The neon lights of Chang'an Street once diffused into the car window, reflecting the cold light of the Patek Philippe on his wrist - it was a world that Chen Qingyan had never set foot in, like the antique clock in the window, so delicate that it was painful.
Her time with Fu Yu was a different story: the calculation paper under the lamp in the library, the warm Northeastern food downstairs in the dormitory, the birthday song crumpled on the guitar strings, and the evening when the wind in Shenzhen blew the long-distance relationship to a crisp, and she clutched her cell phone and said "forget it." Later, the succulents on Fu Yu's balcony withered and were planted again, and the numbers in her fund account rose and fell, but fate pushed people like Rong Zhengqian to the front - he was a natural hunter, accustomed to measuring everything with wealth and power, but he could not understand the stubbornness of the Chengdu girl in her eyes.
They had clinked glasses at a cocktail party, his whiskey was mixed with ambition, and her juice was full of alienation; they had also faced off at the project negotiation table, his logic was as meticulous as a chess game, and her persistence was as sharp as a blade. Those days were like a beautiful dream. The light and shadow in the red walls, the smoke of the semiconductor industry, and the antique watches in the study room late at night all became the diamonds in my later memories, so bright that they were dazzling.
Intention: growth