Chapter 40: Reconciliation

After drinking two more cups of tea, they stopped. Dinner would be coming soon—drinking too much water now would ruin their appetite.

“Uncle, I’ll go check on Gu Jia. Let Ziyan show you around.”

“Good, good. Don’t cook too much—family meals don’t need fancy dishes. Just something simple will do.”

Gu Jinghong nodded in agreement; he felt uneasy just sitting around with Wang Yan.

After a few words, Wang Yan roused Xu Ziyan from his cartoon-watching trance.

Though they hadn’t seen each other in a long time and Xu Ziyan missed his grandfather, he was exhausted and didn’t want to move at all. But he had no choice—Wang Yan gave him one look and he instantly obeyed. He led Gu Jinghong up and down the stairs, occasionally offering brief explanations.

Such a fine house—his daughter’s—Gu Jinghong examined it carefully, occasionally interjecting with questions.

This gave Xu Ziyan the same feeling he had when boasting during the day; instantly revived, he felt no fatigue at all and chattered nonstop with Gu Jinghong.

Watching Xu Ziyan’s endless chatter, Wang Yan felt a quiet sense of accomplishment. The boy was now healthy, lively, articulate, and capable—most importantly, resilient and carefree. But Wang Yan couldn’t tell whether it was Gu Jia’s upbringing or his own influence that made the difference.

Wang Yan tidied up the tea set and headed to the kitchen.

Gu Jia, stirring vigorously in the kitchen, smiled when she saw him enter. “Why are you coming in? Go back out.”

“I finished chatting with your dad. Came in to help you out.”

“Wang Yan, my dad…”

Before she could finish, Wang Yan said, “Don’t worry. Elders are like that—I understand.”

Seeing she still wanted to speak, he added, “Just get the food ready. Ziyan’s been complaining for ages.”

Gu Jia sighed and smiled. “Go out. Two more dishes and we’re done.”

“Let me help. I know a few things myself. What’s left?”

He pulled up his skill panel, found Culinary Arts, LV1 Beginner—fine.

For years, Wang Yan had eaten out constantly—breakfast at restaurants, dinner at takeouts. He’d grown sick of every eatery within two miles of his building. Cooking something edible wasn’t hard; when he felt like eating, he just followed recipes slowly.

The problem was inconsistency. Sometimes he’d nail a dish—pure genius. But the next time, it’d fall flat—he just couldn’t recapture that feeling.

Still, he thought his own cooking tasted great.

“Shrimp stir-fried in oil, and white-cut pork.”

“I’ll handle the white-cut pork. It’s simple.”

The dish was just boiled pork belly, thinly sliced—the soul lay in the sauce. Same ingredients, but the trick was in the blend. It took trial, error, and practice.

Gu Jia had already cooked the meat and let it cool.

Wang Yan got to work, slicing the meat paper-thin—the thinner, the better. His knife skills were decent; he’d learned them during martial training. Control mattered more than speed—he sliced slowly, one thin piece at a time.

He prepared several bowls of sauce, tasting each with chopsticks, then settled on the one he liked best and poured it over.

Gu Jia’s version was maybe seven or eight out of ten. Wang Yan spent twenty minutes on it. She’d finished long ago and stood watching him with soft eyes and a smile.

They carried the dishes to the table and called the grandfather and grandson over.

Wang Yan opened a bottle of baijiu and poured only a small amount for Gu Jinghong.

“Uncle, I know your health can’t handle much. Let’s just have a sip—just to show respect.”

Gu Jinghong didn’t object—he knew his body well. Gu Jia letting him drink at all was already generous.

Wang Yan raised his cup, clinked it with Gu Jinghong’s, and took a small sip.

“Try the white-cut pork. What do you think?”

Everyone tasted it. Gu Jia and her father praised it enthusiastically, saying it was delicious—then added, “A little less salty would be better.”

Xu Ziyan, however, gave it his full approval. He chewed, smacked his lips, grabbed another bite, and mixed it into his rice, shoveling it in. “So good! Really good!”

He was used to heavy oil and salt, so Wang Yan seasoned it to his own taste. It was natural they found it too strong.

Xu Ziyan was probably genuinely tired, which made him eat with unusual appetite. Otherwise, such a small kid might’ve struggled to enjoy it.

As they chatted casually, somehow—whether intentional or not—Gu Jia steered the conversation toward the nursing home.

“Dad, are you still comfortable at the nursing home?”

“Very. Someone takes care of eating, drinking, toileting. I’ve got a bunch of old buddies to chat with and play chess with. It’s fine.”

Gu Jia nodded, continuing to wipe rice grains from Xu Ziyan’s face.

