pulled him aside. Jiang Jianmin continued cursing.
Jiang Luo stood where Wang Junwei had been, expressionless, looking at Jiang Jianmin. His tone was calm: “Did you smash the window?”
“Because you saw a pouch inside?”
“There was no money in it.”
All his previous earnings were in a bankbook at the Hilton. Recent payments collected were given to Bai Ting at home for safekeeping. He certainly wasn’t foolish enough to leave money in the truck.
When Jiang Jianmin realized the pouch was empty, he realized he’d wasted his effort smashing the window and got angry.
Pointing at Jiang Luo, he yelled, “You little brat! No money, and you come back here? I wasted all my strength smashing that window, and you—”
Jiang Luo didn’t speak. He swung a punch.
“Ah!”
Jiang Jianmin fell to the ground.
“That’s enough!”
Everyone gasped.
Jiang Luo straightened up, face indifferent.
In his previous life, in front of him, Jiang Jianmin always called him a brat, obsessing over money.
Jiang Luo was beyond annoyed, but with Su Lan, Zhao Guangyuan, and the others watching, he didn’t directly lose his temper with Jiang Jianmin or Zhang Xiangping.
Later, when the silk factory was restructured, Jiang Jianmin and the others stayed on, taking a meager, fixed salary. They had no money and couldn’t get anything from Zhao Mingshi’s actual son, so they came to Jiang Luo for cash.
Back in the mid-’90s, Jiang Luo had given them a million yuan in one lump sum, severing all ties and declaring their relationship over.
Now, seeing Jiang Jianmin again, still whining as if the world owed him something, and smashing the truck window, Jiang Luo felt nothing but bad luck at the sight of him.
This punch—he’d been wanting to deliver it for a long time.
Jiang Jianmin went sprawling, turning his head in disbelief. “You actually hit me!?”
“You rebelled!?”
Jiang Jianmin shouted, voice sharp: “I’m your father! You’ve eaten my food and used my things for eighteen years!”
“You dare hit me!?”
Zhang Xiangping, standing at her doorway, widened her eyes in shock.
Jiang Jianmin scrambled to his feet and lunged at Jiang Luo. “You—”
But Wang Chuang ran up and blocked him: “Stop! Stop! He’s not your son anymore…”
At 1.7 meters tall, Jiang Jianmin stood no chance against the 180-pound Wang Chuang. Even jumping, he couldn’t reach Wang Chuang’s height. Struggling and shouting, he cursed: “You little brat, you dare hit me? I’m your father! How dare you hit me!?”
Jiang Luo, expression indifferent, turned away without another glance at Jiang Jianmin. He walked toward Bai Ting, who wasn’t far, and said, “Aunt, I’m here to get the money I left with you yesterday.”
“Oh.”
Bai Ting, still startled by that punch, only came to her senses when Jiang Luo spoke. She quickly turned and went inside to fetch the money.
Behind him, Jiang Jianmin continued cursing and muttering.
Jiang Luo’s fist, hanging loosely at his side, clenched.
Hearing a few more foul words escape from Jiang Jianmin, Jiang Luo spun around, quickened his pace, and raised his hand for another punch. His expression was fierce, and Jiang Jianmin, terrified, turned and ran.
Among the group watching from downstairs, someone shouted, “Jiang San, you shouldn’t have smashed Jiang Luo’s truck. Whether he’s your son or not, you shouldn’t have done that. It’s wrong.”
Another person advised, “Jiang Luo, don’t get carried away. After all, he raised you for eighteen years. A son shouldn’t hit his father.”
Wang Chuang shouted back up to them, “Alright, alright, everyone’s got their hot take.”
“We’ve seen the drama. Break it up. Time to go.”
He patted Jiang Luo’s shoulder with the back of his hand, signaling: let’s go, it’s over.
Jiang Luo showed no expression. Composing himself, he turned.
At that moment, Bai Ting came out of the house, holding a square cookie tin.
As she walked over, she opened the lid and approached Jiang Luo and Wang Chuang. She reached into the tin, pulled out the money, and said, “I counted some of it for you yesterday. The head office amount is thirteen thousand six hundred…”