Chapter 16: The Veil of Maya (16)

“Eat something first.” Wen Mingwei pushed a steaming bowl of noodles toward Tan Zhao.

It was July 28th, 8 a.m.

In Tan Zhao’s apartment—more precisely, a luxurious single-floor unit—it was the tenth day since Wen Mingwei and Tan Zhao had been “not exactly living together.”

Breakfast had been prepared by Secretary Han.

Secretary Han had previously served Tan Yingzhuo and now, naturally, was at Tan Zhao’s beck and call. Although he hadn’t yet received an official reassignment notice, he tacitly accepted that he would become the young master’s trusted aide and had begun to act with great attentiveness.

His attentiveness mainly showed in serving Wen Mingwei, including but not limited to preparing his three meals a day, accompanying him to the barber shop for haircuts (Wen Mingwei surprisingly didn’t wash his own hair), and acting like a spy—reporting to the young master on his daily schedule and the latest quarrels at the board meeting, all under Wen Mingwei’s imposing aura.

In short, Secretary Han had temporarily taken over Gu Jing’s role as Wen Mingwei’s secretary.

Tan Zhao was not entirely unaware of all this but was not fully informed either.

He was too busy.

After the funeral, he never had a moment to breathe before being plunged into the family power struggle.

When Tan Yingzhuo was still alive, Tan Zhao mainly focused on his studies and occasionally visited the company at his grandfather’s behest to get a basic understanding of the group’s recent developments; he had never intervened in major matters.

Back then, Tan Yingzhuo thought there was no rush, and Tan Zhao agreed. Moreover, the Tan Group headquarters had a strict operational system; the board of directors functioned like a parliament, requiring votes on major projects—no one man ruled alone. The chairman’s greatest power was a veto.

This system minimized risks and ensured the group’s steady growth.

For a time, Tan Zhao thought it didn’t matter whether his uncle or aunt would become chairman in the future as long as the group prospered.

Primarily because the family was harmonious and peaceful at the time, he hadn’t thought about vying for power.

When Tan Zhao poured out these thoughts to Wen Mingwei, Wen Mingwei couldn’t help but chuckle twice.

What kind of naive person could have such innocent ideas? It was clear the young master had never suffered a real grievance in childhood and believed the world was full of truth, kindness, and beauty.

Unfortunately, it seemed heaven never treated anyone kindly from start to finish. The grievances Tan Zhao had missed before were now all catching up to him at once.

He now argued with his uncle an average of three times a day. When he called his aunt, she responded coldly with, “I don’t care about anything, just make sure you don’t shortchange me,” and the family’s former scene of revolving around him as the golden child was long gone.

Tan Zhao had cut his flamboyant fashionable hair short, started wearing suits, was constantly on the phone, worked overtime, and had squeezed his sleep down to less than five hours. His uncle wanted to drop the “acting” from the title “acting chairman,” but Tan Zhao firmly opposed it. He began intentionally connecting with senior board members, forming alliances and building power.

But Rome wasn’t built in a day. The inheritance had yet to be clearly divided, and the board was full of shrewd people who wouldn’t take sides easily.

The carefree nightlife of bars, clubs, and parties was gone forever. Tan Zhao now found it hard to eat and only managed a few bites with Wen Mingwei’s coaxing.

Thankfully, he still had Wen Mingwei.

He never said it aloud, but every night when he returned home and looked at Wen Mingwei, his eyes spoke volumes.

Wen Mingwei never panicked. No matter what happened outside, even when Tan Zhao lost his temper on the phone and wanted to smash things, Wen Mingwei wouldn’t even raise an eyelid. He always sat calmly reading, as if those troubling news that plagued Tan Zhao and the board and made headlines in the media were trivial.

Secretary Han, observing this, couldn’t understand how Wen Mingwei could remain so composed—wasn’t he supposed to be the young master’s secret lover hidden away? If the young master lost his power struggle, wouldn’t Wen Mingwei’s life be hard as well?

Yet Tan Zhao needed Wen Mingwei’s calm. Whenever things went wrong, just one glance at Wen Mingwei—at his long hair, smooth and silky like satin, at his emotionless, steady face as if unafraid of a mountain’s collapse—was enough to soothe Tan Zhao’s nerves and help him rethink how to tackle the problem.

That morning, Tan Zhao habitually refused to eat until Wen Mingwei urged him.

—Maybe a bad habit formed because now no one but Wen Mingwei still indulged the young master.

Wen Mingwei said, “Eat quickly before it gets cold.”

Tan Zhao finally picked up his chopsticks and took two mouthfuls, his expression suggesting he found it unappetizing. In the past, he would have discarded the noodles and asked the chef to remake them, but now, with no time or energy to fuss, he forced himself to finish despite disliking it.

“I have a dinner meeting tonight,” Tan Zhao said. “With an old board member, trying to get him on my side.”

“Just a dinner? Will he listen?”

“Probably. He had a connection with my father when he was younger.”

“…”

Wen Mingwei smiled lightly, brushing the long hair that had slid to the side of his face behind his shoulder. “Those are old ties. You’d better find out if he has any hidden skeletons or weaknesses. The only way to control someone is through their vulnerabilities.”

Tan Zhao lifted his head from the bowl.