Wang Yan understood: Gu Jia was genuinely worried about Gu Jinghong and wanted to see what he thought.

They’d only been living together a few days. Gu Jia might’ve been too shy to say it outright, so she seized this chance to hint.

“Uncle, why not move in here? The house is big—plenty of space,” Wang Yan jumped in.

“And the market, hospital—they’re all close by. Very convenient.”

Hearing this, Gu Jia brightened and immediately urged, “Yes, Dad! Come live with us. Then I won’t worry so much.”

Gu Jinghong was tempted—but the thought vanished instantly. He feared that living with them long-term might disrupt their lives, cause friction, ruin their harmony. His daughter had just divorced—what if this wealthy man left because of him? How could he face anyone then?

“No, I’m fine at the nursing home. I’ve gotten used to it. I won’t come and trouble you.”

Wang Yan said, “Then how about this: after a while, move into Junyue Mansion. It’s only a ten-minute walk—still close.”

“That apartment only has one bathroom, inside the master bedroom. I’ve already hired people to build another one. Otherwise, hiring a nanny would be inconvenient.”

He turned to Gu Jia. “What do you think?”

Gu Jia thought it was the best solution and agreed. Gu Jinghong stayed silent—his silence meant consent. Of course he wanted to be near them. At his age, that was all he wished for.

The matter was settled. The atmosphere returned to its earlier warmth.

After dinner, Gu Jia prepared a guest room for Gu Jinghong.

After tucking Xu Ziyan in, she returned to the bedroom and found Wang Yan leaning against the headboard, reading.

She closed the bedroom door, walked gracefully to the bed, gently took the book from his hands, and straddled him.

Wang Yan couldn’t resist her teasing. He lifted his hips slightly, pulled her close, and they kissed, whispering softly, hands exploring.

“Why so eager?”

“You cooked so much—I need to thank you properly,” Gu Jia said, her voice tender.

“We’re legally married. No need to say that.” He flipped her onto her back.

“But actions still matter.”

A night of passion.

The next day, Gu Jia’s gratitude was so intense she rarely woke early to cook breakfast.

Wang Yan went out for a run, then bought breakfast for the whole family.

After the usual peaceful morning, Gu Jia took Xu Ziyan to school and dropped Gu Jinghong off at the nursing home.

The rest of her time was spent fixing her tea factory—changing its name, logo, settling old issues.

Even without Wang Yan’s direct intervention, just his name and face were enough. The progress was far smoother than in the original story.

She wasn’t short on money—no need for pathetic fundraising pitches.

The ladies in her social circle all knew what she was doing. Ordering gifts required no husband’s approval—just a single phone call. Even Mrs. Li had ordered some to mend relations. Everyone handled their own affairs well.

Her company wasn’t even fully organized yet, but orders were already piling up.

Wang Yan went to find a renovation company to build the extra bathroom. Since Gu Jia had thanked him so thoroughly, he had to treat it as a proper matter.

After finishing that, Wang Yan went to his company. Routine tasks piled up after twenty-plus days—he had to handle many himself.

The reason he had to step in? His subordinates weren’t qualified to negotiate with others. Even with his broad delegation of authority, many matters were beyond their capability—they couldn’t make decisions. So again, he spent his days drinking tea and chatting.

Soon a week passed. All his tasks were resolved, and he was finally free again.

That day, Wang Yan received an unexpected call, asking to meet and chat.

He thought for a moment, then agreed. With nothing else to do, why not? He drove to the meeting spot.

The place was a high-end private club—no ordinary person could enter.

Wang Yan had seen plenty by now. This kind of place meant little to him.

A dedicated attendant waited at the entrance. After Wang Yan gave his name, he was led to a lavishly decorated, dimly lit room.

The owner of the club—the one who invited him—was Wei Zhijie, the same man who, in the original story, later dragged Wang Manni back to Shanghai. He rose to greet Wang Yan as he entered.

Wang Yan walked over with a smile. “Wei Zong, long time no see. Sit down, no need for formalities. What’s this about?”

“Haha, Wang Zong, please sit. That’s not right—can’t I just chat with you when I want?”

“Of course you can. Talking with Wei Zong always lifts my spirits.”

This old man was the first wealthy tycoon to approach Wang Yan when he first rose to fame, eager to profit. He had sharp instincts—his team was skilled, his own abilities top-tier, which explained how he amassed such fortune.

But when it came to grasping global trends, understanding Western rivals, his personal cultivation, vision, and foresight—he still fell far short of Wang Yan.

When he first approached Wang Yan, he was extremely humble. For those who could make big money, he’d swallow his pride. Wang Yan found his attitude acceptable and let him join the ride.

Since then, he’d made a fortune following Wang Yan.

