He’d handled that badly.

The moment Xu Ye walked out and slammed the door behind him, that thought surfaced in Chen Hansong’s mind.

He hadn’t expected Xu Ye to say no.

And he definitely hadn’t expected him to be that hard to push around.

An eighteen-year-old kid. What gave him the right?

Chen Hansong wasn’t even angry, exactly. If Xu Ye had no connection to his daughter, he’d have been quietly impressed. Nobody on his own turf had ever spoken to him like that. Not once.

But that was precisely the problem — Xu Ye did have some kind of connection to Qingqing, and Chen Hansong couldn’t stand not knowing what it was.

He and Jiang Meilin were divorced, but Chen Qingqing had always been the center of his world. That was the real reason he’d cancelled that important dinner the night of her birthday and rushed over instead. It wasn’t guilt that drove him — it was the kind of helpless, unconditional love a father has for a daughter that he can’t fully explain even to himself.

So who was Xu Ye?

A kid from an ordinary family. No connections. A prospective university student with nothing to his name.

If Qingqing ever said she wanted to date someone, Chen Hansong could have ten sons of wealthy families lined up by tomorrow morning, every one of them better on paper.

So when Jiang Meilin told him that both Qingqing and Xu Ye were planning to go to Shanghai, the idea of asking Xu Ye to choose a different school had seemed perfectly reasonable.

Chen Hansong sighed and picked up his phone.

“I just spoke to the kid. I think I may have made things worse.”

“What did you say to him?”

He walked Jiang Meilin through the conversation. There was a pause on the other end.

Then: “I told you he wasn’t like a normal high school student. I told you not to push so hard. And now look — you’ve gone and done the exact opposite of what you wanted.” Her voice was sharp. “Well done.”

“I didn’t think he’d actually refuse.”

Beep beep beep.

She hung up.

Xu Ye walked out of the bank.

The memory of Chen Hansong’s tone was still sitting unpleasantly in his chest. He pulled out his phone and opened WeChat.

Xu Ye: you there?

Qingqing was upstairs trying to work out a melody she’d been composing. She almost ignored it. Then she put down the guitar and looked at the screen.

She sent back a question mark.

Xu Ye: coming to the bar tonight?

Qingqing: why?

Xu Ye: no reason. my hands are itchy. want to play guitar.

A pause.

Qingqing: what time?

Xu Ye: I’ll be here until eleven.

Qingqing: okay.

Xu Ye: didn’t think you’d agree that fast.

Qingqing: I’m just curious what else you can play.

Xu Ye: a lot. some of it you’ve definitely never heard.

Qingqing: I doubt that.

Xu Ye: don’t believe me? I’ll play you an original tonight.

Xu Ye: settled then. I’ll wait for you.

Qingqing read those three words — I’ll wait for you — and felt something she couldn’t quite name move through her. She dropped the phone face-down on the couch.

Five minutes passed.

Qingqing: okay.

That evening.

After dinner, Jiang Meilin suggested, with careful casualness: “Qingqing — want to take a walk with me tonight?”

“No. I’ve got something on.”

“Something on?”

“I’m going to the bar to see Xu Ye.”

Jiang Meilin blinked.

Xu… Ye.

She stood very still for a moment.

Then she thought about the call from Chen Hansong that afternoon, and everything clicked. Xu Ye was retaliating. Whatever Chen Hansong had said, it had been worse than she’d imagined — otherwise Xu Ye wouldn’t have done this. She knew her ex-husband well enough. That particular brand of high-handed authority had never fully left him.

He said he toned it down. Sure he did.

She looked at her daughter. Then, quietly: “Can Mom come with you?”

“If you want.”

Qingqing said it without looking up, then went upstairs to change.

She came back down in a short cream-white dress.

Jiang Meilin stood at the foot of the stairs and felt a small alarm go off somewhere in her chest.

Qingqing never wore dresses.

Seven fifty in the evening.

