Chapter Three: A Family

In truth, life never offers many choices, though we always believe it’s up to us to decide what kind of life we lead. Yet, looking back in a moment of clarity, we often realize we had little say in the matter and simply walked the path already set before us. Just when you think you have fate by the throat, God mocks your naïveté without mercy. The world’s lucky few are a small number, and the one who wins the lottery ticket is never you.

Take this Cheng Xiaoyu, for instance. His father is the president of Shanghe Records, his wealth beyond estimation. He lives in a villa of over a thousand square meters with a pool, owns a Ferrari, and holds a supplementary credit card with a half-million limit. In the eyes of the common people, this is the very standard of a wealthy heir. But for Cheng Xiaoyu, this isn’t what happiness means. Money can be a mark of success, but it can never be a banner of happiness. What someone like Cheng Xiaoyu truly longs for is a harmonious family; money is far less important. If not for the experiences of his past life, perhaps his character would have grown even darker and more unapproachable. Fortunately, a car accident and a dream have set our protagonist on a very different path.

As Cheng Xiaoyu watched the clock ticking on the wall opposite, its hands gliding to half past six, he heard the steady footsteps in the hallway—neither fast nor slow, always measured. Cheng Xiaoyu knew his father, Su Changhe, was coming. He recognized his father’s footsteps better than his voice. In the past half-year, Cheng Xiaoyu had exchanged few words with Su Changhe, and never once had they spoken alone. Su Changhe never called him “son” in any affectionate way, and Cheng Xiaoyu had never once called Su Changhe “dad.”

They communicated almost exclusively through Zhou Peipei. Cheng Xiaoyu bore no prejudice toward his very beautiful stepmother, yet he did not call her “mom” either, addressing her simply as “Aunt Zhou.” Zhou Peipei was one of the few ballerinas in the country, having won top prizes at the Helsinki International Ballet Competition and Best Actress at the Boston International Ballet Competition in her youth. She was among the foremost ballet dancers in the country and now a professor at the Shanghai Theatre Academy. The footsteps paused at the door for a few seconds, then the door opened.

Su Changhe, forty-five years old, wore gold-rimmed glasses, his hair slicked back with rigid neatness. His eyebrows were willow-shaped, eyes long and deep-set, his nose high and straight, lips somewhat thin; tall and slender, almost fragile, dressed in a charcoal grey tunic suit, his shoes polished to a mirror shine. He looked like a university lecturer in his early thirties—elegant, dignified, yet coldly aloof. Cheng Xiaoyu glanced at Su Changhe but said nothing, turning his gaze back to the ceiling light above.

Su Changhe, too, was silent for a long moment, as if waiting for Cheng Xiaoyu to speak first. But Cheng Xiaoyu was at a loss for words; calling out “father” was against his nature, no matter which life he lived—it was something he simply couldn’t bring himself to say.

At last, Su Changhe relented, sighing, “You were lucky this time. The girl you hit got through the critical period yesterday—her life has been saved. The traffic police said if you hadn’t turned the wheel at the last moment, she probably would’ve died on the spot.” Cheng Xiaoyu was stunned; he had no memory of how he ended up in the hospital. All he remembered was that it was a gloomy, rainy day—the anniversary of his mother’s passing.

In Cheng Xiaoyu’s memory, this was one of the rare times Su Changhe had spoken to him gently. Hoarse, Cheng Xiaoyu replied, “I don’t remember what happened. I don’t recall hitting anyone—just that I was driving along Zhongshan South Road toward the Bund, and then I was in the hospital.” In truth, Cheng Xiaoyu wasn’t entirely honest. That day, he hadn’t been heading for the Bund, but for the Yuyuan Garden. His mother, Cheng Qiuci, had performed both “The Butterfly Lovers” and “Dream of the Red Chamber” many times at the Dianchuntang stage across from Fengwuluanyin, as it was called locally.

Su Changhe didn’t press him. “Just focus on recovering. I’ll handle the incident—you don’t need to carry any psychological burden. If you need anything, tell your Aunt Zhou. She’ll be here shortly.”

Cheng Xiaoyu only replied with a brief “Alright,” and nothing more.

Su Changhe frowned. “I’m going to find Director Li for more information. Things are busy these days, so I might not be able to visit again. I’ll ask your Aunt Zhou to come more often.” With that, he turned and left.

