Tricky situation!
What kind of boast could outshine the “Yale” brand?
For a fleeting moment, Wen Dongrong was tempted to throw out his ultimate trump card: Wen Ying’s ten-million-yuan investment in Tianjiao!
Only that, only that could rival “Yale”… But as Wen Dongrong glanced sideways, he met Wen Ying’s warning glare.
In that rare moment of father-daughter understanding, Wen Dongrong read his “black-hearted cotton” daughter’s look.
Boast recklessly now, or keep getting two thousand yuan in monthly “filial piety” money? Wen Ying was making him choose!
The former was a fleeting thrill; the latter, lasting satisfaction.
Wen Dongrong swallowed the urge to show off and switched to a different Versailles track: “Yale, huh? What’s its world ranking this year?”
Song Foxiang, quite smug, replied, “Just eleventh globally, down three spots from last year.”
In 2006, Yale was ranked eleventh worldwide.
In 2005, it was eighth.
Damn it!
Wen Dongrong cursed inwardly, his mind racing. He glanced at Wen Ying, considering whether to boast that his “black-hearted cotton” would apply to Harvard someday. Wen Ying’s eyes widened fiercely.
Silent warning!
Severe warning!
Pocket money deduction warning!
Wen Dongrong sighed inwardly and adopted his meeting-report demeanor, nodding slightly. “That’s a high ranking, very impressive. Studying abroad must be costly, right? Any financial pressure, Editor Song?”
The words were fine, but Wen Dongrong’s tone felt off—seemingly caring, yet oddly strange.
On the Versailles path, Song Foxiang was a novice compared to Old Li. If Old Li were here, his alarm bells would be ringing.
Song Foxiang suppressed a faint discomfort, relieved that Wen Dongrong had steered the conversation where he wanted. He climbed the ladder: “Song Chan got a scholarship. Other costs are manageable, but daily expenses are tight. I’m thinking of earning more here so she can live freely abroad. In capitalist countries, money’s essential, right?”
Song Foxiang sneaked a glance at Wen Ying.
He’d been clear enough; Wen Ying should get it, right?
Wen Ying, oblivious to the poet’s intentions, still didn’t understand why Song Foxiang had come to dinner with Song Shao!
Wen Dongrong, however, caught something and seized the chance: “It’s a pity Wen Ying has no plans to study abroad, or I’d really pick your brain today, Editor Song. You know how kids are these days—so independent. Especially since she’s made money writing books, she doesn’t rely on me or her mom at all. We can’t control her!”
Was he implying that while Yale’s ranking was high, Wen Ying could easily get in if she wanted? Or that Yale wasn’t even on the Wen family’s radar, as Wen Ying could aim for an even higher-ranked school?
On one side, Song Chan needed Song Foxiang to earn money for her overseas expenses. On the other, Wen Ying had achieved some “financial freedom” through writing. Compared like this, didn’t Song Chan pale in comparison?
What kind of comparison was that!
Comparing literary and academic achievements was fair enough.
But could wealth from literary success be compared to academic achievement?
What a vulgar bureaucrat!
Even if they were compared on the same level, Wen Ying’s book royalties weren’t enough to get her into Yale. Money could open Ivy League doors, but with the yuan-to-dollar exchange rate, her earnings fell short.
Song Foxiang’s shoulder-length hair seemed to stir without wind. He was ready to unleash his lifelong debating skills and verbally demolish Wen Dongrong. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be a Song! But another Song at the table, the young Song Shao, intervened before things collapsed entirely: “Uncle, eat some food.”
Song Shao placed food in Song Foxiang’s bowl. “Since Cousin went abroad, no one’s been making sure you eat properly. Take care of yourself; she still needs your full support overseas!”
Wen Ying warned her father with a look; Song Shao’s warning to Song Foxiang was verbal but subtle.
If Song Foxiang got into a heated argument with Wen Ying’s dad now, how could he ask Wen Ying for advice after dinner?
A moment’s boasting versus earning more to support Song Chan in America—Song Shao let Song Foxiang choose!
Song Foxiang was fuming.
He was a poet who’d brawled with big bosses!
Magazine editor-in-chief?
Pfft!
Song Foxiang could ditch that role anytime; being a chief or junior editor made no difference.
But he couldn’t ditch his daughter.
During his divorce, Song Foxiang fought hard for custody—not because he doubted his ex-wife’s care, but because he feared a stepfather might mistreat Song Chan.
He was meant to be a free spirit, regretting marrying young and entering the cage of marriage… But life was无奈. A marriage could be dissolved, but a child born during it couldn’t be undone!
That soft, fair little girl became the rope tying Song Foxiang down, restricting his life post-divorce.
For his daughter, he could stay single.
For her, he could ghostwrite.
For her, he could play the fool, stirring up chaos at banquets.
For her, he’d pick up writing again to earn money!
Seeing Wen Dongrong’s smug face, Song Foxiang was livid but swallowed his anger. He downed a glass of wine and, with a forced tone, tried to ease the tension: “Song Shao’s right. I need to stay healthy. Can’t skip meals. If I collapse, how’ll I earn money for Chan’s studies? Ha, sorry for the sob story. Chan grew up in a single-parent home after her mom and I divorced. I owe her a lot. Her Yale acceptance makes me proud but worried. Worried I’ll hold her back. She could soar so high—what if I drag her down?”
The shift was so abrupt that Wen Dongrong was caught off guard, unsure if Song Foxiang was setting up another Versailles move.
Chen Ru, however, was touched.
Song Foxiang’s words mirrored her own feelings.
She was proud of Wen Ying’s achievements but worried about her future.
How far could Wen Ying go?
Chen Ru didn’t know.
Could she and Wen Dongrong keep up with Wen Ying, being parents who could support her?
She still didn’t know.
Chen Ru’s initial impression of Song Foxiang wasn’t great—she found him pretentious. Now, her view shifted dramatically.
Editor Song might be unlikeable, but he was undeniably a good father. Compared to him, Wen Dongrong fell far short!
“Editor Song, a toast to you. Meeting is fate; let’s be friends and keep in touch,” Chen Ru said, raising her glass.
Song Foxiang was flattered.
Wen Ying’s mom wasn’t as hard to deal with as he’d thought?
After two glasses, Song Foxiang found courage. Bypassing the irritating Wen Dongrong, he used all his emotional intelligence to compliment Chen Ru: “I don’t know how you and your husband raised your daughter, but Wen Ying’s writing talent is undeniable. Her work is praised by literary giants like Old Fu and embraced by the market. I’ve been thinking of picking up my pen again and would love to consult Wen Ying on capturing the market!”
Phew!
Finally, he said it.
Song Foxiang felt a weight lift.
Wen Ying suddenly understood: so that was the poet’s goal.
