Chapter 24

The moment Shen Mu said that, she felt the atmosphere shift into something strange.

It wasn’t a deathly silence—more like an awkwardness where only the music remained.

Finally, Ding Ya laughed. “No way.”

Shen Mu knew Ding Ya’s taste. They were so close they even followed each other on music apps. Sometimes when Shen Mu ran out of songs, she’d dig through Ding Ya’s playlists.

But eventually, she stopped digging and just asked outright: Got anything new you can send me?

Because no matter how many songs Ding Ya’s playlists had, they were always full of relics from a bygone era.

Shen Mu was a year younger than Ding Ya, but even in her memory, the hit songs from back then still felt like a chaotic dance of demons.

She never expected to hear such an obscure track in Shu Chi’s car.

Shu Chi’s voice drifted over faintly. “It’s my playlist.”

A chill ran down Shen Mu’s spine. She hadn’t expected that the second boss—visible in the rearview mirror—was also a deeply hidden treasure trove.

By all appearances, someone with Shu Chi’s looks seemed far better suited to 1980s Hong Kong golden oldies.

Ding Ya said, “That’s why Boss Shu and I have so much to talk about.”

She glanced at her phone with one hand, her voice carrying a hint of laughter. “Quite fated.”

Shen Mu glanced at Shu Chi’s reaction and saw her expression was perfectly calm—not a trace of displeasure that her playlist was being laughed at.

If anything, Ding Ya’s words seemed to make her relax.

Shen Mu thought: Weren’t you calling her ‘sister’ just now? And now you’ve switched titles?

Fated my ass. You two are clearly star-crossed.

She looked at Shu Chi driving, the image of a gullible villager being exploited by a landlord. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this second boss would be devoured by Ding Ya, bones and all.

Shen Mu’s place really was close—just a few minutes by car.

By the time the second internet golden oldie finished playing, Shen Mu’s legs were jelly as she got out.

That car felt like a time machine back to a decade ago, when she was playing QQ Speed and forwarding those morally manipulative Qzone posts like “You’re not Chinese if you don’t repost this.”

The sky had gone completely dark. The car kept moving forward. Ding Ya invited Shu Chi to dinner at a restaurant outside Willow Garden.

To thank her for driving her home that day.

“Aren’t you resting at home today?”

Ding Ya asked.

Earlier that day, Ding Ya had sent her so many messages—almost more substantial than their usual daily conversations.

The kind of messages that spelled everything out clearly: where she was going, with whom, when she’d be back.

Ding Ya had never been this forthcoming with her own parents in her entire life, yet she assumed Shu Chi just thought she was being overly familiar.

But inevitably, after Ding Ya had said so much, Shu Chi did offer a brief explanation.

She said she’d gone out to take care of something.

The car’s music switched to a lighter, more upbeat song with a distinct campus vibe. Ding Ya lifted her gaze to the traffic ahead.

Only then did she realize that compared to other people’s private cars, Shu Chi’s had almost no decorations.

At most, an air freshener. Nothing like her brother’s car, which felt plastered with photos of him, his wife, and their kid.

“Went to the Welfare Institute.”

Shu Chi looked a little tired. Ding Ya already knew from Jing Yuqi that she went fishing on weekends, so she asked, “What time do you get up in the mornings?”

Shu Chi drove steadily, much like her personality. Spend enough time with her, and you’d sense a deep, overwhelming feeling of security.

“Around six.”

Ding Ya asked, “To go fishing?”

Shu Chi gave an “Mm,” her tone lifting slightly at the end, tinged with a husky note of curiosity.

“How did you know I fish?”

She rarely updated her WeChat Moments. Probably because she mixed work and personal use, most of what she posted was still work-related.

Photos with family were nowhere to be found.

After adding Shu Chi on WeChat, Ding Ya had scoured her Moments from top to bottom and found none of the past she was looking for.

Then again, there was no WeChat ten years ago.

At least the Drifting Bottle feature still existed on Penguin back then.