They sat down, exchanging flattery and polite small talk—perfectly matched opponents.

After a long while, Wei Zhijie couldn’t hold back—he was busy, and this idle chatter was wasting time.

He took a sip of tea, cleared his throat, and said, “To be honest, Wang Zong, I did have a reason for asking you here.”

Wang Yan knew—no one sought him out just to chat.

He gestured for him to continue.

“Someone asked me to mediate—to ask you to ease up. Disputes are better resolved than prolonged. Let’s shake hands. Whatever conditions you want, name them.”

Wang Yan understood immediately. Who else? Since arriving in this world, he’d only targeted the Liang family.

It wasn’t surprising they’d traced him as the mastermind. Any action leaves traces. If the Liang family truly investigated, finding him was inevitable.

Once they pinpointed him, finding someone with influence who knew him? Even more natural.

Wang Yan asked, “The Liang family suffered huge losses. Why not just destroy me? Why send you to negotiate?”

He’d been busy handling his own affairs and hadn’t paid special attention to the Liang family lately.

For him, the thrill of being the unseen hand lasted only a moment—then it was over. The Liang family? Meat on the chopping block. The moment he struck, their fate was sealed.

For over half a month now, the Liang family has been barely holding on, showing clear signs of exhaustion—they’re about to collapse. Of course, “about to” still takes time; it won’t vanish overnight.

After finally uncovering the full truth, the old patriarch nearly died of rage. All because of a woman trying to show off, she nearly wiped out the entire Liang family?

Of course, he unleashed a torrent of curses at Wang Yan: “It was such a tiny thing—why make such a huge deal out of it? Do you have to turn it into a life-or-death struggle?”

That’s from his perspective—he never cared about the consequences those people suffered when Liang Zhengxian crushed them before. You can crush me, but I can’t crush you? That’s the habit you’ve cultivated.

Wang Yan wasn’t avenging those who’d been crushed by Liang Zhengxian—they deserved it. If you hadn’t rushed to compete for attention, you’d have just gotten a light kick and moved on. Didn’t you kneel plenty of times before? What’s wrong with enduring it? But you had to act superior, put on airs, and when you still lost, who are you blaming?

A lifetime of prestige, destroyed in a single day. The old patriarch, seized by youthful madness, swung his cane wildly and beat Liang Zhengxian half to death, then expelled him from the family.

This happened yesterday—his subordinates reported it to him specifically; he knows.

Wei Zhijie said: “Boss Wang, it’s like this—the Liang family…”

He told Wang Yan some things that hadn’t been uncovered yet, implying the family still had hidden depth. Though you’ve crippled them badly, if you stop now, they can still recover and rise again.

Wang Yan pondered. The feud was already sealed—if you don’t kill the snake, it’ll strike back. Even if, at best, they recover and don’t come after him, Liang Zhengxian is still Liang family blood. He won’t let Wang Yan starve or beg—otherwise, it’s their own shame.

So what’s the point of all this? Just for the money you’ve scraped up and their apology? And the future grudges, endless revenge? Is he insane?

Knocking them down won’t get you more. Crush them outright—no need to fear retaliation. What a perfect outcome.

Besides, what Wei Zhijie just said might not even be the full picture—but what does it matter? They’re still nearly finished.

“Boss Wei, let me tell you this: this time, I didn’t use just my own money—I don’t have that much.”

Saying this, Wang Yan raised one finger: “So far, the money you’ve made through me is this much.”

Wei Zhijie’s eyes instantly widened—this was all hard cash.

Wang Yan continued: “If we finish off the Liang family, add in everything you just mentioned…”

Wei Zhijie could fill in the rest—he knew exactly how much money he’d put into Wang Yan’s hands, and instantly calculated a rough total.

His face lit up with a smile; he dropped all talk of pleading for mercy, stood up, and said: “Haha, Boss Wang, haven’t eaten yet? Come on, come on—I just hired a new master chef, his skills are unmatched. You should give him some pointers, help him improve.”

Financially, there might be a gap, but in terms of rank, Wang Yan was unquestionably on par. They were all equals—Wei Zhijie wasn’t afraid of looking foolish before Wang Yan.

He gave Wang Yan no chance at all.

He grabbed Wang Yan’s arm and pulled him along: “I know you love baijiu—what a coincidence! Just two days ago, I got a bottle of fifty-year-aged liquor—saved it specially for you to taste.”

Wang Yan didn’t even bother to respond to Wei Zhijie’s act. In the stories, he plays the dignified gentleman with a deadpan face, trying so hard to look noble—but behind the mask, his tricks are endless, his heart black as coal.

Then the two ate and drank, chatting aimlessly for a long time.