A Letter from Keanu Reeves

Not long after, the manager quietly approached Chen Wan and apologized profusely, “Mr. Chen, I’m terribly sorry. The batch of mangoes from the Vietnam border got delayed by the typhoon, so we can’t make mango sago or mango pancakes. Would it be alright if we replaced the dessert with red bean soup?”

These are all classic Cantonese desserts. Chen Wan thought for a moment and whispered a few words to the manager, who nodded and quickly left.

As the banquet neared its end, Zhuo Zhixuan noticed Chen Wan still hadn’t made any move. Frustrated, he personally carried his wine glass over to Chen Wan, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

Sometimes, Zhuo Zhixuan thought Chen Wan was very clever; other times, he found him incredibly dense. Spending so much effort meticulously planning every detail behind the scenes would have been unnecessary if Chen Wan had just introduced himself directly with a simple “Pleasure to meet you.”

The people nearby glanced over, enthusiastically greeting Zhuo Zhixuan. With Zhuo staying put, Chen Wan had no choice but to pick up his own wine glass and stand up to follow him.

The distance that Chen Wan thought was as vast as the Milky Way turned out to only be a few steps.

When Zhuo Zhixuan brought him over, Zhao Shengge was still in conversation with Shen Zongnian.

The Shen family dominated the gaming industry in Haishi, with intricate ties to the Zhao family.

After their conversation ended, Zhuo Zhixuan said, “Shengge, this is Chen Wan.”

That evening, Zhao Shengge had been introduced to countless people. Same refined faces, equally illustrious family backgrounds, and the same eager, respectful smiles.

He glanced up at Chen Wan with little interest, raised his wine glass in a polite gesture, and considered the introduction complete.

His gaze was calm, not lingering for even a second longer.

Chen Wan wasn’t surprised. He raised his glass in return and greeted courteously, “Mr. Zhao,” without saying another word—no superfluous self-introduction.

There wasn’t much disappointment either. Zhao Shengge had met countless people. Chen Wan wasn’t the best-looking, nor the most unique.

Back in school, many had written love letters to Zhao Shengge. Of course, Zhao wasn’t the type of protagonist in a mindless novel who would tear them up or throw them away. His upbringing and manners wouldn’t allow it.

On the contrary, as Chen Wan knew, Zhao Shengge was actually very polite. But his sense of boundaries was strong—he would graciously thank you and then decline.

Most likely, he remembered none of those people.

Instead of worrying about leaving a unique impression on Zhao Shengge, Chen Wan was more interested in the cup of herbal tea by Zhao’s side.

It was nearly empty, which meant he was satisfied.

Satisfaction was enough.

Haishi’s tropical climate was hot and dry year-round, like a perpetual summer. With no dessert available, Chen Wan instructed the manager to buy traditional herbal tea from a nearby alley—thunder god vine and rehmannia tea, good for cooling down and clearing heat. To his surprise, it was a hit.

The ladies assumed it was a new menu item from the restaurant and requested refills several times.

Not wanting to linger, Chen Wan politely excused himself. But Tan Youming, seated to Zhao Shengge’s right, casually struck up a conversation. “Ah Wan, let’s go bowling tomorrow. I’m planning to show Shengge the Mingzhu Bridge anyway.”

The Mingzhu Bridge, a landmark of Haishi, was the city’s first cross-sea bridge, connecting Aoyu and Xiangdao, areas where every inch of land was worth its weight in gold.

The project had been a joint venture between the Zhao and Tan families, supported by investments they secured from mainland China.

It was a tough project that Haishi’s authorities had long struggled to tackle. Back then, Zhao Shengge had personally led the negotiations.

At the time, the financial crisis had stalled the regional market, and economic exchanges between the mainland and Haishi had dropped to their lowest point in a decade.

The Mingzhu Bridge marked the first project to benefit from mainland China’s stimulus policies aimed at boosting domestic demand. It also symbolized the beginning of economic recovery in Haishi. Beyond its economic significance, the bridge carried immense political weight—it was a symbol.

