MG CH8

Yan Zishu never let messages go unanswered. He first replied to the easiest one: “The wound’s fine, thank you for your concern, Mr. Fu.” Then to Fu Weishan’s lover: “Got it, I’ll pass it on to Mr. Fu.”

In Yan Zishu’s phone contacts, Fu Weishan’s various lovers were categorized separately.

It took him a moment to place this one—Yuan Mu, a starlet from a talent show. Her family had some means, not quite elite, but she was ambitious. Sweet-looking, round-faced, big-eyed, she bore a slight resemblance to Ji Chen.

Or rather, both of them resembled Fu Weishan’s “white moonlight.”

In the past, Yan Zishu had delivered seasonal luxury goods to her on Fu Weishan’s behalf. But those styles were now out of fashion—likely her status, too. After all, Ji Chen was the new favorite.

Yuan Mu called immediately after his reply. “Mr. Yan, please, you have to help… I’m pregnant.”

Yan Zishu repeated, “Got it, I’ll pass it on to Mr. Fu.”

After a pause, he added, “Take care of yourself.”

Yuan Mu hung up, sounding disappointed.

Fu Weishan’s reaction was a scoff. “In this day and age, people still think a baby can secure their status?”

Yan Zishu knew Fu Weishan’s deep disdain for “illegitimate children” due to Fu Jinchi’s existence, so he stayed silent.

Fu Weishan sneered for a bit, then, predictably, tossed Yuan Mu’s issue to Yan Zishu to handle. Handling it meant: verify DNA. If it’s real, the child suffers; if fake, Yuan Mu suffers. That’s how it went.

What a mess.

Fu Weishan didn’t dwell on small fry like Yuan Mu. It was getting late, and he had a business dinner to attend.

But it was a cursed day. A printing error was found in the auction catalog. Yan Zishu sent the driver with Fu Weishan and stayed behind, overseeing a staff meeting to fix it. Reprinting would be a hassle and might not make the deadline.

Someone suggested making fancy stickers to manually cover the errors. Yan Zishu shot it down. “Clients will peel them off and notice. That’s your brilliant idea?”

The emphasized “brilliant” hit like a ton of bricks. The publicity team stammered, “Yeah… probably not ideal.”

After much debate, they settled on redesigning a gold-foil stamp to cover the errors.

By 9:30 p.m., the overworked designer was still tweaking under everyone’s chatter. Yan Zishu, multitasking, was also pondering how to approach Yuan Mu, a pregnant woman, delicately.

Fu Jinchi walked in, deliberately heavy-footed. Yan Zishu paused his thoughts. “Mr. Fu.”

“Eaten yet?”

“Not yet.”

With Yan Zishu there, no one dared eat. Mistakes meant no dinner.

Fu Jinchi’s arrival eased the tension. He’d worked with this team before and was known for being approachable. Someone boldly asked if he’d treat them to a late-night meal.

Fu Jinchi tossed his phone over. “Sure, order whatever.”

Cheers erupted, with cries of “Mr. Fu is awesome!” until someone slipped and called him “President Fu.”

The room froze. Who was rebelling?

Regular employees were far from elite power struggles, happy to stay neutral. But Yan Zishu was there—Fu Weishan’s eyes and claws.

He smiled as if he hadn’t heard. “Why let Mr. Fu pay? I’ll cover it.”

Everyone jumped on the offer. “Sweet! Let’s splurge on Yan’s dime!”

No one dared order abalone or sea cucumber, settling for Domino’s. Yan Zishu placed the order.

When the steaming pizzas and sides arrived, since eating was forbidden in the exhibition hall and offices, everyone sprawled on the outdoor steps, boxes spread out, digging in.

Yan Zishu nibbled a slice slowly. Fu Jinchi ambled over and sat beside him.

Both tall, their long legs stretched across two steps, claiming space.

Fu Jinchi teased, “Not only is Assistant Yan made of iron, but you make your team work on empty stomachs?”

Yan Zishu wiped his hands methodically. “If they hadn’t messed up, they wouldn’t be suffering now.”