“Chatted with Sister Qi last time. She told me.”

Ding Ya’s work still mostly connected with Jing Yuqi’s side.

Wellpond’s division of labor wasn’t very detailed. The bosses had built the business from scratch, and for some reason, it still carried a hint of a family-run workshop.

Colleagues working on projects with Ding Ya all said they’d never encountered anything like it—mid-meeting at Wellpond, you could get whisked off for a hot spring soak.

Shu Chi, on the other hand, hadn’t really followed up much after that first collaboration. After all, back then, she’d been working as a model.

Shu Chi made an “Oh” sound. “Do you chat with her often?”

Doesn’t she message me on WeChat almost every day? With that frequency, and she still has energy to chat with others? Does she even work?

Shu Chi felt a grudging respect for Ding Ya’s time management skills, and also marveled at how this person could have so much to say all day long.

Ding Ya shook her head. “Occasionally. Not as often as I chat with you.”

Then she let out an “Ah,” her voice dropping a few degrees. “Though with you, it’s mostly me talking.”

Shu Chi was about to speak, but Ding Ya cut in again. “If you find me annoying, you can just ignore me. After a few times, I’ll get the message.”

These were unspoken adult rules. Over the years, people had added Ding Ya on WeChat hoping to pursue something.

At first, politeness dictated she reply. After a while, replies came at longer intervals. The other party understood, and stopped clinging.

Shu Chi understood this too.

And because she understood, she felt helpless. “I don’t find you annoying.”

After she said this, she distinctly heard Ding Ya exhale in relief, then look at her again. “Really?”

These were all superfluous words. Shu Chi knew that in her heart.

Yet when Ding Ya said them, she somehow couldn’t refuse. She could only follow this uselessness, nodding uselessly further.

She thought: Is she this sensitive?

Ding Ya asked, “Where do you go fishing?”

Shu Chi said, “City outskirts. Spring Glory Avenue, through the mountain tunnel. It’s decent there.”

Ding Ya asked, “What about night fishing? My dad took me once before. Felt like there were quite a few people at night.”

She rarely met people her age who liked fishing. In Ding Ya’s ingrained impression, it was a hobby for the middle-aged and elderly.

Her brother had even emphasized that fishing was also a sport—though of course he fished in video games.

Ding Ya liked her own kind of fishing right now.

Shu Chi said, “Not really.”

Fishing was just a pastime. It had started because of clients—maintaining relationships.

Jing Yuqi absolutely couldn’t sit still, so Shu Chi went. She wasn’t a smooth talker, but her steadiness won out. Some clients preferred dealing with people like her.

Later, once life stabilized, Shu Chi developed a habit of fishing on weekends.

That wild stream was wide. The wild fish there had tender, flavorful meat—perfect for cooking.

Too bad Jing Yuqi only knew how to grill fish. Shu Chi herself preferred making fish soup. She always fished alone and ate alone.

Jing Yuqi teased her for living, at such a young age, like someone with one foot already in the grave.

Ding Ya asked, “Do you often go to the Welfare Institute?”

She was the first to know about this one.

Shu Chi said, “Once a month.”

Outside of business, in private, she was the type to answer only when asked. But with Ding Ya, she occasionally said a little more.

Shu Chi could sense the change in herself, but she didn’t overanalyze it.

“The kids there are very cute.”

She added a sentence she wouldn’t have added before.

Ding Ya’s tone became a bit more lively. “You like kids?”

When her mood improved, her voice lifted. If converted to text, where others used one tilde, she’d use double.

This was a subconscious conclusion Shu Chi had drawn after playing Ding Ya’s voice messages countless times.

But she shook her head. “I wouldn’t say I really like them.”

Ding Ya said, “If you think they’re cute, that means you like them.”

“More or less.”

She tacked on that phrase, then added with a hint of chagrin, “My mom originally wanted me to major in early childhood education. I’m terrified of kids.”

Outside the window was rush-hour traffic. This city’s congestion wasn’t like Beijing, Shanghai, or Guangzhou, but it was developing fast.

