A Letter from Keanu Reeves

Minglong Conference Room.

When Tan Youming and Shen Zongnian arrived, Zhao Shenge was reviewing the daily medical report from the hospital. Though the content was nearly identical every day, he still read it carefully. He glanced up at the two men and motioned with his chin.

“Wait a moment.”

His head was really round.

Expressionless, Zhao Shenge shut his laptop.

Tan Youming sat down on the sofa, initially thinking he was working. But then Zhao Shenge took a call. Although his voice was low, words like “soup,” “nutrition,” and “let him be” could still be vaguely heard.

Tan Youming nudged Shen Zongnian’s palm, signaling him to listen as well.

However, Zhao Shenge ended the call quickly, leaving no further clues. But Tan Youming was a man who liked to get to the bottom of things. Before discussing business, he couldn’t help but ask,

“Who was that?”

Zhao Shenge, ever cooperative with his nosiness, replied,

“The housekeeper.”

Tan Youming asked, “What happened?”

Without looking up, Zhao Shenge took the contract from his hand and flipped through it.

“She has a cat. It won’t eat.”

“…”

Tan Youming felt like he was being played. “Is this some new kind of dry humor?”

Shen Zongnian also lifted his gaze.

But Zhao Shenge didn’t elaborate further. Instead, he moved straight to business.

Though it wasn’t an official meeting, their discussion lasted until nightfall. When they wrapped up, Tan Youming asked,

“Want to come with us to visit Chen Wan?”

“Jiang Ying will be there too. Ah Xuan took him to Bei Island today for a painting. We’re meeting at the hospital.”

Zhao Shenge declined, not wanting to go with a group. He casually gave an excuse,

“I need to return to the old house tonight.”

Zhao Maozheng had been urging him for days. Most likely, he was summoning him to reprimand him over the press conference and celebration event.

“Fine,” Tan Youming said, feeling that Zhao Shenge was utterly devoid of sentiment. He reminded him,

“When I throw a discharge party for Chen Wan, don’t be absent. After all, his injury is somewhat tied to you.”

Zhao Shenge didn’t agree outright, only saying,

“We’ll see.”

“…”

The driver was already waiting in the parking lot. When Zhao Shenge got into the back seat, he didn’t immediately open a work file as usual.

There were a few new photos on his phone.

Chen Wan eating an apple, his eyelashes lowered, lips red. Whether it was water droplets or apple juice, some had dripped onto his fingers.

Chen Wan working while hooked up to an IV, his complexion slightly pale, typing one-handed with a serious expression.

Chen Wan not properly covered by his blanket, one foot exposed—very white.

—

When Zhao Shenge arrived at the old house, the servants began serving dinner.

Mr. and Mrs. Zhao were present as well. They had just returned from an art exhibition in Austria the previous day.

Zhao Min was a sculptor, while Wan He painted. Their so-called “harmonious artistic couple” was built upon a foundation of wealth.

Zhao Maozheng had long realized that Zhao Min had no talent for business or politics. His frustration and expectations were all poured into his eldest grandson. Since childhood, he had rigorously trained Zhao Shenge to ensure that the family legacy would continue.

Wan He asked if Zhao Shenge had been busy lately.

Zhao Shenge wasn’t particularly close to his parents and answered briefly.

Smiling, Wan He asked about Minglong’s recent collaboration with the Xu family. She had heard that their eldest daughter was stunning and exceptional. She asked Zhao Shenge if it was true.

“I don’t know her well,” he replied.

“…”

His tone was calm and indifferent. Zhao Min and Wan He exchanged glances, not daring to press further.

They had always been somewhat afraid of their son.

When Zhao Shenge was a child, the Zhao couple had left him with his grandparents, traveling the world for romance and art. Naturally, they were unaware of the harsh and ruthless elite education that Zhao Maozheng had imposed on him.

By the time they realized, their once cold and aloof teenager had already become an inscrutable, reserved young man.

