Jiang Jingchen · Conversa

The crystal chandeliers flooded the entire banquet hall with light as bright as day. The champagne tower refracted delicate specks of light that scattered across the shimmering crowd of gowns and perfume. A string quartet flowed from the corner, elegant and restrained, just like the city's night. Jiang Jingchen stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, fingers rotating a barely touched glass of champagne. His black suit was tailored to perfection, and the sapphire on his tie clip gleamed with a cold light. Expressionless, he listened to his father's speech on the stage behind him, the voice carrying through the sound system across the room — content along the lines of "thank you all" and "looking to the future." He could recite it in his sleep. "Hiding out here? The whole room's looking for His Highness the heir." Lin Yu sauntered over with two glasses of whisky, suit jacket draped loosely over his arm and tie half loosened, all in a devil-may-care manner. He glanced at the champagne glass in Jiang Jingchen's hand and clicked his tongue in disdain. "You're drinking this? Even a three-year-old would complain it's tasteless." Jiang Jingchen didn't take his drink. Didn't answer him either. Lin Yu didn't take offense. He casually stood beside him, swept his gaze across the hall, then suddenly lowered his voice: "Hey, that red dress Song Zhiyi's wearing today is nice. Is your mom—" He stopped mid-sentence at the thin layer of frost in Jiang Jingchen's eyes and wisely swallowed the rest, switching topics. "Alright, alright, not talking about that. Where's your little brother? How come I haven't seen him tonight?" "In Switzerland." Jiang Jingchen finally spoke, his voice flat. "He said he didn't want to attend this 'hypocritical adult game.'" Lin Yu laughed. "Your brother's got more sense than you. Lives with his eyes open. Everyone in your family can act, but he's the one who flips the table and walks away." Jiang Jingchen turned and looked at him. There was no emotion in that look, but Lin Yu automatically swallowed the rest of his teasing and raised his glass in a gesture of surrender. Just then, Shen Qingye squeezed through the crowd, still holding a half-eaten tiramisu. He saw the champagne in front of Jiang Jingchen and froze for a second. "President Jiang, you're not drinking?" In his three years at the company, he'd never once seen Jiang Jingchen touch hard liquor at any business function — always one glass of champagne, held to the very end. "Allergy," Jiang Jingchen said. Lin Yu snorted beside him and got pinned by a cold glare from Jiang Jingchen. Shen Qingye didn't notice the undercurrent between the two. He scratched his head. "Oh, right, President Jiang, the tech department said to tell you I sent the data system upgrade proposal to your email. If you're free—" "No business talk today." Jiang Jingchen cut him off. Rarely, he raised his hand to glance at his watch, as if checking the time, or perhaps just finding something to do with his hands to hide his impatience. "Go enjoy yourself." Shen Qingye said "Oh," and tactfully retreated with his tiramisu. Once he was far enough away, Lin Yu leaned in and asked in a voice only the two of them could hear: "So that 'allergy' of yours — are you only allergic to whisky, or allergic to that game of not drinking you started after someone left?" Jiang Jingchen didn't answer. His gaze passed through the crowd and landed on some empty point in the distance, as if his mind had suddenly wandered. Lin Yu followed his gaze and only saw guests still filing in at the entrance of the banquet hall. "What are you looking at?" he asked. "Nothing." Jiang Jingchen withdrew his gaze, set the champagne glass on the windowsill, and turned to walk toward the center of the hall. "Time to go play host." Lin Yu watched his tall but slightly stiff back, swirled the glass in his hand, and muttered to himself: "Keep lying to yourself, then." His mind drifted back to the past. That afternoon three years ago had been just this bright. Plane tree leaves had fallen in a blanket of gold, and the afternoon sunlight leaked through the branches, scattering over them like fine gold dust. The girl struggled in his arms, her ears burning red, her face buried in the crook of his shoulder, afraid to look up. Jiang Jingchen carried her onward with an expressionless face, his steps steady beyond belief, arms tightening to pin down all her fussing and squirming. Passing students whistled. Girls covered their mouths and giggled. Someone was filming with a phone. He didn't see any of it. "Put me down! Jiang Jingchen! There are so many people—!" "Don't move." He lowered his head, his lips brushing over the top of her hair, his voice pressed low, carrying an impatient sort of tenderness. "If you fall, it's on me." "Can you— just walk normally..." "No." "Why not!" He was silent for two seconds. The very tips of his ears flushed red, barely visible. "Because you said yesterday your feet were sore." "That was yesterday! They're not sore today!" "The look on your face when you said they were sore told me you wanted me to remember." "...Do you ever listen to reason!" He stopped walking and looked down at her, those peach-blossom eyes suddenly far too focused, as if they could pull her in. "No," he said. "What reason does a man need for carrying his own girlfriend?" The crisp clink of glasses yanked Jiang Jingchen back from his memories. He was now among the group's board directors, handling the pleasantries with poise. They were praising him for being young and accomplished, and he gave slight nods, saying "You flatter me" — every word precise, polite, watertight. But the corner of his eye kept straying to the entrance of the banquet hall. He didn't know what he was expecting. Three years. He should have been used to it by now. That person had vanished from his world without a trace — no goodbye, no explanation, no reason. Like a script that had been ripped away halfway through, not even granting an ending. "Young Master Jiang, let me toast you." A woman in a silver gown sidled over, eyes shimmering, her hand nearly touching his forearm. He took half a step back, the movement as natural as if he were merely adjusting his stance. "Sorry, I don't drink." The woman withdrew her hand awkwardly and left with a forced smile. Not far away, Lin Yu had watched the whole scene from where he leaned against a pillar. He raised his glass in a silent toast and mouthed three words. Jiang Jingchen read them: You're sick. He didn't argue. He was sick. A man who'd been dumped three years ago and still couldn't let the hell go — what else would you call that? He wanted to turn and walk away, go out to the balcony for some air, clear out all those damned plane leaves and sunlight and "put me down" voices from his head. But the moment he lifted his foot— The door at the entrance of the banquet hall was pushed open. A very light wind rushed in through the doorway, carrying the dampness of Lancheng's June night and the fragrance of magnolia blossoms. Jiang Jingchen's steps came to a halt. He saw you. You stood at the door, in a plain-colored dress, holding a medium-sized bag, your hair a little longer than it had been three years ago. Your gaze swept across the hall — as if you'd rushed straight here from the airport, a trace of travel-worn bewilderment still on your face. Then you saw him. Across half a banquet hall, across three years of silence, across the dazzling glare of more than three hundred chandeliers — your gazes collided. Jiang Jingchen's fingers curled slightly. Somewhere in his mind, he heard a crash as something collapsed. Lin Yu followed his gaze and nearly fumbled his glass. He cursed under his breath: "...Holy shit." Beside him, Shen Qingye was confused. "What's wrong, Brother Lin?" "Nothing." Lin Yu swallowed a mouthful of whisky and took a deep breath. "It's just... someone might need a funeral tonight." Jiang Jingchen stood frozen in place. There was no expression on his face, like a statue caught in ice. But only he knew what was flooding through his mind at this moment— "You said your feet were sore." "What reason does a man need for carrying his own girlfriend?" "Put me down, Jiang Jingchen—" He took a deep breath and crushed those voices down hard. His throat moved. Amid the champagne, the music, and the uproar of the room, his voice came out low and hoarse, almost inaudible: "...Why are you here." Those three words carried a faint tremble at their tail that he himself didn't notice. And his first thought was still — she's lost weight.