He Dongli tried to stop them, her face pale as paper, telling Zong Chi to leave it alone, that it was her own problem.
Zong Chi, stomach empty, had been scolded all morning by Zong’s Father, pestered by his mom’s overseas calls, chased up the mountain by his father’s secretary, and then chewed out by Lao Zhu.
Now, He Dongli wanted to push him away and tell him not to meddle?
He exploded, yelling at her, “He Dongli, you’re so good at arguing with me, but when it comes to outsiders, you go all weak? Don’t make me look down on you! You think I care about you? I just can’t stand people coming onto our turf!”
At the time, He Dongli was a year younger than them, and her only stubbornness was never to cry in front of others.
Zong Chi, with his bad temper, grabbed Xu Xize, not caring that he was a few grades older, demanding he clean the mat before he could leave.
Xu Xize cursed at Zong Chi, and before Zong Chi could react, Lin Jiaoyu was already brawling.
He Dongli had seen Zong Chi fight before, but now he had backup—at that hot-blooded age, their punches landed solidly.
When Zhu Fengchun arrived, it was almost chaos.
With the earlier accident in the neighboring class, all the homeroom teachers were already on high alert.
The two incidents happened almost simultaneously, and Zhu Fengchun—seeing the melee—was furious.
He stopped them immediately, making an example out of Zong Chi.
“Call your parents now. If they’re not here in an hour, expect a withdrawal notice from the school.”
That afternoon, He Dongli followed Lao Zhu and took the initiative to explain, taking all the blame herself, saying she’d argued with a student from the other class over personal matters, and that it had nothing to do with Zong Chi.
He was just standing up for her.
For the first time in her life, He Dongli wrote a self-reflection, but she refused to defend herself.
When Zong Chi found her, he asked what had happened, but she remained listless, offering no explanation or complaint, just saying that she’d already cleared his name with Lao Zhu.
Zong Chi didn’t want to hear that.
He just asked, “What happened? Where’s your usual tough, never-give-up attitude?”
He Dongli, cold and distant, simply drew a line, “It’s my own business.”
For a moment, Zong Chi’s face turned red, like when he practiced shooting at the range—he’d always thought his aim was good, but hadn’t expected the real recoil, nearly dropping the gun.
Or like when Zong Jingzhou taught him cards during the New Year—he thought he was sure to win, but Zong Jingzhou cheated, he cheated, and lost big.
The most embarrassing part was, Zong Chi didn’t remember the cards, and even when his opponent cheated, he didn’t notice.
He threw down his cards, refusing to play anymore.
But Zong Jingzhou insisted on teaching his son how treacherous the world was: if you only play cards for the game, you might as well go home and play with cats and dogs.
Sitting down to play is just a pretense—what matters is the people.
If you want to win, you have to watch both your hand and the whole table.
Never just focus on yourself, or you won’t even know how you lost.
In that moment, Zong Chi felt a flash of insight, like looking in a mirror and seeing He Dongli.
He despised people who only cared about themselves—“Your own business, huh? Then go deal with it yourself.”
After a pause, he continued sarcastically, “Anyway, I’m leaving soon. I only came to the Affiliated School to relax. Who wants to get involved in your drama?”
He Dongli, a few steps down the stairs, turned back, looked up at him, her expression clear and youthful, a trace of envy she couldn’t hide.
She finally said “Mm,” tightened her grip on her bag, and clattered down the stairs.
After that, until they graduated from the Affiliated School, they never spoke again.
Zong Chi’s brief reminiscence ended as quickly as it came, like a boomerang landing a glancing blow on an old classmate—painful but fleeting.
Looking at her face, sitting across from him again, he felt his anger fade away.
So he tried to gloss things over.
He was good at this—if something unpleasant or awkward happened, once it passed, it passed.
If he came to talk to you, that was his biggest concession.
Right now, he saw He Dongli choked up by his words, silent.
Leaning back in his chair, Zong Chi suddenly straightened and changed the subject, “Have you eaten? It’s so late.”
He Dongli still ignored him.
Zong Chi circled back, as if turning the page, “So, how did you see through my fake signature on my dad’s behalf back then?”
He Dongli was even thinner than when they parted.
The watch on her left wrist was deliberately worn loose.
She spun it easily, checked the time, then glanced up at him, correcting him, “I told you before.”
“I forgot.”
He Dongli seemed lost for a moment, then replied with a faint, mocking tone, “Because with your personality, you’d never let something your dad signed sit in your backpack for a whole day.”
Zong Chi acted as if he really couldn’t remember, but clearly his sense of humor hadn’t improved—he started laughing coldly before she finished.
He Dongli didn’t mind mocking him again, “Also, your dad’s taste is better than yours. His ink is always lighter than yours when he signs, and his strokes are more elegant.”