Cheng Xiaoyu let out a long breath. He wasn’t used to dealing with such a cold father. If Su Changhe didn’t visit, that suited him just fine. The timeline here wasn’t the same as in his previous life’s accident; it was November 2009. Cheng Xiaoyu didn’t know the exact date, as he had no idea how long he’d been unconscious.

After a while, the young nurse from before came in, pushing a trolley. With the same blank expression, she changed his IV, set up the folding table over his bed, and placed a bowl of sticky porridge in front of him. She asked, without emotion, “Can you sit up by yourself?” Cheng Xiaoyu grumbled inwardly but managed to sit up on his own.

Looking at the unappetizing food, Cheng Xiaoyu turned and asked, “Is there any water?” Without a word, the nurse found a disposable cup in the bedside cabinet, took a thermos from under the bed, and poured him a cup of warm water. He drank it in one gulp, too embarrassed to ask for more, and reluctantly began to eat the nutritional mush. The nurse poured him another cup and reminded him not to drink too much. Cheng Xiaoyu thanked her, then asked the question that had been nagging at him, “How long was I unconscious?” The nurse replied, “A little over two days. This is your third day.” Cheng Xiaoyu responded with an “Oh,” then, unable to help himself, asked, “How did I go to the bathroom these days?” The nurse blushed, said nothing, and hurried out.

Just as Cheng Xiaoyu was feeling perplexed, Aunt Zhou entered.

This time, Cheng Xiaoyu greeted her first, “Aunt Zhou!” Zhou Peipei was nearly one meter seventy tall, dressed in a beige long wool coat and black knee-high boots. With her background in ballet, she carried herself with exceptional grace—long limbs, balanced proportions, standing out in any crowd. Her features were refined and graceful, yet dignified, every gesture exuding a polished elegance, with a natural aura of cold beauty and nobility.

Zhou Peipei pulled a wooden stool to the bedside and sat down, catching her breath before saying, “Xiaoyu, I have to tell you, you were really careless this time. Hitting someone has caused your father endless trouble. The newspapers have already reported it, saying a rich kid was racing through the city and hit a pedestrian. The internet is in an uproar—even your sister has been affected.”

Flushing with embarrassment, Cheng Xiaoyu said, “I’m sorry, Aunt Zhou, for causing you so much trouble.”

Aunt Zhou looked both annoyed and helpless. “What’s the use of apologizing to me? All this has landed on your dad’s shoulders. You should be apologizing to him.”

Cheng Xiaoyu was at a loss for words. Thinking of how Su Changhe hadn’t mentioned any of this, he could only change the subject, “How is the girl who was hit?”

Knowing that the rift between father and son wasn’t something that could be resolved overnight, Aunt Zhou didn’t dwell on it. “The girl is out of danger now, but she hasn’t woken up yet. She happens to be a student at our school and is quite well known. There are more than a few posts on the campus forum about making you pay for what happened. The whole school is in an uproar. Luckily, the surveillance showed you were speeding, but not by much—the traffic police found it didn’t meet the threshold for dangerous driving. Now the newspapers are reporting, your uncle made a few calls, and public opinion has calmed a bit.”

Cheng Xiaoyu, surprised at the seriousness of the situation, asked, “It’s that serious?”

“Reporters have gone to your school for interviews. Your teachers said you sleep in class and don’t study, always at the bottom of your class. Even your classmates had nothing good to say—they claim you sleep, eat snacks, and sometimes skip class. Really, after half a year, can’t you find a single classmate to speak up for you? Because of this, your father even blamed me!” Aunt Zhou’s tone carried a hint of playful reproach.

Cheng Xiaoyu felt a wave of despair—his reputation seemed beyond repair. “Good thing I’m a rich kid,” he thought. “Otherwise, with a record like this, I’d be better off if I’d died in the accident and been reborn.” Out loud, however, he replied apologetically, “Aunt Zhou, I promise I’ll take my studies seriously from now on. As for what happened, I really can’t remember any of it, but once the girl wakes, I’ll definitely apologize properly. It was raining that day, visibility was poor, and the roads were slippery, so…” He trailed off awkwardly, knowing this was no time to make excuses. In his heart, he felt little guilt over the accident; in a way, he was a victim too, and he truly had no memory of hitting anyone.