People on the outside called him mysterious, but even his own parents neither understood him nor felt close to him.

Zhao Shenge never judged whether his parents had done a good job. He had never expected anything from them.

In fact, he had never expected much from anyone—including himself.

With so many people in the Zhao family’s old house, the only thing weighing on him was an empty, grandiose, and meaningless sense of responsibility. It was heavy as a thousand pounds, shackling him since the age of eight, and he would have to carry it for the rest of his life.

From this perspective, if Chen Wan believed that Zhao Shenge was a kind person, then perhaps he was right.

Responsibility and duty were, after all, forms of kindness.

—

After dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Zhao left first.

They had a North American tour coming up and might not even return for the New Year.

Out of politeness, Zhao Shenge said, “Safe travels.” That was all.

A very polite family.

Zhao Maozheng called Zhao Shenge, “Come to the study.”

Since his own son was not competent, he was exceptionally strict with his eldest grandson.

The name “Zhao Shenge” was meant to signify that he would not remain in lofty isolation nor be swept away by empty voices.

Having wielded power for so long, Zhao Maozheng’s desire for control had only intensified with age. He interfered in everything—from work to personal matters.

“Even when your parents return, you don’t come home.”

If not for his repeated summons, Zhao Shenge wouldn’t have come today.

He rarely returned to the old house, as his memories of it weren’t pleasant. As an adult, Zhao Shenge disliked appearing in public, refused interviews, and avoided photographs—all for the sake of freedom.

And the root of all his constraints lay here.

“What are you so busy with that you don’t even have time to come home?”

It wasn’t a question, but Zhao Shenge no longer cared about Zhao Maozheng’s scrutiny or tests. The old man, once powerful, now had only the hollow remnants of authority left. He could no longer dictate Zhao Shenge’s life.

At this point, whatever Zhao Shenge wanted to do, no one could stop him.

He picked up his tea and took a sip, his response polished and nonchalant.

“I’ve been busy with some things.”

“…”

Zhao Shenge had no deep feelings for Zhao Maozheng, but he could still speak politely to people he disliked or felt nothing for. If he truly could not tolerate someone or something, he would deal with it in a much more direct manner.

Zhao Maozheng was briefly speechless. His cloudy eyes fixed on him sternly.

“Stop playing word games with me! What, you think I’m old now and can’t control you?”

“The matter with the Xu family—how do you plan to explain yourself? To them? To the public?”

He spoke angrily, his cane striking the table loudly, as if Zhao Shenge had committed some great offense.

Zhao Shenge looked at him with mild curiosity.

“First of all, my personal affairs require no explanation to anyone.”

“Secondly, since you unilaterally spread rumors about an engagement without my knowledge or consent, you should be the one explaining it to the Xu family and the public. In fact, if I were to hold you accountable, you would owe me an explanation.”

“…” Zhao Maozheng fumed. “An explanation?! Everything I’ve done is for your sake!”

“Don’t forget—Minglong signed a ten-year plan with them. The Bei Island financing is still in progress. The construction at Lychee Bay has just begun.”

“Right. That’s why I’ve arranged for stock dilution in the financing, subcontracting for the construction, and I plan to negotiate a contract termination with them.”

Zhao Shenge spoke politely, but his words were infuriating.

Zhao Maozheng, shaking with rage, cursed, “You ungrateful traitor!”

Taking a breath, he said, “You look down on Xu Zhiying? How is she not worthy of you?”

“On the contrary,” Zhao Shenge replied with no emotion, “I admire her very much.”

“In fact, if anything, I am not a good choice for her.”

To him, Xu Zhiying was an outstanding woman—but that admiration had nothing to do with love.

“The most important thing,” Zhao Shengge told Zhao Maozheng, “is that I don’t intend to be tied to the Zhao family. The person I want to collaborate with is Xu Zhiying herself.”

