Chapter 24: Dionysus (4)

Tan Zhao did not complain, which actually left Wen Mingwei feeling a bit curious.

Although he did not know exactly what Tan Zhao had been busy with over the past few days, he had a certain understanding of the young master's predicament. August was approaching its final third, and ever since Wen Mingwei had intervened to force the cancellation of the Renxin Bridge signing ceremony, the news had been spreading like wildfire.

From Wen Mingwei's perspective, however, the matter was not worth mentioning. He maintained a superficial identity with forged records, having no connection to the Wen family of Xinzhou. No matter how the outside world speculated based on the "Black Iris," they would find no substantive evidence. Furthermore, once the storm had been stirred up, the Marshal would naturally "help" to calm it down, sparing him any need for concern.

Setting aside the shadow war between himself and the Marshal, the direct beneficiary of this incident was Tan Zhao. Yet, the benefit Tan Zhao gained was merely a temporary reprieve, allowing him to leverage the project's aftermath to continue negotiating with the board of directors. That was likely what Tan Zhao had been preoccupied with recently. Wen Mingwei had his suspicions, but he did not directly ask.

Tan Zhao had been on that phone call for an exceptionally long time. He started in the empty dining room, moved to the garden after the food was served, and even after dinner was fully prepared and laid out, Wen Mingwei waited another five minutes for him to return.

Wen Mingwei glanced at his expression: a trace of dark frustration permeated his calm, and his lips were pressed so tightly together it seemed he would curse if he didn't clench his jaw. He was much better by the time he sat down; his ability to regulate his emotions quickly could be considered progress. Then, under Wen Mingwei's direct gaze, Tan Zhao absentmindedly took a bite of a dish, not noticing it was one he usually disliked.

Wen Mingwei felt a bit helpless. "Whose call was it?"

Tan Zhao finally looked up, managing to hold back his grievances. "My uncle. Discussing some matters."

"Can't you tell me?" Wen Mingwei tied his hair up, a few stray locks falling against his cheeks, making him look very gentle. "We are already together; why have we become more distant than before? Is there something you're embarrassed to talk to me about?"

"...No." Tan Zhao avoided his gaze. "It's just that there hasn't been anything worth discussing lately."

"..."

That was a strange thing to say. If one wanted to talk, one could always find something. What did he mean by nothing "worth discussing"? But since he didn't want to talk about business, Wen Mingwei couldn't press him further.

The dinner didn't last long; Tan Zhao had a poor appetite and finished quickly. Afterward, he accompanied Wen Mingwei downstairs for a while but didn't drink the tea provided by the housekeeper, claiming he still had work to handle before taking his laptop to the study.

The "little mouse" still followed Wen Mingwei. Despite being a domestic robot, it rarely did chores and only knew how to be clingy. Wen Mingwei had no interest in keeping pets, let alone electronic ones—judging by its behavior, it was clearly no longer in a simple "mouse mode"; Tan Zhao had likely changed some of its settings again. Wen Mingwei patiently let it cling to him for a while, then, remembering he needed to reply to Jian Xinning, he left the little robot where it was and returned to the second floor, to the bedroom.

**

Around eight o'clock in the evening, when Wen Mingwei returned to their room, Tan Zhao was sitting in the study, staring blankly. Or rather, thinking. He hadn't turned on the lights; in the pitch-black room, only the computer screen emitted a pale, fluorescent glow, but the screen was blank, with no files open.

Just as he had told Wen Mingwei, there was nothing "worth discussing" anymore.

"Discussing" was just another way of asking Wen Mingwei to provide ideas or share the emotional burden. But now, Tan Zhao realized that neither ideas nor sharing emotions were useful; his problems were his alone to solve.

The call just now had been from Tan Yi. The man had once again demanded that he withdraw from the board of directors and give up the struggle for power, coaxing him with rare gentleness: "Tan Zhao, the terms I've offered you are generous enough. As long as you follow my arrangements, you can just collect your share like your aunt every year without doing any work. Wouldn't it be better to just be a wealthy idler?"

Compared to his previous rigidity, Tan Yi's attitude had been much milder lately. He did not hide the fact that this was the Marshal's will, even saying to Tan Zhao, "The Marshal values your close relationship with Mr. Wen and is giving him some face by letting you exit this storm. In fact, this is something Mr. Wen would be happy to see; don't you understand that?"

"..."

"What good does it do him for you to stir things up? The Marshal gives him face, so he must give the Marshal face in return. He cannot help you any further."

Tan Zhao gripped his phone, his veins throbbing. "I don't need anyone's help."

"See," his uncle said, as if expecting this response. "You're a grown man, yet you still have the temperament of a spoiled child. How can you compete with me like this? Do you think you can win?"

"..."

"I'll say this one last time: follow my arrangements and withdraw while you still can. If you don't give me an answer by tonight, you'll regret it tomorrow. Think about it yourself."

The man hung up coldly. Tan Zhao was thinking, but not about that. He had belatedly realized that he had missed the best opportunity to join the board of directors; it was indeed difficult to compete with his uncle now.

The "best opportunity" referred to the period right after his grandfather had passed away. At that time, he had a chance to wrestle with Tan Yi—even achieving a brief stalemate—because the event was sudden, and most directors were cautiously watching, afraid to pick a side while the situation was unclear. The fact that many were not picking sides had given him the illusion that he could win them over.