“What, are you in school or in a spy agency, analyzing old men’s handwriting? He’s not Wang Xizhi, you know.”
“Mm. If he were, I wouldn’t have returned your ‘original’ so easily.”
“What do you mean?”
He Dongli stood up across from him, saying nothing more, “It’s too late. I should go.”
Zong Chi was silent for a second before catching her meaning.
He’d come down in a rush and hadn’t brought his phone, so he gestured to a waiter to contact Mr. Chen on the top floor. “I’ll have a car take you home.”
“No need, I’ll just get a taxi.”
He Dongli took her coat from the waiter, fingers tugging the sleeve of her sweatshirt as she put it on.
Zong Chi, as if remembering something, passed on a message, “Lin Jiaoyu wanted me to say hi to you. He blames you for deleting him.”
He Dongli replied, “Mm.”
Back in school, she and Lin Jiaoyu never had any real conflict—if anything, he’d always stood up for her.
“Say hi to him for me, too. It really is my fault. Tell him, if I see him again, I’ll add him back myself.”
As she spoke, she pulled on her coat.
Her look today was casual and relaxed, her low ponytail tucked inside.
She reached up to pull it out.
Zong Chi watched, memories surfacing even against his will—her similar gestures and silhouette from before.
When he returned to the country to see her, when she was busy, when their schedules didn’t match, He Dongli was always coming and going in a hurry.
He’d once blamed her for that, thinking, “It’s always guys who pull up their pants and pretend nothing happened—don’t be better at it than me, okay? He Dongli, your hair loves me more than you do.”
He Dongli finished dressing, looked up at the seated Zong Chi, ready to say some parting words, but Zong Chi looked up at her calmly, saying, “Wait a bit. Chen Xiangyang’s car is almost here.”
“I can go by myself…”
“I’ll take you.”
Zong Chi still sat there, unhurried.
Back in university, when he played cards with Lin Jiaoyu and the others, he’d raise the stakes bit by bit, not caring about winning or losing—messing with your mindset was his real fun.
“I’m already off the table anyway. If you’re not happy with Chen Xiangyang’s car coming just for you, then let me do it. No need to be so distant, okay?”
He Dongli stood in place, silent for a moment.
Before long, Chen Xiangyang’s driver arrived.
Zong Chi asked for the car keys, intending to drive himself.
The driver leaned in and said something to him, but Zong Chi just nodded indifferently, then called for He Dongli to come out.
The two of them headed for the hotel lobby.
In the fragrant, brightly-lit hall, the waiter who had contacted Chen Xiangyang for Zong Chi now brought over a heavy-looking kraft paper bag, addressing him as “Mr. Zong” and explaining that it was from a friend for “Miss He.”
Zong Chi nodded to indicate the recipient.
He Dongli stepped forward and saw that inside the bag was a pot of blooming Eighteen Scholars.
It was from Liang Jianxing.
He Dongli froze but didn’t accept it directly.
Instead, Zong Chi smoothly took it for her when the driver offered to help.
Though the kraft paper bag was sturdy, the waiter still reminded him softly, “Mr. Zong, please support the bottom.”
He Dongli watched from the sidelines.
Not far away, the revolving door spun like a giant tourbillon, swirling crowds in and out.
From those gears, she emerged along with a drifting soul—so different from her current outsider’s pose, the world spinning in reverse.
Zong Chi, in the past, couldn’t stand even a shadow of someone else near him.
In a fit of anger, he’d snatched He Dongli’s phone and smashed it to pieces in front of her.
“He Dongli, what do you take me for? And who do you think you are? You’d better get this straight— I like you, that’s why I think everything about you is good. It’s not that you’re so great that I like you. If I stop liking you, you’re nothing.”
Zong Chi really did take the waiter’s advice, lifting the kraft bag higher and supporting the bottom with one hand.
He looked at the person beside him.
He Dongli thanked him coolly and walked ahead.
The disappointment in her eyes flashed by—disappointment so overdone it became dull, as if some memories could never anchor themselves in place at the same time: He’d forgotten that he’d ever asked her how she’d seen through his forged signature.
Forgetting was only natural. Jiang Xingyuan often hosted drinking parties.
He Dongli rarely had time to attend, and even if she did, she’d be called back to the hospital after a short while.
But she loved listening to her girlfriends gossip—women at thirty loved their “toxic bibles,” and if everyone agreed on a rule, you had to take it to heart.
Rule number one: Never believe a man’s words in bed.
When lust clouds a man’s mind, he’ll even bark like a dog if you ask him to.
But once he’s pulled up his pants and left the bed, try asking again—he’ll either say he’s forgotten or can’t remember at all.