Zhao Shengge understood very well that for a woman to reach such a position in the world of power and prestige, it only meant she was more capable and outstanding than most of the men in the game.

In a way, he admired Xu Zhiying.

“You don’t dislike her, yet you refuse a marriage alliance. What, do you already have someone?” Zhao Maozheng’s eyes, though cloudy with age, remained sharp.

It was the only possibility he could think of, but the informants he had planted around Zhao Shengge had never reported anything of the sort.

“What kind of person?” There was no way he would allow just anyone to enter the Zhao family.

Zhao Shengge was indifferent to his probing, but perhaps because he himself had yet to fully figure things out, he seriously thought about it for a moment before giving a reserved answer: “Not yet.”

A very intriguing response.

“Zhao Shengge, don’t challenge my bottom line. You know I have ways to find out, and I have ways to interfere.”

“You probably can’t anymore,” Zhao Shengge, though young, spoke with the presence of someone in a position of power. “If that day truly comes and there is such a person, he will belong only to me—he will not belong to the Zhao family, not to Minglong, not to any of the standards or frameworks you imagine. Only to me.”

Zhao Shengge, ever the rebellious son, lacked both morality and filial piety, but he didn’t intend to provoke the old man further. He simply said, “Rest early. Don’t worry too much. It’s bad for your health.” Then, he turned to leave.

Zhao Maozheng called after him, “Zhao Shengge, do you still hate me?”

Zhao Shengge paused mid-step.

“Is it for those models that were burned? Or for that poor dog that was shot in the head?”

Zhao Shengge calmly shook his head. From a superior position, he looked down and said, “I don’t have time to hate you.”

“But a hundred years from now, you can ask Bozhu if he hates you.”

Bozhu—the little dog Zhao Shengge had rescued from a cardboard box on a rainy night when he was thirteen, born not long before, with a round little head.

Without a driver, Zhao Shengge drove himself in a boxy Land Cruiser. He didn’t head straight back to his apartment in Central. Instead, he sped along the coastal highway, taking a long detour up Ring Road 375—the scene of the incident that night.

Desolate. Facing the sea. No guardrails. The damage to the barriers between the greenery and the cliff’s edge had yet to be repaired, looking like the gaping maw of a ferocious beast in the darkness.

Chen Wan was insane.

Zhao Shengge realized this once again, with absolute clarity.

The Jeep Grand Cherokee’s engine power and impact force were equivalent to three standard Volkswagen sedans. Calculating the precise braking distance under extreme speed, cutting in at just the right angle to intercept—this level of extreme judgment had only a one-in-ten-million chance of success. One miscalculation, and it would be a fatal crash, bodies beyond recognition.

It was hard to say that someone who could make such a reckless decision didn’t carry a resolve to die together.

Expressionless, Zhao Shengge stepped on the gas. The engine roared as the tires crushed over this stretch of the death zone.

His assistant called, reporting new developments in the case.

“They want to protect him, but to ensure absolute safety, you’ll probably need to negotiate in person and also notify those above,” the assistant suggested. Since criminal charges were involved, Zhao Shengge had to personally intervene. “But if that’s the case, the time you asked me to keep free the evening after tomorrow will no longer be available.”

At this moment, Zhao Shengge regretted turning down Tan Youming’s invitation to visit the hospital today.

But unless he completely crushed the opposition, he wouldn’t be able to rest easy.

“I got it.” Zhao Shengge glanced at the newly received photos on his phone. Chen Wan was already asleep. Beside his bed were flowers, likely brought by Tan Youming and the others—lisianthus, lilies, carnations. The arrangement, complementing his classical features, reminded Zhao Shengge of that fairytale about a sleeping beauty who could only be awakened by a kiss.

He had never actually read those stories as a child.

Bedtime tales were not part of Zhao Shengge’s childhood education. Even the comic books and storybooks borrowed from his classmates at international school had been reduced to ashes in Zhao Maozheng’s fury.

