Su Qingci’s gaze turned cold. The stomachache he’d suppressed surged back with overwhelming force. He pressed his lips tightly together, leaning against the wall, silent.
The eldest son of the Zhang family was notorious in their social circle for his debauchery—one day cavorting with this female star, the next sleeping with that young heartthrob, indiscriminate in his pursuits.
Pei Jingchen knew this man: Zhang Haonan.
He had once pursued Su Qingci.
No, “pursued”—a term implying gentlemanly devotion—wasn’t fitting for Zhang Haonan’s lecherous intentions. It wasn’t pursuit; it was harassment.
Zhang Haonan only loved beautiful men and women, judging people solely by their looks—that shallow was he. A joke even circulated within the circle: the true measure of one’s beauty was whether Zhang Haonan had ever harassed them. Over time, this spawned a twisted craze, with many socialites taking pride in being harassed by Zhang Haonan and even deeply craving it.
Later, Zhang Haonan earned the nickname “Zhang the Demon-Detector,” a play on the Chinese phrase for “demon-revealing mirror.” It implied he could instantly discern whether a face was surgically enhanced or naturally beautiful—a master connoisseur of beauty, an authority with certified credentials.
Su Qingci was “honored” to be the very first target of Master Zhang’s advances since his debut.
Was it three years ago or five? He couldn’t recall.
“It was six years ago,” Zhang Haonan chuckled. “You were eighteen then, and I was just nineteen.”
Oh, I remember now. Su Qingci tilted his head, his mind drifting between hazy confusion and sudden clarity, and offered a faint, knowing smile.
It was an ordinary smile—the zygomatic muscles pulled the corners of his mouth upward, the lips stretched back, the cheeks lifted, and finally, the smile spread to the corners of his eyes. Anyone could make such a face, yet no one could replicate his unique essence—from the arch of his brow to the curve of his jawline, from his lashes to the sparkle in his eyes. Stunned, Zhang Haonan’s heart blossomed with delight. He rubbed his hands together like a fly, his friend’s earlier warnings completely eroded by love-struck brain fog.
Zhang Haonan thought, Who cares? It’s just a night of fun. What does it matter who Su Qingci is? It’s not like we’re dating.
The moment he first laid eyes on Su Qingci at that cocktail party years ago, Zhang Haonan felt like he’d been struck by lightning. He was breathtakingly beautiful. His looks, his figure, and that cool, melancholic aura—everything slammed right into Zhang Haonan’s XP. Back then, he was still a naive, inexperienced teenager. His voice trembling, he tried to express his feelings, but before he could finish a sentence, Su Qingci cut him off coldly with a single word.
“Get lost!”
The same word, delivered with identical tone and the same downward curve of his lips, echoed from six years ago.
Zhang Haonan felt a surge of irritation. He was no longer the timid, well-mannered boy who’d once retreated under his covers and cried for days after being struck down by a single word. “Su Qingci, after six years apart, you’re still just as arrogant.”
In this world, only one person could coax Su Qingci into speaking kindly. Though he didn’t care for him, nor needed him.
The corridor was spacious and well-ventilated, yet Su Qingci felt the air was thin. It must be because Zhang Haonan had come to share the limited oxygen. He felt irritable, and the red wine churning in his empty stomach made his feel even worse.
Suddenly, his arm was seized. Su Qingci looked up in surprise, his blurred vision suddenly sharpening to crystal clarity. It was Pei Jingchen.
Su Qingci instinctively tried to shake him off, but he simply didn’t have the strength.
“Move aside,” Pei Jingchen said coldly to Zhang Haonan, supporting Su Qingci.
Zhang Haonan opened his mouth to retort, “Who do you think you are?” but the words froze in his throat.
Zhang Haonan choked on his words, his momentum faltering as he lost his chance.
Pei Jingchen guided Su Qingci into the elevator. The moment the doors closed, Su Qingci pulled away from his grasp.
Pei Jingchen asked, “Feeling unwell?”