It gave people the feeling that you had to run just to keep up with the speed of urbanization.

A feeling that made it easy to lose, while gaining seemed hardly worth mentioning.

Shu Chi said, “You’re cute. If you were a teacher, the kids would probably adore you.”

Shu Chi rarely used emphatic particles when she spoke—flat, direct, and a bit impersonal.

Ding Ya could hardly imagine that the person on the other side of the screen—the one typing out those cheesy love lines in her chat window—was really this same person.

People were so strange. So many faces.

Ding Ya laughed out loud. “No way. I’d be afraid I’d get so angry I’d send myself to the hospital.”

She waved a hand. “Teaching’s so hard. It takes such deep conviction. And making me do something I don’t like—too painful.”

As she spoke, she fiddled with her autumn/winter phone case. Last time it had been a little bear peeking out; today she’d switched to a plaid fleece one that looked warm and cozy.

“If you don’t really like it, why do you go?”

As soon as she finished, Ding Ya let out an “Ah!”, as if finally realizing something. Delighted, she said, “Shu Chi, you called me cute? Really, really?”

She even got a little shy, her voice lowering slightly. “I’m already this old.”

Shu Chi nodded. “You’re younger than me.”

Ding Ya argued, “Not that much younger.”

Shu Chi said, “Still older than you.”

She realized that when she was with Ding Ya, she seemed prone to splitting hairs over things she normally wouldn’t care about at all.

Ding Ya puffed out her chest, her tone turning odd. “Not bigger than me.”

Just as they were turning, Shu Chi glanced at the right-side mirror and caught Ding Ya’s movement.

It was actually quite funny. Except Ding Ya had felt it after getting in the car—she’d unzipped her jacket a bit, and puffing out her chest just happened to reveal the edge of her low-cut sweater.

The whiteness nearly blinded Shu Chi.

Once the car straightened out, she asked, “Such a low neckline…”

“Aren’t you cold?”

Ding Ya shook her head, swaying. “Not cold.”

She even tugged it down a little more. “It’s fine. I have a scarf. But today’s sweater and the bra underneath are from your company’s new arrivals. I can give you an honest customer review.”

Ding Ya’s tone was completely serious. Shu Chi couldn’t even bring herself to look at her.

“Boss Shu, I suggest adding two more rows to the clasp. Otherwise, after a few steps, everything’s about to—fall out.”

A very sincere suggestion.

Shu Chi made an “Oh” sound. “That’s not my department.”

She’d long since stopped handling those things. Lingerie accessories were still under Jing Yuqi.

Shu Chi would rather branch out independently and start a food brand—like her dream of noodle bowls. Too bad the time wasn’t right yet.

Ding Ya said, “Same difference. It’s your company. You ought to know anyway.”

Shu Chi said, “Noted.”

Ding Ya persisted relentlessly. “Really noted?”

Shu Chi stared straight ahead, intensely focused, and gave an “Mm.”

Ding Ya asked another question. “So do you like people older than you or younger than you?”

Willow Garden was a bit far. As the car climbed the elevated highway, Shu Chi felt this question make her scalp prickle.

After a long pause, she finally said, “Don’t ask me questions like that.”

Ding Ya let out a surprised “Eh?”, then said, “I meant romantic partners.”

Her tone was completely innocent. “We’ve been chatting for so long. My online husband, as you know, is older than me. But you’ve never mentioned how old your online wife is.”

Had she never mentioned it?

Shu Chi said, “Younger than me.”

Ding Ya made an “Oh” sound. The tail end of that syllable definitely had more than two tildes.

Shu Chi couldn’t shake the feeling she was being teased. But she had no evidence.

To make it worse, Ding Ya muttered under her breath, “I asked so seriously. Why are you blushing when you answer?”

If she weren’t driving, Shu Chi really wanted to cover her mouth.

But Ding Ya poured fuel on the fire—

“But I just like people older than me. With a smaller chest than mine.”