Jiang Meilin drove them to Encounter Music Bar. Once they arrived, she used the excuse of finding a parking space to hang back — she wanted to watch Xu Ye and Qingqing without being announced.

Xu Ye saw Qingqing come through the door and smiled. “You’re here.”

A quiet “mm.”

“Sit anywhere you like. I’ll get you some water. And don’t worry — I won’t grab the wrong glass this time.”

He was already walking away when he said it, completely missing the faint flush that crossed Qingqing’s face behind him.

The bar was still quiet — too early for the evening crowd. Xu Ye brought over the water and sat down across from her.

“Qingqing. I owe you an apology first.”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“Your dad came to see me this afternoon. He said some things that made me pretty angry. The short version is — he wants me to stay away from you. I was annoyed, so I messaged you. The honest reason I invited you here tonight was to get back at him.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Why not?”

“He’s always thought everyone should just do what he says. I can probably guess what he told you.”

Xu Ye laughed. “Though I didn’t expect you to be going to Shanghai for university.”

Qingqing’s heart rate picked up. She looked down, away from his eyes. “You don’t think — you can’t possibly think I chose Shanghai because of—”

“Of course not,” Xu Ye said, cutting her off. “I’m not that self-absorbed.”

“Good. At least you know yourself.”

A quiet settled over the table. Qingqing was aware that Pei Youwei, Zhang Xiaonuan, and Zhou Ying were all stealing glances from across the bar. The silence was becoming conspicuous. She did something that didn’t come naturally to her — she spoke first.

“Who taught you guitar?”

“I’m self-taught.”

“Where did you find the time?”

Xu Ye grinned. “Time’s always there if you look for it. Also — I might just be genuinely talented when it comes to music.”

“Sure you are.”

He held out his hand. “Give me the guitar.”

She took it out of the case and passed it over.

At exactly that moment, Jiang Meilin came through the door.

Xu Ye spotted her, didn’t flinch, and called out a cheerful “Auntie Jiang” across the room. Then he turned back to Qingqing.

“After I left your dad’s office this afternoon, I wrote a song on the way home. It’s called—” He paused, and there was a glint in his eye. “—If One Day I Become Very Rich.“

Qingqing almost laughed. Only Xu Ye could come up with a title that spectacularly unglamorous. But she was curious. Was it actually about this afternoon?

He settled the guitar in his lap, facing the two of them, and started to play.

His smile was easy and unguarded. His voice, when it came, had that same unhurried warmth and depth that didn’t match his age.

And the lyrics—

“If one day I become very rich my first choice won’t be to travel the world I’ll sink into the biggest, softest couch on earth eat until I sleep and sleep until I eat, and coast for a year…”

Qingqing had never heard this song. And there were very few songs she hadn’t heard. That alone told her it was real — an original. [TL: The song Xu Ye performs is 《如果有一天我变得很有钱》 by Mao Buyi (毛不易), a beloved Chinese singer-songwriter. In reality, it was released in 2017. Xu Ye is singing it three years before it exists — and quietly apologizing to Mao Buyi in his head while he does it.]

She hadn’t expected this. Guitar was one thing. Writing his own songs was something else entirely.

Without realizing it, she stopped looking anywhere but at him. She didn’t notice that her gaze had stayed fixed on his face from the first note to the last.

Xu Ye, meanwhile, was silently apologizing to the songwriter whose work he’d just claimed — and wondering, not for the first time, what the ripple effect of all this might be. Would a different song of the same type take its place in that future? Or did this one now belong to him, severed entirely from its original author?

He didn’t have an answer. He decided not to think about it.

When he looked up, both Jiang Meilin and Chen Qingqing were watching him without blinking.

Jiang Meilin’s expression was simple: surprise.

Qingqing’s was more complicated. One part surprise. One part curiosity. One part something that could only be called admiration.

And — if you looked closely — one part something else. Something quieter and harder to name.

(End of Chapter)