Secretary Han trembled slightly, thinking, “He’s right, but how can he say such dark things with such gentleness? It’s frightening.”

Because Tan Zhao knew something about Wen Mingwei’s background, he didn’t find it too jarring but neither immediately agreed or disagreed. After finishing his noodles, he said, “I’ll see how things go tonight. There’s an important meeting tomorrow.”

“What meeting?”

“My uncle is negotiating a government project, a 70 billion yuan investment to participate in the Renxin Bridge.”

Tan Zhao explained, “This damn bridge has been talked about for years, but it never gets built. Everyone knows why. Anyone with sense doesn’t want to get involved.”

Wen Mingwei smiled again—so the young master was someone with “sense.”

The Renxin Bridge was a sea-crossing bridge connecting most coastal areas of Ren Province and Xin Province. If built, it would greatly stimulate local economies.

Notably, both Ren and Xin Provinces had large populations and were key voting blocs in every presidential election. In other words, whoever secured this project would win the favor of these voters and gain more votes.

Because of this, the two parties within the alliance fought fiercely. Both sides claimed “tight finances,” blocking funds, so the bridge was repeatedly postponed.

The next election was next year; the current period was preparation. It was obvious why they wanted to attract investment from financial tycoons now.

“Who is your uncle negotiating with?” Wen Mingwei asked, already suspecting the answer.

Tan Zhao said, “The project is open for bids. The person in charge is from the People’s Party. Their candidate hasn’t been announced yet, but I hear there’s a lot of controversy—”

Wen Mingwei waited for the name.

“Zheng He,” Tan Zhao said with surprisingly accurate information. “Voters reject military officers in politics, especially a marshal holding great power. I don’t think he has much chance.”

Wen Mingwei didn’t comment. Tan Zhao continued, “He probably promised my uncle lots of benefits, but whether he gets elected is uncertain. Trading phantom promises for 70 billion—not 70 thousand—would be hard for the board to approve even if I agreed.”

Suddenly Wen Mingwei said, “Have you ever thought about what the biggest benefit your uncle was promised might be?”

Tan Zhao was stunned.

“Of course, the chairman’s seat.” Wen Mingwei took away the empty bowl in front of Tan Zhao and sent Secretary Han to wash it. His deep, tranquil eyes locked on Tan Zhao’s shocked face.

“You mean—”

Tan Zhao almost dared not entertain such a ruthless possibility: “My grandfather’s death… is related to my uncle?”

Secretary Han had been sent away. Wen Mingwei squeezed Tan Zhao’s cold hand. “You can only trust yourself, Tan Zhao.”

Wen Mingwei saw him to the door, whispering, “Be careful.”

**

How long can one’s innocence last? Wen Mingwei didn’t know.

But his own answer was half a year.

When he was eight, he was brought back from a distant orphanage to Longdu and became “Wen Mingwei.” Within six months, he understood that he might be bad, but he could never be foolish.

Bad people don’t necessarily die, but fools don’t live long.

Tan Zhao was not foolish; he was very smart and learned quickly. But if he always thought the best of everything, never suspected enemies, and only used the best methods, it was no different from being foolish.

Wen Mingwei didn’t put it so bluntly. Besides, a person’s nature can’t be changed with a few words.

He even found Tan Zhao quite endearing as he was now. Unfortunately, endearment was a consumable; once his innocence was used up, he probably wouldn’t be endearing anymore.

If possible, Wen Mingwei hoped that day would come as late as possible.

**

Once busy, time flew.

Tan Zhao’s time to see Wen Mingwei gradually lessened, so every night when he came home, he didn’t want to do anything but stare at Wen Mingwei for a few minutes to regain energy, then take a shower.

Once Wen Mingwei asked, “What time is it now?”

Tan Zhao thought a moment. “I forgot. Shall we start counting again?”

“…”

He seemed convinced Wen Mingwei was willing to be left hanging and would never give up on him, acting unreasonable without guilt.

They didn’t sleep together every night.

Though the young master was unreasonable, he knew if he came home too late, going to bed in the dead of night would disturb Wen Mingwei’s sleep. In that case, he’d sleep next door and greet Wen Mingwei the next morning.

Otherwise, when they did sleep together, the boundaries faded.

From sleeping clothed together, to pajamas, to half-dressed pajamas, growing less distant, yet still maintaining a “just friends” relationship without moving forward.

He didn’t bring up moving forward, and Wen Mingwei didn’t either.

—When Wen Mingwei didn’t mention it, Tan Zhao certainly wouldn’t. After all, the dynamic of pursuer and pursued can’t be confused; he had to keep up his high stance until the end of the world.

Yet before the end of the world, another ending came first.

Tan Zhao had thought the Renxin Bridge proposal would be harder to pass than removing the “acting” from his uncle’s chairman title, but unexpectedly, more than half the board members supported it—clearly switching to his uncle’s side, and only one vote away from backing him as chairman.

Some board members Tan Zhao had courted even defected at the last moment, catching him off guard.

Worse than defeat was an unexpected defeat. But Tan Zhao had learned calmness from Wen Mingwei—at least outwardly, to keep grace.

He returned home with a face full of suppressed anger. Only upon seeing Wen Mingwei did his expression break. He went to the sofa and embraced him, just like on the day his grandfather died, and after a long while, said, “I’m so tired.”