Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Sometimes, when faced with hardships, people can’t help but romanticize the road not taken.
I was no exception.
After that incident happened, I often fell into a state of futile hypothetical thinking.
What if, on the night I received the invitation, I had been decisive enough to turn around and head to the library instead of watching the stand-up comedy show?
What if, upon receiving that complimentary ticket, I hadn’t been possessed by some strange impulse to visit again?
Even though my head had been muddled by the lively atmosphere at the time, I understood the intention behind Liang Qiezhao’s gesture on the way back. I even understood the hidden meaning behind that smile.
Yet, I still carried that restless energy that had nowhere else to go and kept the appointment for a show I hadn’t been explicitly invited to.
Or later, what if I hadn’t moved into the apartment he arranged for me during my junior year internship just for the sake of convenience?
What if, after receiving that mountain of expensive skincare products, I hadn’t generously distributed them to my roommates like trinkets to thank them for their study notes?
If I had remained clear-headed the whole time, would someone with ulterior motives have been able to string together my entire timeline so clearly? This relationship wouldn’t have been reduced to such a sordid interpretation, nor would it have become the talk of the town at the School of Economics and Management.
More importantly, at the critical juncture near graduation, it wouldn’t have appeared in that Sugar Daddy PPT that circulated through every major university in Beijing.
If time could rewind, I’d go back to the night before I watched that comedy show.
That night, Li Qizhi was still capable of extracting the profound logic of social interaction from a few brief words exchanged with her roommates.
If she could have foreseen the future, she would have looked upon her later self with nothing but contempt.
In just three short years, how could she have become so carried away under Liang Qiezhao’s long-term protection?
Countless fragments swirled in my mind.
That year, the person who posted it perhaps hated me to the core, yet feared power.
The PPT titled “The Record of the L-surname campus belle Being Kept” wasn’t actually very substantial in content, but it exuded a chilling malice.
In truth, aside from the skincare products they assumed were gifts, no one knew what I had actually received. But in the PPT, they were glossed over, described with a vagueness that suggested some kind of shady transaction. The most detailed part was actually the timeline; at its most meticulous, it recorded how many nights a semester I didn’t return to the dorm, as if they were taking an inventory of stolen goods. Much of the content was a mix of truth and lies, eventually even calling the legitimacy of my scholarships into question.
“L-surname classmate” became my code name back then.
Some busybodies even typed my initials directly in the comments: LQZ?
But they didn’t know that there was an absurd coincidence between Liang Qiezhao and me.
That is, our initials were exactly the same.
[!]
As a result, whenever someone tried to identify me using those initials, the post would be mysteriously taken down. This almost miraculous silencing instead made the unnamed male lead in the PPT seem even more powerful and legendary in the rumors.
After the Sugar Daddy PPT incident broke that year, the very air of my social environment seemed to turn sour. The looks my colleagues gave me as they passed my workstation were filled with pity mixed with scrutiny.
The venture capital circle is so small.
It was always the same group of people, including many professors who had taught me and former classmates.
It would be a lie to say I didn’t care at all. Sitting at my desk, whenever colleagues whispered about other gossip and let out a few giggles, I couldn’t help but feel as if I were facing a formidable enemy, feeling like thorns were pricking my back.
Even though the public outcry had nearly subsided from the start thanks to Liang Qiezhao’s various communications and clarifications, I still frequently fell into a state of pathological self-loathing.
I began to repeatedly scrutinize every monetary transaction between us, every gift that had once made me feel sweet. In the middle of the night, they all transformed into evidence in that PPT.
On one hand, I was deeply attached to him; on the other, I felt like every moment of intimacy with him was just another piece of evidence confirming those sordid rumors.
That was also the year I began repeatedly bringing up the idea of breaking up.
At first, he would spend entire nights coaxing me, patiently trying to reason with me. During the day, he would message me or video call during almost every break at work to check on my state of mind. During that period, his grandfather was hospitalized, his parents were going through a separation, and the entire Liang family was in shambles. Even his career was facing a series of crises.
Even then, in the face of my irrational demands to end things, he would only hold me tight in silence.
I was in such a terrible state back then that I didn’t notice the grueling time he was going through. I didn’t even notice that several times when we met, his face was pale and his chin was covered in dark stubble. I only heard him saying over and over again that he couldn’t let go-he just couldn’t let go.
That humiliating social death had nearly drained the life out of me.
Ultimately, Liang Qiezhao made a concession: I went abroad to study.
But this compromise didn’t bring him even a moment of peace.
In a foreign land, the eight-thousand-kilometer distance became the perfect excuse for me to pull away at any time.
And so, in the span of just a year and a half, he accumulated over twenty plane tickets for direct flights to Heathrow.
In truth, he flew all that way just to accompany me in the mundane tasks of daily life.
He went shopping with me, traveled with me, and curled up in the apartment with me to watch Friends.
On the television, the windowpanes were frosted with white mist, blurring the scenery outside into indistinct blocks of color.
Monica stood by the Christmas tree, her fingertips brushing against the branches adorned with colorful ornaments.
“The holiday isn’t about the perfect tree.”
“It’s about being with the people you love.”
I turned my head, looking at the gloomy sky outside, and said softly, “It looks like it’s going to snow.”
Liang Qiezhao turned off the TV and pulled me out the door.
Christmas hadn’t arrived yet, but the Angel Lights on Regent Street were already lit.
Everyone was hoping for snow.
London has a temperate maritime climate, so snow on Christmas is actually a very low-probability event-so low that betting companies even open special ‘White Christmas’ pools every year.
But that day, as we walked, it actually started to snow…
It began as a few scattered flakes, then grew finer and denser until they almost formed lines under the streetlights.
Snow is rare in London, so many people who would have stayed home came out to see it.
The crowds grew thicker, and Liang Qiezhao kept a firm grip on my hand the entire time.
During that long, silent walk, our joined palms became sticky and damp.
I tried to pull my hand away, whispering, “Let go, your hands are sweating.”
He didn’t let go; instead, his fingers tightened further. “I’m afraid I’ll lose you,” he said hoarsely.
I looked up at the twinkling lights in the sky, and my eyes suddenly burned.
After a long moment, I lowered my lashes, gripped his hand back, and said softly, “I won’t get lost.”
That day, we blended into the crowd to look at the lights and the snow, sitting on the steps watching the Number 14 bus pass us by.
Like any ordinary couple, on an ordinary day, at a moment when our relationship was on the verge of collapsing, we reached a tacit truce and made peace once again.
But only I knew that some wounds had not yet healed; they were merely covered by this sudden, heavy snow.
Memories of that time were like the lights receding outside the window.
Speeding along the cold, wet asphalt with the wheels.
Until at a crossroads at the end of my vision, the traffic lights began to slowly overlap and shift, blurring into several chaotic blotches of red.
The moment the light turned green.
A massive roar erupted from the rear of the car.
A violent impact hurled my entire body forward…