Chapter 26: Phantom (Part One)

Yang Changfeng asked Chen Aijia, “That person who just left—what does he do?”

Chen Aijia was momentarily stunned. Why wasn’t he responding as usual? Shouldn’t he act unfazed and retort sarcastically?

“Oh, him? I think he’s a relative of the CEO of Jiangzhou International Airport. I saw him at a community gathering once. They said he’s an honorary president of some private university, but I don’t really know what he does.” With her mind preoccupied, Chen Aijia’s response was languid and indifferent. Suddenly, a shiver ran through her, and she snapped, “Yang, what exactly are you planning? Kidnapping? Hostage-taking?”

Yang Changfeng couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity. He was merely curious about the identity of that exceptionally refined man—how had things escalated to this? Shaking his head, he grew serious and said, “Chen Aijia, I just want you to learn something. If you want to become someone important, money alone isn’t enough. Bantering at high-end conferences isn’t true sophistication. If you could absorb even half of that gentleman’s poise and conduct, Wang Hu wouldn’t have any chance of controlling the security department completely. You still have a long way to go. There’s no shame in learning what you lack. In the Middle East...”

He abruptly stopped. This was the nation’s most exclusive wealthy district, not his battlefield.

Here, capital was king—the sole measure of power. The fists of a military king could never conquer a territory so vast.

Chen Aijia sneered, “Go on, I’m listening. What about the Middle East? Middle Eastern tycoons? Please, brag all you want. There’s no one else here to contradict you, so whatever you say must be right.”

There was no way to communicate with her. With a touch of self-mockery, Yang Changfeng said, “Forget it. No good deed goes unpunished.”

He had intended to tell her that her current demeanor was no different from those nouveau riche magnates in the Middle East—that she should rein herself in, adopt some humility, which is, in itself, the highest form of grace.

But if she wouldn’t listen, what could he do?

Incensed, Chen Aijia scolded, “You’d better remember your place. Don’t lecture me in that patronizing tone—it’s disgusting, you know?”

But as soon as she finished, she realized her reaction was over the top. Whatever Yang really meant to say could be debated, but his suggestion to learn from that refined man wasn’t intended to harm her; in fact, if she thought about it, his words made sense.

If she could truly manage to command the atmosphere with all kinds of people and cultivate a unique presence of her own—then as the boss, Wang Hu would be nothing more than a glorified employee. What right would he have to win hearts and firmly control the security department?

With this thought, Chen Aijia pursed her lips and, her tone softening, said in a conciliatory manner, “Alright, let’s not argue. There’s no point. I appreciate your good intentions, but please, stop boasting. One’s station determines one’s perspective. If you haven’t seen something for yourself, imagination won’t suffice. Focus on your work, live in the present; that’s what truly matters.”

Yang Changfeng smiled. He understood she was gently advising him not to daydream. It didn’t matter. If she wouldn’t take his advice, so be it.

She went on, “As for the issues between us, there’s no need to revisit them. We’ll have to get along from now on, so I just hope you’ll see things as they are and not harbor any unrealistic ideas. Do you understand?”

In other words, don’t get any ideas about me?

If she hadn’t said it so plainly, it would have been fine. But since she had, how could he not think about it, out of sheer mischief?

With a playful smile, Yang Changfeng replied, “Well, since you were the one who invited the wolf in, you can’t blame anyone else for what happens. Let’s leave it to fate. Anyway, I’m serious about this—as you can see, I’m making an effort.”

Stomping her foot, Chen Aijia strode away briskly.

It seemed things had returned to their usual rhythm—she snapped at him, he shot back.

After walking for nearly half an hour, they arrived at Chen Aijia’s home.

It was a villa set at the foot of what could barely be called a hill—a small two-acre garden, bordered by a plastic fence overgrown with lush green ivy. Within the confines of the ivy, an abundance of wisteria was in full, glorious bloom, filling the entire courtyard.

Yang Changfeng felt his chest expand with delight. Amidst the scattered villas of the artificial island, which dotted the lawns like morning glories, this place alone pleased him most.

On the fifteen-meter rise of the little hill, flowers and plants had been thoughtfully arranged. They were not rare or expensive species—indeed, they looked like wildflowers—but their exuberant vitality, gently stirred by the night breeze, bathed in the softened glow of lanterns refracted through the wisteria, created a gentle rhythm of life that seemed almost fragrant, filling him with inexplicable joy.

Under the hill grew trees Yang Changfeng could not identify. They bore small, pure white blossoms reminiscent of lilacs. The trees were not tall, but spread wide, their branches splaying like a thousand-armed goddess—soft, beautiful, solemn, and elegant.

The interweaving of these flowering trees half-concealed the two-story villa. As they pushed open the garden gate, the scent of blossoms rushed forth, as if welcoming the master’s return.

Chen Aijia skipped lightly, her steps instantly buoyant. With a radiant smile, she walked in, arms outstretched, fingers brushing over the wisteria as she murmured softly, “It’s been so long since I last came to see you all. You’re blooming perfectly!”

The flowers were lovely, but she was lovelier still—Yang Changfeng was momentarily entranced.

She truly was beautiful.

“Don’t just stand there, come in,” Chen Aijia called, beckoning to him.

She stood beneath a wisteria-draped entrance—a trellised porch shaded by sparse blossoms, flanked by two neat rows of potted plants, each vying for attention in full bloom. In that instant, these quiet lives, guardians of the empty home, seemed to burst forth all at once.

Yang Changfeng unconsciously slowed his steps, treading softly. He could break a violent criminal’s neck without hesitation, but if cradling a small child, he would be especially careful, lest he hurt them. Now, he felt just the same.

These delicate lives deserved only the gentlest greeting.

Chen Aijia scoffed, “What, only now are you starting to feel afraid?”

“I respect these lives,” Yang Changfeng replied solemnly.

She was taken aback. She couldn’t count how many times this man had unsettled her.

He seemed to lack reverence for the grand environment, yet showed such tenderness toward these fragile flowers—did he fancy himself an artist?

Her good mood vanished. Reaching out, she pressed her hand to the access panel and, after an iris scan, the door—indistinguishable from the wall—opened with a soft click, revealing the interior.

What startled Yang Changfeng was that, as the door swung open, an ashen-faced woman appeared before them, in her fifties, her gaze cold, a garden hoe in hand. She had materialized as if rising from the earth itself, abruptly blocking their path.

Who was she?