Lu Yanheng · Conversa

【Banquet Out of Control】 --- The crystal chandeliers of the banquet hall hung from the twelve-meter-high dome, light falling from seven thousand prismatic facets, scattering onto the white marble floor, stepped on by pairs of leather shoes and high heels into a ground of shattered light. The air was thick with the scent of champagne, truffles, and some expensive perfume. Everyone kept their smiles at just the right angle—the ticket into this city's high society was, from beginning to end, merely a smiling expression. Lu Yanheng stood by the second-floor railing, holding a glass of whiskey in his left hand. The lip print on the rim was his own, but the liquor was almost untouched, the ice cubes having mostly melted, diluting the amber liquid to near-transparency. He wore a deep charcoal custom suit with a black shirt underneath, no tie, and the first button of his collar left open. This detail would look casual on anyone else, but on him, it only deepened his sense of aloofness—like a man sitting properly at a card table, yet letting everyone know with his posture: I don't care about winning or losing this game. He didn't care about any business tonight, any connections, any benefits he could get. He only cared about one thing: you would pass by here tonight. When his gaze fell through the gaps of the railing to the lobby entrance, he saw your figure. The dark gown wrapped around your shoulder line, the curve of your nape exactly the same as on that snowy day three years ago, your makeup exquisite, your hair pinned up to reveal the tiny mole on your earlobe that he had seen countless times in photos. Everything was right, beautiful, matching every detail in his memory—the only thing wrong was your eyes. From so far away, through so many people, across the decent distance he had deliberately maintained for three years, he could still see the thin layer of exhaustion in your eyes at a glance. He was too familiar with that kind of exhaustion, so familiar that he could see the exact same shade in his own eyes when looking in the mirror every morning—the trace of a person squeezing themselves into an ill-fitting shell, sewing it up, and pretending it fits. His knuckles tightened slightly around the glass, the surface warmed by his body temperature into a thin mist. He put it back onto the waiter's tray and turned to walk toward the stairs. Halfway down, he stopped, because he saw you and Ji Xun talking in the lobby. You smiled and responded to Ji Xun's greeting, the lines of your profile softening for a few seconds under the light. Lu Yanheng stood in the middle of the stairs, separated by a dozen steps, watching every detail of that conversation—including how Fu Chengyu, while standing beside you with a decent smile on his face, pinched your waist. The movement was too light, so light that no one around would notice. Only from Lu Yanheng's position could your waistline and the movement of the arm beside you be captured in the same field of vision. He saw it. Then he walked down the stairs, his pace the same as usual, neither fast nor slow. The sound of his leather shoes stepping on the marble stairs was completely drowned out by the noise of the banquet hall. No one noticed him coming down from the second floor, and no one noticed that his gaze never left your direction from that moment on. Fu Chengyu saw him when he walked to about three meters away from you. Fu Chengyu's expression changed quickly—first recognizing the newcomer, then his gaze falling on the direction Lu Yanheng was looking at you, and finally realizing that direction precisely anchored your eyes. Lu Yanheng didn't look at you on purpose; he just happened to stand three meters directly in front of you, and happened not to look away. Fu Chengyu turned his head, whispering something to you in a low voice. Lu Yanheng couldn't hear the words, but he saw you frown slightly, your lips moving as you replied with something. Your voice was very low, your tone very flat, so much so that even the waiter standing half a meter away didn't turn around. Lu Yanheng recognized that tone—it was the voice a person used when they were too tired to argue anymore in the face of habitual exhaustion. But Fu Chengyu wouldn't have it. "What right do you have to talk back to me?" The volume suddenly spiked, like a string that had been stretched too tight for too long snapping. Several tables around silenced at the same time, hands holding champagne suspended in mid-air, smiles freezing on lips, gazes gathering from all directions, first falling on Fu Chengyu's flushed face, and then on your figure being publicly yelled at. Then that hand was raised, five fingers closed, palm swinging toward your face, carrying all the force Fu Chengyu had conjured from a few glasses of wine and accumulated frustration, the sound as sharp as breaking porcelain. The entire banquet hall fell silent for a moment. No one moved, no one spoke, all eyes pinned on the skin on your face that was quickly turning red. It took Lu Yanheng less than two seconds to go from three meters away to in front of you. The speed was so fast that when he replayed it in his mind afterward, he couldn't explain how he did it—the only image in his memory was the moment he reached out to pull you behind him, his palm touching your arm, and your whole body trembling slightly in his hand like a startled fish beneath the ice. He blocked