At home, life had settled into a warm, peaceful routine. At the Zhao Corporation, however, things were falling apart.
Zhao Quanjing had been convinced that once the broken wooden bridge incident was dealt with, he could turn his attention to the Pei and Jiang families. He would have time to plan, maneuver, reclaim lost ground. He was wrong. That collapse was only the opening act.
One problem followed another. A sightseeing boat broke down mid-journey, stranding a group of tourists at sea for nearly two hours before they could be brought back. Food-safety scandals erupted at several of their parks and hotels. Then the worst blow: a plot of land Zhao Group had bought to turn into a resort became the scene of a violent dispute. In their rush to get the site cleared, the company had used heavy-handed methods against a handful of reluctant fishermen. Some were injured.
They thought they had silenced the fishermen with payoffs and threats, but a few of them barged into a TV station with banners, threatening to expose Zhao Group’s abuses. The station loved a scoop. The story ran, and the company’s reputation took the hardest hit it had ever seen.
Zhao Quanjing steamed with anger and panic. The same playbook they'd used to crush the Pei family was being played back on them. He remembered how the Peis had been abandoned by the Yan Group over a reputation scandal; the bidding for Hope City was approaching fast. If the Yan family found out what had happened, Zhao Group might not even be allowed to bid.
He scrambled everyone he could — summoned lieutenants, called in favors, and even sent Fang Ruiyang to mop up the mess.
Fang, to Zhao’s surprise, proved competent in a way that made people sit up. The park under Fang’s charge was the first to be fixed. He soothed the tourists with the least cost and turned their grievances into praise: on the guestbook, visitors wrote they’d come back. Foot traffic didn’t decline; it rose.
Others weren’t as deft. Some staff handled customers with rude, arrogant attitudes; a few even came to blows with visitors, and videos of the scuffles leaked onto forums. The posts were quickly deleted, but the damage was done.
There was no choice. Zhao put Fang on all the hot spots. Fang, predictably, did not disappoint. He contained the fallout with minimal losses; within days the crises subsided.
Pleased, Zhao slapped Fang on the shoulder and said, “That’s my son — that’s how a Zhao handles things.” He transferred fifty thousand yuan to Fang on the spot as a bonus.
Fang took the money and turned right around — he spent every last yuan on a fifty-thousand-yuan fountain pen and gave it to Zhao. Zhao loved it, clipped it to his suit pocket and, when anyone asked, feigned disdain and pretended it was an embarrassing show of filial piety: “My son insisted I wear it — so tacky.”
Time rushed forward. At last the bidding meeting for Hope City arrived.
At 8:00 p.m., the main hall of the Haicheng International Hotel was packed. Delegations had come not only from Haicheng but from neighboring Rongcheng as well. When Zhao Quanjing arrived flanked by three burly aides, his presence cast a shadow across the room — for some, he looked like a serious contender; for others, like a man ready to make trouble.
He took his seat in the front row, placing his men on either side so a clear stretch of space opened around him. He flipped through his phone and waited.
At 8:15 p.m., a man cut through the crowd and sat down beside him. Zhao’s eyes narrowed. The newcomer gave him a casual nod.
“Uncle Zhao, didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.
It was Pei Mingyuan.
Zhao smiled. “Mingyuan, you came too. I heard your father was hospitalized. Is he out? Is he walking around yet?”
Mingyuan smiled back with practiced ease. “Thanks for asking, Uncle Zhao. He’s been discharged and is doing well — in fact, he played golf with some old friends just yesterday.”
Zhao’s smile deepened, his tone syrupy. “Is that so? Good to hear. Maybe I’ll invite him to a round sometime.”
If only Mingyuan knew — Pei Jun was still in the hospital.
As they traded small talk, whispers spread around the hall. Someone murmured, “Wasn’t the Pei Group kicked out by Yan? Why are they back? Not giving up, huh?”
“They had every right to this project,” another voice replied. “They only lost it because of an accident.”
“Yan Group looks for squeaky-clean partners — we all had to clean house before coming here,” someone else added.
Before anyone could speculate further, Jiang Han, CEO of the Jiang Group, strode in and took a seat on Zhao’s other side. The crowd’s excitement ratcheted up — the three local big players had assembled. People buzzed about the rare, combustible scene.
It wasn’t over yet.
At 8:29 p.m., the sound of high heels clicking against marble traveled from the rear of the hall. A tall, elegant woman in a deep-wine suit glided into view. Her hair curled softly over her shoulders; under the lights her features arrested the room. It was Xu Zixi, accompanied by Dai Sha.
Xu Zixi was the chief designer behind Hope City, and — the rumor went — Yan Yincheng’s fiancée. After leaving the Pei Group, Dai Sha had joined Xu Zixi as her personal secretary. They took the stage of seats in the front row like royalty.
The hall murmured louder. The three magnates all turned to look.
Xu Zixi and Pei Mingyuan exchanged a private look — a glance only they understood — then sat by the Pei delegation with serene smiles.
Zhao felt a cold lurch in his chest. Xu Zixi was supposed to be the project’s chief designer. He had assumed she would remain locked into the deal with Yan Yincheng. Why was she here, daring to enter the bidding?
Sensing the puzzled stares, Xu Zixi parted her lips and, with a calm grace, said, “If this is to be a fair competition, then I have every right to participate, don’t I?”