Xie Qian, that young man, was someone Jiang Xuekun adored, wishing he could steal him away as his own son.
Second-generation heirs, born into wealth and never knowing hardship, often go astray. Compared to some of Jiang Xuekun’s friends’ sons, Jiang Youjia was decent. While studying abroad, he didn’t indulge in wild parties or flaunt wealth with luxury cars and nightclubs. After graduating, he returned to “start a business,” though he leaned on family connections. Compared to wastrels, he was an upright young man.
Jiang Xuekun acknowledged his son’s strengths, but when it came to future achievements, he wasn’t underestimating Jiang Youjia—his son was unlikely to surpass Jiang Xuekun’s current stature. This wasn’t about money but social influence. As the general manager of a major publishing group, Jiang Xuekun held a status most businessmen couldn’t match.
Jiang Youjia’s life had been smooth sailing—academics, relationships, no major hiccups. That was good but limited his potential.
Xie Qian, after one encounter with the Zhao siblings, steered clear of them. Yet Jiang Youjia called Zhao Dong a friend for so long—his judgment of people was lacking!
Oh well, Jiang Xuekun worried about letting such a naive kid loose. Running a small business under his watch, living comfortably, was enough.
People should know contentment. If a child lacks the qualities for greatness, don’t push them.
Surpassing parents is great, but not doing so is normal.
Xie Qian was different, possessing the makings of greatness, his future boundless.
Nothing’s perfect—such a fine kid forced to mature early was perhaps heaven’s test.
Jiang Xuekun’s thoughts wandered, then he noticed his silly son had drifted away, somehow cornered by Zhao Dong, who was “introducing” him to connections.
“Youjia and I are good friends, known each other since abroad.”
“When I first returned, Youjia helped me settle into Rongcheng’s circle.”
“Youjia’s business is my business.”
Zhao Dong held Jiang Youjia’s arm, smiling as he introduced him.
—Once, Jiang Youjia “looked after” him; now it was Zhao Dong’s turn to “elevate” him.
Compared to Zhao Dong’s current momentum, Jiang Youjia’s achievements were negligible, his only claim to fame being his father, the publishing group’s general manager.
Oh, attending this event? Probably riding his dad’s coattails.
The looks from those around Zhao Dong were loaded with meaning.
Zhao was generous.
This Jiang kid might not even see him as a real friend.
Jiang Xuekun, the publishing group’s head, yet Zhao Dong’s memoir was handled by a Shandong publisher—there’s a story there.
The scrutinizing gazes made Jiang Youjia uncomfortable. No matter how poorly he was doing, he didn’t beg for Zhao Dong’s help!
Help? This was humiliation, plain and simple.
Jiang Youjia yanked his arm free, sneering, “Zhao, we’re barely acquaintances, not close friends. A small fry like me can’t climb your ladder, so don’t say things that cause misunderstandings!”
Zhao Dong smiled, looking indulgent toward a childish friend throwing a tantrum.
Those around him frowned.
…This Jiang Youjia, a bit ungrateful!
Whatever, with so many at the cocktail party, no need to waste time on someone so clueless.
Jiang Youjia returned to his father, muttering, “That lowlife Zhao Dong, trying to use me to boost his image. Pfft, I’m not playing along!”
A seasoned socialite would’ve played nice with Zhao Dong, but Jiang Youjia was too blunt.
Jiang Xuekun was both exasperated and amused. Good to cut ties, or he’d be embarrassed alongside Zhao Dong soon.
The little spat spread quickly at the party, and soon several people approached Jiang Xuekun to ask what was up.
Though Zhao Dong was gaining traction, many guests were Jiang Xuekun’s old friends. If Zhao Dong clashed with the Jiangs, they’d side with Jiang Xuekun.
Several waves came asking, and Jiang Xuekun’s response was consistent:
“No big deal, young people should pick friends they click with. If they don’t, just keep distance.”
“I often scold Youjia for being too blunt, offending people.”
“A real man makes his own way. Leeching off Zhao’s clout? We appreciate his kindness, but no thanks.”
Got it—they’re drawing a line with Zhao Dong!
But why?
Jiang Xuekun’s friends pondered.
Some planned to cozy up to Zhao Dong, the returning overseas merchant, not for immediate gain but for future connections. Relationships aren’t built on the spot; they’re nurtured over time.
But with Jiang Xuekun’s stance, those eyeing Zhao Dong hesitated.
Forget it. Helping someone in need is noble; piling on when they’re thriving feels mercenary. Better not approach Zhao Dong.
Jiang Xuekun’s attitude made his friends pause, sparing them embarrassment later.
As the cocktail party neared its end, Zhao Dong, slightly tipsy, was egged on by a sycophant to give a speech.
What to talk about?
Not the bidding, it wasn’t finalized.
But *The Zhao Family Chronicles* was fair game.
Discussing literature is always classy, especially at a party tied to Rongcheng’s cultural circle, where even posers fake sophistication.
The suggestion got applause, and Zhao Dong, feeling smug, glanced at a leader who’d recently praised him.
The leader nodded slightly, smiling encouragingly.
“Then I’ll say a few words, forgive me if I stumble.”
Zhao Dong said “a few words,” but once started, he couldn’t stop, moving from *The Zhao Family Chronicles* to cultural tourism, steering toward his true focus.
A confident man is charming, and as Zhao Dong spoke eloquently, some guests had other thoughts: a young, single, accomplished elite—maybe worth matchmaking.
“Rongcheng is a developing city, my hometown, and the foundation of my future endeavors—”
His words were cut off by a commotion at the entrance.
Leading the charge was Song Foxiang!
Clutching a paper bag, Song Foxiang strode in boldly, followed by a gaggle of reporters with cameras.
Zhao Dong froze on stage, the scene eerily familiar.