However, after three rounds of negotiations, once the project was finalized, Zhao Shengge immediately flew abroad, leaving the follow-up work to the Tan family. Even on the grand opening day of the bridge, he didn’t attend.

Chen Wan smiled at Tan Youming. “The Heli Clubhouse is just across the bridge. Once the typhoon passes, we could head there the day after tomorrow—bowling, camping—the view is fantastic.”

“Ah, this damned weather,” Tan Youming swore. “Still, you’re always so thoughtful.”

Chen Wan smiled without replying. The young masters could indulge their whims; he was the one who handled planning and aftermath. Weather, geography, personal preferences—all were second nature to him.

Having nothing more to say, Chen Wan didn’t want to overstay. He raised his glass slightly toward the group. “I’ll ask the manager to bring more tea. Please, enjoy.”

Once again, Zhuo Zhixuan was frustrated. Someone so skilled at navigating social situations on normal days couldn’t seem to seize the moment for meaningful networking when it mattered most.

Chen Wan, if he wanted someone to like him, could easily achieve it. The question was whether he wanted to.

But this didn’t include Zhao Shengge.

Zhao Shengge glanced at the herbal tea in his cup, then at Tan Youming, who was waving goodbye to Chen Wan. He said nothing.

Tan Youming, looking helpless, murmured, “He’s fine.”

Leaning back in his chair, Zhao Shengge took a sip of tea, his expression unreadable.

Over the years, Tan Youming had never fully figured him out. Even as a child, Zhao had been mature beyond his years, reserved and composed. That only deepened as time went on.

The social circles of Haishi were insular, with few newcomers over the years. Still, Tan Youming genuinely liked Chen Wan. His abilities, character, and personality were all impeccable. Left without options, Tan turned to Shen Zongnian for help.

Even the usually reticent Shen Zongnian spoke up, “He’s fine,” though his tone was devoid of emotion.

Zhao Shengge had only instinctively questioned, but with both Tan Youming and Shen Zongnian stepping up to vouch for this person, it made him pause.

Still, Zhao didn’t particularly care. He raised an eyebrow and said, “I didn’t say anything.”

Tan Youming: “…” After all these years, it was a miracle he hadn’t been driven to frustration talking to Zhao Shengge.

As the event came to a close, Chen Wan had already instructed someone to bring his car to the entrance.

Stepping outside, the roar of the waves at the foot of the mountain became more distinct. Droplets of rain lined up along the eaves, and the night sea breeze grew stronger, scattering white rhododendrons and bellflowers that bloomed in the night from the mountain slopes.

Chen Wan had left without a jacket. The sea wind billowed his shirt, revealing a slender waist and sharp shoulders, like a solitary bamboo standing in the night rain.

Someone came out behind him. He didn’t need to turn around; his nose and ears were enough to tell him who it was.

Chen Wan straightened his back slightly, lowered his head, and stepped aside, almost blending into the shadows of the night.

Zhao Shengge didn’t notice him, striding past with one hand holding a coat and the other holding a phone, his voice low as he spoke into it.

The doormen handed the keys to each driver. Chen Wan overheard Tan Youming calling to his assistant, “Head straight to Guilanfang.”

The largest entertainment venue in Haishi.

Zhao Shengge had hung up his call and said something in a low voice that Chen Wan didn’t catch.

It felt as though a tiny ant had stepped on a nerve at the tip of his heart—just a slight twinge of softness. Not much, but enough. He stood quietly under his umbrella, watching them leave.

Tan Youming leaned out of the car window, inviting Chen Wan to join them for a night of fun. Chen Wan responded with a gentle smile, like a soft lantern flickering in the stormy night.

“Maybe next time, Young Master Tan. There are still many guests here who haven’t left.”

Tan Youming didn’t press further, letting it go.