Su Qingci froze, convinced he’d misheard.
Staring at Pei Jingchen mere inches away, he suddenly felt favored. In the past, he would have cheered inwardly before bursting into tears.
Now all he felt was heartache.
He tried so hard to make it happen, scheming and scheming to coax such caring words from Pei Jingchen, yet each attempt backfired, leaving him looking like a clown.
Now he didn’t care anymore, yet without even trying, things had worked out.
Su Qingci wanted to say he felt terribly unwell, utterly miserable. The words caught in his throat, and he swallowed his self-mockery and blood.
What good would it do? To win Pei Jingchen’s sympathy and pity? He’d likely mistake it for feigning illness and playing the victim. Forget it.
When Su Qingci was healthy, his acting skills in feigning illness surpassed even Leonardo DiCaprio’s. But when genuinely ill, he only hid his battered and broken self.
A crack of genuine concern flashed in Pei Jingchen’s eyes for an instant—one Su Qingci didn’t miss.
Sure enough, playing it straight-up had backfired. Making Pei Jingchen think “the young master is up to his old tricks”—Su Qingci was truly cunning.
His stomach no longer hurt, but his heart ached, pulling at his insides until every organ felt twisted. Su Qingci stole a glance at Pei Jingchen. Was he thinking, Hmph, same old tricks again. Can’t you come up with anything new?
Was he thinking, Your suffering is none of my damn business. Didn’t we break up? How many days has it been before you couldn’t hold back? I thought you had some backbone.
Was he regretting asking that question, “Are you feeling unwell?”
The surge of emotion made Su Qingci cough. That single cough, ironically, made him tense up. He never imagined he’d one day fear Pei Jingchen asking, “Why are you coughing? Did you catch a cold?”
Though Pei Jingchen wouldn’t ask. After all, he’d just been “played” moments ago.
Pei Jingchen: “You…”
The elevator chimed, its doors sliding open.
Su Qingci stepped out first, almost as if fleeing.
Pei Jingchen wanted to say: What about you? Stop pretending?
“Qingci.”
“Su!”
Two voices rang out simultaneously—one from the elevator behind them, the other from the lobby ahead.
Without hesitation, Su Qingci hurried toward Vivian.
Pei Jingchen paused, stepping out of the elevator two seconds later.
Vivian, like a lively, adorable oriole, happened to utter something to Su Qingci just as Pei Jingchen approached.
“I know this is rude, but… but I’ve been longing for it so much.” Vivian covered her lips with her white-gloved hand, yet couldn’t conceal her excitement. “Su, I’d like to ask you to paint my portrait. Truly, it would be the most precious gift of my life.”
Su Qingci was a landscape painter, capturing only natural scenes.
But Pei Jingchen knew Su Qingci had also painted portraits. How did he know? Because he was the subject in one of those paintings, dragged along as a reluctant model.
Su Qingci never commanded him to strike specific poses, only telling him to relax and be himself. He wanted to capture his “entire being.”
At first, Pei Jingchen felt stiff. After all, it’s hard not to feel self-conscious when an artist stares at you while scribbling on paper. Later, he grew accustomed to it. Occasionally, when he glanced back and saw Su Qingci painting him “without warning,” he’d put on his idol persona, deliberately finding a well-lit spot to sit.
At first, it was perfectly normal—sketches of him under moonlight, reading, dozing lightly, playing the piano.
Later, it gradually became abnormal. His clothes grew fewer and fewer, his poses increasingly… well…
Su Qingci seemed to deliberately tease him, laughing until he doubled over at the sight of him blushing fiercely at those images, repeatedly asking him, “Is it beautiful? Not beautiful? Why would you belittle yourself? Because it’s you I’m painting!”
Su Qingci said, “I only paint you.”
His eyes held the natural landscapes of the entire world, yet they could only accommodate one person.
“Good.”
Pei Jingchen was stunned. He heard Su Qingci say in Russian, “Good.”
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