“Your style—those in the know call it perfectionism; others probably call you a ‘work traitor’ behind your back.”

Yan Zishu considered it. Work traitor? Not yet. But in his old world, new hires were warned: Don’t be fooled by Yan’s face—he’s the company’s worst workaholic.

“Yeah, I’m unpopular,” Yan Zishu admitted. “And you, Mr. Fu? Here to watch us slave away?”

“Almost forgot—this is from Zeng Zhanpeng, for his sister to thank you. I brought it.” Fu Jinchi tossed a box.

Yan Zishu caught it and opened it: two square diamond cufflinks, sparkling brightly.

They were likely expensive, but Fu Jinchi scoffed. “That’s it? Doesn’t suit you.”

Yan Zishu pocketed them without comment. “I’ll thank Mr. Zeng later.”

Fu Jinchi smiled, tilting his head. The streetlight cast light into his eyes, reflecting two tiny Yan Zishus—elbows on knees, shirt sleeves rolled up, pale wrists exposed, expression cool.

Fu Jinchi thought of his antique ruby cufflinks—picky to wear but perfect for Yan Zishu.

Yan Zishu lived up to his workaholic reputation, overseeing every detail flawlessly.

Fortunately, no major issues arose until the spring auction ended.

This year, besides Zeng Chuyi’s hefty contributions, a modern painting by Zhang Qianshi, Galloping Horses, fetched a staggering 100 million yuan. The media, following the provided narrative, reported it as a “lively” success, painting a rosy picture.

But insiders like Yan Zishu knew the truth: no one paid or claimed the piece. The sky-high price was just a show, a manipulated market stunt.

This industry wasn’t for everyone, and the Fu family’s business wasn’t all clean. The waters ran deep.

Still, the auction’s completion marked a major quarterly success.

Yinghan held a small celebration banquet. With Fu Weishan attending, Fu Jinchi tactfully stayed away to avoid trouble.

Mid-level staff and above toasted Fu Weishan, who sipped symbolically with his usual haughty air. No one dared comment.

Some toasted Yan Zishu, who held grape juice and responded warmly.

Ji Chen appeared, still in his cheap suit, visibly uneasy at the cocktail party. He didn’t know where to step, and veteran employees, busy networking, ignored him.

Spotting Yan Zishu, a familiar face, he hurried over. “Assistant Yan…”

He trailed off, unsure what to say. “Fancy seeing you here?” That’d be nonsense.

Yan Zishu raised his glass, insincerely praising, “Heard you’ve been doing well lately. Congrats.”

In truth, Yan Zishu had ensured Ji Chen was closely supervised, given busywork to keep him from causing trouble.

He’d even figured out a pattern—it was like keeping a pet occupied to prevent it from wrecking the house.

Unaware he was seen as Fu Weishan’s destructive pet, Ji Chen knew nothing of Yan Zishu’s nitpicking nature. But with Yan Zishu viewing him this way, he could tolerate anything Ji Chen did. After all, no one held high expectations for a pet.

It might seem disrespectful, but it made things easier for both, didn’t it?

With this detached attitude, Yan Zishu chatted with Ji Chen about trivial matters.

There’s a saying: if chatting with someone feels effortless and comfortable, either you share their interests, or they’re far smarter than you. For Ji Chen, Yan Zishu was clearly the latter.

Ji Chen relaxed, even getting animated. “About the school play I mentioned—my drama club friends asked me to fill in for a role…”

His fair face and bright smile stood out. Moments later, Fu Weishan, having finished with subordinates, sauntered over. Like a wolf spotting prey, he pretended not to notice Ji Chen, saying to Yan Zishu, “Helen was looking for you.”

Ji Chen quickly said, “Oh, Mr. Fu, sorry for holding up Assistant Yan’s work.”

Fu Weishan “noticed” him. “Oh, it’s Xiao Ji. How’s work? Tough?”

Yan Zishu stepped back subtly, yielding the stage. “I’ll excuse myself then.”