Chen Wan stood upright as the black Maybach, surrounded by Cayennes and Bentleys, roared away, disappearing into the thunderstorm and heavy clouds.

He blinked, folded his long black umbrella with a “snap,” turned around, and stepped back into the dazzling lights of the social scene.

The typhoon “Xianlu” didn’t linger long. By the third day, the skies were clearing, and the rain had stopped. Early that morning, Chen Wan was summoned back to the old family estate.

It had been two months since his last visit, and distracted as he was, he took a wrong turn at the base of the mountain and didn’t arrive until nearly eleven.

The second and third branches of the family were all present—nephews, cousins, uncles—crowded around Madam Chen playing mahjong. Two other tables were busy with bridge games, and the atmosphere was lively.

Scanning the room briefly, Chen Wan didn’t see Song Qingmiao and headed straight to the side room on the third floor.

From the main seat, Chen Bixin looked up with a serious expression, tapping his cane on the floor. “Don’t you know how to greet people?”

Chen Wan stopped mid-step, calmly nodded toward the crowd below, and greeted in Cantonese, “Good morning.”

It was only then that the people at the mahjong table noticed him—the illegitimate child of the fourth branch, who always had the least presence.

At that moment, he stood halfway up the mahogany staircase, looking both commanding from above and deferential from his lowered gaze. The contradiction was oddly unsettling.

Chen Wan had always been considered unlucky by the family—a misfit even the feng shui masters said was cursed within three generations. There was also that incident. The family had locked him in a psychiatric hospital until he was twelve before finally letting him out.

No one responded to his greeting, so he simply continued upstairs.

The side room on the third floor was narrow. Being at the top of the house, the constant damp weather in Haishi had left the white walls mottled and slightly water-stained.

Most of the Chen family lived on the second floor, but Song Qingmiao resided here.

She wasn’t a proper “wife” of the family. After drifting through the circles of Haishi’s wealthy businessmen, she had used some tricks to keep Chen Wan. Chen Bixin couldn’t get rid of her, so he reluctantly brought her back into the fold.

Chen Wan knocked on the door, and a rustling sound came from inside.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

The lock clicked open, and a head peeked out from behind the door. “Baby.”

Chen Wan was accustomed to it. He replied with a soft “hmm,” stepping sideways into the room.

The old wooden floor creaked underfoot, clearly untouched for days and now layered with dust, with some edges peeling up.

Due to the weather and poor lighting, the room was dim. The overhead light cast a pale glow, making the face of the Guanyin statue on the peeling altar appear distorted and eerie.

Several empty jewelry boxes lay scattered across the vanity table.

Chen Wan remembered bringing her an exclusive set of Tiffany jewelry just last week when they went out to eat. It was an auction piece he had specifically arranged for since the auction house hadn’t even sent him an invitation.

Every two weeks, when they dined together, he would also transfer her a substantial amount of money.

Chen Wan lowered his gaze to the pile of jewelry, pursed his lips slightly, and said softly, “Didn’t you say you wouldn’t go back there anymore?”

Song Qingmiao faltered, biting her lip awkwardly. She picked up a cigarette resting on the ashtray and lit it, smoking right there in front of the golden Buddha statue without fear of divine retribution.

The ashtray was nearly overflowing with cigarette butts, unemptied for days.

“Cao Zhi withheld my dividends, and Liao Liu cheated me out of a Bulgari set at the card table. I was so mad I wanted to kill him.”

She wasn’t from Haishi but had been sold here. Her speech always carried the soft, sing-song tone of the Jiangnan region, even when talking to her son with a mix of innocence and coyness.

Clearly frustrated, Song Qingmiao rested her elbow on the vanity table, supporting her head. The oval, floral-etched mirror reflected her slim, graceful figure.

She had one of those ageless bone structures—almond-shaped eyes, pearl-white teeth, full lips. She was alluring yet elegant, and even at her age, her long, straight black hair didn’t seem out of place.