But he had overlooked the most important point: what were they watching? They were watching to see who would win. Those who didn't pick sides were fence-sitters, waiting only to join the winner. In such a situation, it didn't matter if his early chances were slim; what mattered was showing strength, having enough resolve, and being ruthless enough to make them fear him, to make them not dare to underestimate him.

Yet, that was exactly where he had lost. Compared to his competitors, his style was too upright, his methods too soft; he inevitably appeared naive and incompetent, incapable of managing affairs. If the group were a giant ship sailing through a storm, the board needed a captain who could make critical decisions—someone worth trusting and looking up to. Did he possess those qualities?

Tan Zhao dully remembered a morning long ago when Wen Mingwei had hinted to him in a joking tone, "Only by controlling a person's weakness can you control that person," teaching him to find leverage against an old director to force them to work for him. At the time, he hadn't taken it to heart, thinking it was too excessive, but later, that director indeed did not support him.

Putting himself in their shoes, if he were a member of the board, he wouldn't cast his vote for a young man with no experience, no cunning, and no methods. Even if he were a quick learner who could process the work handed to him with maximum efficiency and perfection, so what? They weren't looking for a subordinate who could do the work; they were looking for a leader.

Take Wen Mingwei, for example. Tan Zhao had never seen Wen Mingwei work a "proper" job, but the moment he spoke, the Marshal had to "give him some face." Like a chess player controlling the game from behind the scenes, he held countless pawns to be manipulated; if he wanted something done, someone would naturally do it for him.

"..."

Tan Zhao sat silently in front of the computer. Suddenly, he saw not only his own predicament but also the invisible and vast gap between himself and Wen Mingwei—clearer than it had ever been before. It was a bitter taste, but one he had to swallow.

An hour later, Tan Zhao finally closed the blank computer and left the study.

When he returned to the bedroom, Wen Mingwei's call with Jian Xinning was not yet over. The man was sitting by the window in a relaxed posture, holding a pen and sketching on a piece of paper from time to time. The low ponytail hanging behind his neck rested obediently against his pajamas; at first glance, he looked frail and harmless.

Tan Zhao walked over in silence, leaned down to press his hand against the back of Wen Mingwei's head, and forced him into a kiss.

Wen Mingwei's breathing suddenly deepened, and he closed his eyes slightly. The call was still connected; the person on the other end didn't notice and continued speaking about something Tan Zhao hadn't heard the beginning of: "...this can't be determined for now; I'll go probe the bottom of it first. You can rest assured about Zhou Jiwen; he will never contact anyone without our orders..."

Before he could finish, Tan Zhao deepened the kiss. Wen Mingwei was forced to let out an involuntary gasp—very low, but the phone's microphone was of such high quality that the voice on the other end stopped abruptly. Jian Xinning gave a light cough. "Brother?"

"It's nothing, just bumped into the corner of the table." Wen Mingwei pushed Tan Zhao away without changing his expression, wiping the moisture from his lips. "That's enough for today, Xinning. Get some rest."

"Alright." Jian Xinning said goodnight sensibly and hung up.

"Are you done with your overtime?" Wen Mingwei stood up from the chair and walked around Tan Zhao, intending to take a shower, but before he had taken two steps, he was pulled from behind by Tan Zhao and pressed firmly into his embrace.

"...What are you doing?"

Wen Mingwei noticed that his emotions were off—it had started with that call before dinner. "What happened?"

The person behind him hugged him tighter, saying nothing. Wen Mingwei turned his head to look back, only to have his chin hooked, and he was forced into another kiss at an awkward angle. Then, he was half-dragged, half-carried to the side of the bed, pressed against the headboard, and kissed from the front for about two minutes. A few buttons on his pajamas came undone in the collision, and it was only after the kiss ended that he regained his freedom.

Tan Zhao's chin rested on his shoulder as he suddenly asked, "Wen Mingwei, have you ever had something you couldn't do?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Have you?"

"...Yes."

Wen Mingwei smiled. "Many things. I couldn't do anything before; I used to be bullied and pushed around."

"Who was it?"

"My second brother."

Wen Mingwei had never detailed his upbringing, and Tan Zhao was curious. "Can you talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about. It's been too long; I don't remember clearly." Wen Mingwei said, "Do you want to know the outcome? Later, I killed him with my own hands."

Tan Zhao: "..."

The young master who lived in the capital of the rule of law could not imagine how brutal the internal struggles of a criminal family could be; Wen Mingwei’s understated words shattered his imagination. But thinking about it carefully, it wasn't surprising; otherwise, why would Wen Mingwei have been able to preserve his power and survive to this day after the Wen family had fallen? He must have had some way to detach himself from the family, not to be bound together with those people.

Tan Zhao wanted to ask what had happened back then, and what was the deal with the Marshal, but looking at Wen Mingwei’s smiling yet slightly perfunctory face, it was clear he did not intend to be honest with him.

Was it because he didn't want to bring up the past, or because Tan Zhao wasn't standing high enough to be qualified to hear it?

"...Wen Mingwei." Tan Zhao was silent for a long moment before suddenly saying, "I want to work with you."

"What?"

Wen Mingwei was puzzled. "Didn't we talk about that last time?"

"No. This time, it's different."