At ten years old, Zhao Shengge had felt guilty about it and secretly bought new copies to return to his classmates. But from then on, he never again accepted anyone’s shared comics or games.

In the darkness, Zhao Shengge stared at the photo a little longer before telling his assistant, “Make the preparations. We’ll leave as soon as possible.”

Although the doctors strongly advised Chen Wan to stay in the hospital for a full week, on the fifth day, he insisted on being discharged. The company couldn’t function without him for too long.

The housekeeper, who had grown fond of caring for him, tried to persuade him, “Mr. Chen, rest for a few more days. Health is important—money can’t be earned forever.”

She had previously worked at the old Zhao residence and was assigned to cook for Zhao Shengge after he returned to the country. But since Zhao Shengge rarely came home on time in the evenings, she seldom had the chance to go over. She had never encountered someone as appreciative of her cooking as Chen Wan.

Chen Wan was good-looking and good-natured. Whatever she made, he ate. If she told him to drink soup, he drank soup. If she told him to eat fruit, he ate fruit. The housekeeper had never seen such an obedient young man before.

He had lost a lot of weight due to the Wan Baohang project, but now, having been well taken care of, he looked healthier again.

The housekeeper felt sorry for him—injured so badly, hospitalized for so long, yet not a single family member had come to visit him, apart from a few friends like Zhuo Shao.

She occasionally overheard him on the phone with his mother, who was always either gambling or shopping. When he assured her he was fine, she quickly hung up.

Chen Wan smiled and said, “Auntie, I’m really fine. If I stay any longer, I’ll grow mold.”

He didn’t know she had served the Zhao family for over ten years and assumed she was just a temporary hire. Before leaving, he even gave her a large red envelope.

The housekeeper refused, “No need, Mr. Chen, this is my job.” She had already received a generous salary from the young master—who had specifically instructed her to take occasional photos of Chen Wan to ensure he was truly resting and recovering.

Tan Youming heard from Zhuo Zhixuan that Chen Wan had been discharged early and immediately started organizing his previous plan—an out-of-hospital celebration party to dispel bad luck.

Chen Wan didn’t want to trouble these rich young masters, so he took the initiative, “Young Master Tan, let me treat everyone. Consider it my way of thanking you all for your care during this time.”

Tan Youming agreed and set a date with him.

Since Chen Wan was hosting, he naturally had to invite everyone himself. Shen Zongnian, Jiang Ying, and a few other friends who had visited him in the hospital were all on the list. The tricky part was Zhao Shengge.

Everyone in their circle knew—Zhao Shengge was hard to invite.

Chen Wan considered asking through Zhuo Zhixuan or Tan Youming but felt that wouldn’t be sincere.

It was his party.

If he personally called every other friend, yet only passed a message to Zhao Shengge through someone else, that wouldn’t be polite. Or fair.

After much thought, Chen Wan gathered his courage and called Zhao Shengge’s second assistant, politely extending the invitation.

The second assistant was equally polite and courteous. She assured him she would pass on the message but kindly suggested, “For a private invitation like this, Mr. Chen, you might have better chances of success if you call Mr. Zhao directly.”

Chen Wan was momentarily stunned.

He did have Zhao Shengge’s private number.

It had been given to him when Zhao Shengge visited him at the hospital.

“If anything unusual happens, call me immediately. Anytime. Don’t wait.”

Chen Wan had been momentarily dazed.

In all of Haishi, could the number of people with Zhao Shengge’s private number exceed ten?

Had he really become one in a million?

Trying to appear calm, Chen Wan had said, “Alright.”

Zhao Shengge had noticed him staring at the digits without further response and added, “But I generally don’t answer unknown numbers.”

Chen Wan hesitated. His excitement, like a punctured balloon, quietly deflated.

But then Zhao Shengge said, “You’ll need to give me yours.”

A very businesslike tone.

Chen Wan looked up slowly, blinking.