Gong Zheng grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself, head spinning, and glared at Gong Shiwen with murder in his eyes, forcing the words through his teeth. “Use pheromones to pin me down again, and I will fucking kill you.”
He dragged himself up, wrenched the chair off the floor, and swung it at Gong Shiwen—only for the man to rise faster than thought and drive a kick into his stomach that sent him flying.
“Once is enough. Looking for a second round?” Gong Shiwen smiled, showing a mouthful of white teeth that somehow made it worse.
The kick rearranged Gong Zheng's organs. His face went white with pain, features contorting, and he curled around his stomach, retching dry.
Honestly—this altered body was no longer what it had been. There was a time he could have taken a kick like that without blinking and come right back up swinging. Now a single move left him too weak to rise.
Powerlessness washed over Gong Zheng all at once. Powerlessness against others. Against himself. Against fate itself.
No one knew what happened in the three days and nights after Gong Zheng cracked Gong Shiwen's head open. Neither man appeared in public again. Plenty assumed Gong Zheng was dead—nobody in this world dared lay hands on Gong Shiwen, and the boy had split his scalp open in front of everyone.
But on the fourth day, Gong Shiwen reappeared—alone. Everyone concluded the wild one had been dealt with. Then half a month of calm passed, and Gong Zheng surfaced in public again.
People who knew Gong Shiwen all noticed: from that fourth day on, for a solid half month, he never stayed out overnight. Home on the hour, every day. They teased him about keeping a hidden beauty at home; he only smiled and let it pass.
And when Gong Zheng appeared at Gong Shiwen's side as his lover, the whole underworld shook. The kid hadn't died—and now he stood openly, unmistakably, at Gong Shiwen's side.
Consider: Gong Shiwen had never once made a lover public, and never allowed one anywhere near his affairs. Gong Zheng was the exception—calling himself a lover, yes, but handed a share of real authority by Gong Shiwen himself.
What that meant, no one needed spelled out.
It looked like unlimited glory. In truth, Gong Shiwen had set him on the highest crest of the wave—chum in the water, bait for the big fish.
A man Gong Shiwen would acknowledge publicly—how beautiful must he be? Powerful outsiders came swarming at the rumor. Some even offered sums of money, trying to bribe Gong Shiwen into handing Gong Zheng over to entertain them.
A lover, after all—no proper wife of matched standing, nothing that could see daylight. When money talked, a lover was a chip, a plaything, to be pushed across the table at will.
That was exactly the effect Gong Shiwen wanted.
And to be fair, he played it beautifully. He got what he came for.
Back to the present.
Gong Zheng sprawled on the sofa with one leg crossed, pushing his still-damp hair back from his face. He had barely sat down before someone held a cigarette to his lips, and a second hand cupped the flame.
He glanced at the man idly, then let his gaze slide past Gong Si in the other chair and settle on Gong Shiwen, seated opposite in the leather executive chair.
“You've had Zhao Zhouming thoroughly bewitched these days.” Gong Shiwen's eyes made one slow circuit of the marks at Gong Zheng's neck.
His gaze dipped lower—he noted, without comment, that the man had rushed out without tidying himself up first.
Gong Zheng exhaled a mouthful of smoke. “The old pervert certainly didn't wear himself out going easy on me.” Then his tone shifted. “How did the talks go?”
Gong Shiwen knew he meant Zhao Zhouming's concession negotiation.
“He gave everything that could be given. Twenty-eight billion, all told. To keep you, the man has stopped fearing anything.” Gong Shiwen laughed.
Gong Zheng couldn't guess what Gong Shiwen felt as he said it. What was he supposed to think—that Zhao Zhouming had been so addled by beauty he would trade the empire for the man?
He had kept the man company for half a month. Two weeks. A dozen-odd days... How could it come to this? Was it worth it?
Gong Shiwen lifted his chin, signaling a bodyguard to see to cleaning Gong Zheng up.
The bodyguard nodded and was reaching into his jacket for a handkerchief when another hand stopped him. He looked up—and it was the young heir.
Gong Si gave a small nod. “I'll do it.” He drew out his own handkerchief, crossed to Gong Zheng, knelt down, and tidied him with careful, patient hands.
Gong Shiwen's eyes narrowed on Gong Si's back for two seconds—then slid away as if nothing had happened. At that point Gong Zheng spoke up. “Twenty-eight billion...”
He repeated it, thoughtful. “Still short of your number.”
“Smart, darling.” Gong Shiwen added, “But you never know a man's ceiling until you squeeze him, do we? We'll need to raise the stakes.”
What he needed was for Zhao Zhouming to come in as a “partner.” Partnership on paper; the real aim was to run the money through Zhao Zhouming. He would register a string of shell companies under his own name, and the funds would pass through Zhao's hands, layer after layer, book after book—each turn scrubbing away another trace of the source, until it all came out the other end as legitimate operating profit.
Put plainly: Zhao Zhouming was to be the scapegoat, carrying the risk on Gong Shiwen's behalf.
Zhao Zhouming knew perfectly well what he was doing. But he couldn't let go of Gong Zheng—and for that, he was willing to take the risk and serve.
In Gong Zheng's eyes, that was beyond stupid.
Gong Zheng gave a soft laugh, drew the miniature data cloner from his pocket, and tossed it to Gong Shiwen. “There. Now the scales finally tip your way.”