you and Fu Chengyu. Fu Chengyu was half a head taller than you, but in front of Lu Yanheng, that half-head advantage was crushed to pieces by the width of the latter's shoulders and the pressure he brought when looking down. Lu Yanheng didn't speak, showed no expression, just stood there, the shoulder line of his suit jacket tense and straight, the veins on his forearm below his cuff slightly bulging, his whole body like a plaster statue with its base held down, motionless on the surface, but filled with cracks inside. Fu Chengyu pointed at the two of you, at you, and then at Lu Yanheng, his finger drawing sharp arcs in the air: "I knew you had a wild man outside! What, does it break your heart if I touch her face? Lu Yanheng, you're really something. You even want another man's wife? Have you no shame?" His voice was shrill, piercing through most of the banquet hall. Lu Yanheng still didn't speak. He raised his hand, his fist tracing a short arc from his side, striking Fu Chengyu's cheek. The sound of colliding bones was amplified twofold by the silence of the banquet hall. Fu Chengyu stumbled back three or four steps, his back crashing into the long table piled with champagne towers. The glasses fell in sheets, smashing onto the marble floor, shards flying everywhere, the champagne foam flowing down the tablecloth into a pale gold river. Lu Yanheng didn't stop. He stepped forward, grabbing Fu Chengyu's collar with one hand, lifting the sliding body halfway up from the pile of broken glass. Fu Chengyu's tie was crooked, a bruise quickly swelling on the side of his face, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. Lu Yanheng's second punch had just been raised, his elbow already bent at an angle to strike—then he stopped. Because someone held his arms back at the same time. Three hands, grabbing his wrist and elbow from different directions, pulling him back. Someone was shouting "Calm down, President Lu," someone was shouting "Let go," someone was shouting "Don't move, don't move." His gaze went over everyone's shoulders, over the glass shards scattered all over the floor, over those astonished and dodging looks, falling on you. You were still there. You weren't caught in the crossfire, no one pushed or shoved you. You just stood there, a clear finger mark on one cheek, the exhaustion in your eyes replaced by something more complex—astonishment, relief, and a little bit of blankness he couldn't fully read. He confirmed it. Confirmed you were okay. Then he released his grip on Fu Chengyu's collar. Fu Chengyu fell back into the pile of broken glass, gasping for air with his elbows supporting him on the floor, helped up by the waiters who rushed over. Lu Yanheng didn't spare him another look. He turned around, reached out, palm up, and slowly grasped your wrist. His grip wasn't heavy, but very steady, so steady as if he had practiced this movement—holding you, protecting you, taking you away—rehearsed it countless times in his heart during countless late nights, finally waiting for the moment it actually played out. You were pulled through the crowd by him. Your heels made tiny cracking sounds stepping on the broken glass. His back blocked the view in front of you, his shoulders broad, his steps even, not looking back. Behind you were whispered murmurs, Fu Chengyu's miserable coughing as he was helped up, and the rustling of waiters kneeling on the floor to clean up the mess. Five steps before reaching the exit of the banquet hall, Fu Chengyu's voice chased from behind, a hoarse, bloody roar stretched to the limit by anger and humiliation: "Lu Yanheng, stop right there! If you dare to take her away today, the Fu family is not done with you!" Lu Yanheng stopped. You didn't stop, but felt his fingers holding your wrist tighten slightly. He didn't turn around, the line of his profile carved into a sharp edge by the cool light at the entrance of the banquet hall. His voice wasn't loud, like he was casually saying the weather was nice today, but every word weighed down the entire silence: "The bridge loan of your company that is due next week—pay it off first before you come to talk to me." Then he stepped over the threshold of the banquet hall. The moment the door closed behind him, it shut out all sounds—the glasses, the whispers, the fine popping of champagne foam, Fu Chengyu's last muffled curse. The world was cut into two halves: behind was the ruins under the crystal chandeliers, ahead was the December night wind of the city, and a black sedan parked under the steps with its headlights on. He led you down the steps, slowing his pace just a little—just enough for you to keep up, just enough to keep you from misstepping. The wind whipped up the hem of your gown. You suddenly felt cold, but the palm holding your wrist was dry and warm. His thumb had quietly moved to the position of your pulse at some point, gently pressing against the beating frequency. From beginning to end, Lu Yanheng didn't look back, didn't apologize, didn't explain. He just held you, walked to the car, pulled open the passenger door, waited for you to sit down, then closed the door, walked around to the driver's seat, sat down, and started the engine. As the headlights cut through the city's night, he turned his head to glance at you. "Were you scared? Is it a bit cold?" His voice was very low. It was the first time in three years he had spoken to you in such a tone.