Chapter 268: The “Repair” Business
Meeting Wang Haoran’s gaze, Song Zhenyu could feel her heart pounding faster and faster. Her cheeks grew warm, the flush creeping up her neck. In the end, unable to bear that calm yet unmistakably predatory stare, she lowered her eyes in shy surrender.
To hide the nervous flutter in her chest, she straightened her back and drew on her old authority as his former homeroom teacher. “You’re not even twenty yet, still in school, and you’re talking about giving me a home? Aren’t you ashamed? Stop saying nonsense—if you keep it up, I’ll knock you on the head.”
Haoran’s expression softened. The assertive gleam in his eyes faded into a gentle calm. “Sister Zhenyu,” he said quietly, “what I meant was—we were teacher and student before, but now we’re friends.”
“If you’d like, you can think of me as family. Not just me—Xu Muyan, Wen Jing, all of us—we’re your family too.”
Her breath hitched. Somehow, that hurt more than it should have. The faint glow in her heart dimmed into a hollow ache. Lifting a stone only to drop it on your own foot, she thought wryly. She’d done exactly that.
But she couldn’t show it. Forcing a casual smile, she said teasingly, “So that’s what you meant. That’s better. But don’t get any ideas—I’m not interested in younger men.”
Haoran smiled easily. “Don’t worry, Sister Zhenyu. I respect you. I don’t have that kind of thought about you.”
Her lips twitched; her face stiffened for half a second. She wanted to say something—anything—but in the end, she just let it go.
Haoran acted as though he hadn’t noticed her reaction. “Come on, eat before it gets cold.”
“Yes, right, eat,” she muttered, ducking her head to stab at her steak. Inside, she wanted to slap herself. Always playing coy. And look at you now—digging your own grave. Annoyed, she vented her frustration on her food, chewing too quickly. But then, a hand reached across the table. Haoran picked up a napkin and gently wiped the bit of sauce from the corner of her lips, his fingers brushing her skin as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Her eyes—dark and bright as polished onyx—snapped up to meet his. Her teacher’s instincts stirred again, and her thoughts scolded him silently: Two-faced man! You just said you respected me, and now you’re doing this? Isn’t this something only couples do?
Yet when the words reached her throat, she swallowed them. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
Instead, she smiled lightly, pretending calm, and returned to her meal. And as she ate, a mischievous impulse made her “accidentally” smear a bit of oil near her mouth.
Right on cue, his hand moved again, napkin in hand, wiping it away as naturally as before.
Her heart fluttered with a secret delight, though her face remained composed.
Neither spoke. Their silence felt warm, threaded with unspoken understanding.
Haoran, of course, wasn’t as oblivious as he seemed. He simply chose restraint. Zhenyu was close with Xu Muyan and Wen Jing—if their relationship became obvious, he’d have a whole new mess to smooth over.
The last time he had to mediate between Xu Muyan and Qin Yunhan, he’d nearly exhausted himself performing a melodrama fit for television—jumping into rivers, spouting lines straight out of romance novels. Once was more than enough.
No, better to avoid that sort of trouble entirely. And besides, he found there was a certain thrill in secrecy—the kind of quiet, mutual understanding that needed no words, like what he shared now with Song Zhenyu.
Dinner passed in that soft, unspoken sweetness, and by the end, much of the heaviness she’d felt from cutting ties with her family had melted away.
Afterward, Haoran escorted her back to her teacher’s quarters in the Qingling campus, then drove toward his villa outside the school grounds.
On the way, he opened his contacts list and scrolled down to a familiar, long-unused number.
Zuoqiu Chenyu.
It had been almost three months since he last reached out to her. Every time she needed an antidote, he’d have one of her subordinates collect it. She, in turn, hadn’t contacted him once.
He had a good idea why. She’d lost a bet and still owed him a favor—a promise he hadn’t yet called in.
Not that he’d forgotten; he simply hadn’t bothered.
After all, the two male leads connected to her—Xiao Yifeng and Yan Guishan—were already out of the picture. Without them, there wasn’t much point in chasing her storyline. Zuoqiu Chenyu was the archetypal “Queen” female lead—beautiful, dangerous, hard to win over. Her Favorability stood at a meager 30.
And when there was no protagonist tied to her, she was no longer strategically important.
Yes, she was stunning, her allure hard to deny—but the others were equally captivating. Qin Yunhan, Qiu Qianwei, Yang Jingwan—all of them adored him, and life with them was blissfully uncomplicated.
Why go looking for trouble when comfort was right in front of him?
Still, tonight, there was a reason to call her.
Tan Zhen and Song Feiyu still needed a bit of education.
Haoran had no intention of dirtying his own hands. He preferred to let someone else handle it.
He had two forces at his disposal: the Poison Sect, and Zuoqiu Chenyu’s underworld network. The Poison Sect specialized in dealing with protagonists—sending them after those two would be overkill.
This job, though—this was exactly the sort of thing Chenyu’s people excelled at.
He dialed her number. The line connected after a few rings.
“I need a few repairmen,” he said without preamble.
A brief pause. Then her low, sultry voice flowed through the speaker, dripping with amusement. “Repair what? A car?”
“People.”
“How many?” she asked lazily. “And any particular requirements?”
“Two. One middle-aged woman, one young man in his twenties. Don’t kill them—anything short of that’s fine. Consider it a free project.”
Truth be told, Haoran would’ve preferred to have them rebuilt from scratch, but Zhenyu’s kindness held him back. If she ever heard they’d died, it might still wound her.
Chenyu chuckled. “No problem.”
“That’s all,” he said, and hung up.
For a moment, she stared at her phone in mild surprise, listening to the empty click of the line disconnecting. She had half-expected him to demand his wagered favor at last. Turns out she overthought it.
Her phone buzzed. Two new files appeared on her screen—Haoran had sent the targets’ details.
She sighed, tucking her thoughts away, then began issuing orders to her crew.
Though she’d “gone straight” on paper, life wasn’t kind enough to let her turn fully clean. Her subordinates still took side jobs when the money was right—nothing excessive, just profitable.
And among their many services, repair work was a specialty.
After all, her subordinates were professionals—efficient, precise, and most importantly, they never left a trace.