Jiang Chen hurried out through the hospital's front doors. Just as he was about to board a bus, he heard someone calling his name—a gentle, melodious voice unmistakably belonging to Han Yan.
Panting, she caught up with him, grabbed his hand, and spoke with apology in her eyes:
"He's just a crude man. The butler probably said something bad about you again. Didn't you knock around the butler and his group back in Jiangjia Village? They won't speak well of you. Don't take him to heart."
Curiously, as soon as Han Yan spoke, Jiang Chen's irritation faded.
"Aunt Han, I'm not angry anymore."
"Come on, let me see you off."
They walked side by side along the pavement. Han Yan asked about his experience in the hospital. Upon learning what he'd endured, she sighed, "You've been through a lot."
Noticing the time, she tried calling a company car to drive him back to Jiangjia Village—but he politely declined. So she hailed a taxi, and as soon as he was seated, Han Yan spoke through the window:
"I have a request, if it's convenient…"
"Of course. If you need anything, just say the word," Jiang Chen replied.
"Mmm, someday, if you're free…I'd like you to see me as a patient." Her expression turned shy, even somewhat mysterious. The white collar of her dark suit contrasted strikingly with her complexion—tempting curiosity about what lay beneath.
Sitting so close, the scent of her perfume drifted past the taxi window. Jiang Chen inhaled deeply, as if nestling against her warmth. Realizing he was staring, he awkwardly cleared his throat and asked:
"What's wrong with you?"
"My daughter's still in bed, and my mind isn't right yet. Can we wait a few days?" she answered.
Her tone puzzled him—mysterious and evasive. And she didn't appear ill at all.
The taxi drove a long way before he turned to find Han Yan still on the roadside, waving. Elegant and radiant, she stood behind the glass, entrancing him.
Back at his village clinic, Jiang Chen showed the 200,000 ¥ deposit message from the bank.
His wife, Wen Xian, beamed as she counted it:
"A hundred thousand in one day—at this rate, we can build our new house soon!"
He'd once dreamt of building a three-room tile-roof home, but for his wife, he now aimed higher—a full multi-storied cottage. A man builds a nest—and this nest needed to be ready for a family. He checked his wife's belly and saw how life worked things forward.
Wen Xian noticed and covered her tummy with a shy scold:
"What are you looking at? A big bulge? Later, you can look all you want."
No one else around, Jiang Chen tenderly touched her stomach and whispered:
"I'm going to get rich. We'll build our house, get a car."
Wen Xian smiled softly against his shoulder:
"No hurry—with you, that's enough."
Just then, their phone pinged—200,000 ¥ from Han Yan!
Apparently, she thought the 10,000 ¥ from Chairman Li was insufficient.
Take it or not?
Wen Xian questioned: "She gave 10,000 earlier, now 200,000—won't that cause trouble between them?"
Jiang Chen reasoned: "No. That's likely her personal money."
"Well, that's still odd."
He decided: "If the rich wouldn't offer it, I might never have it. To them, it's pocket change; to us, it's a fortune. We'll take it."
And so he transferred it into their account.
They sat in stunned silence, realizing they truly had money now. Quickly, they called Uncle Wen, the contractor, to ask: How much to build a three‑story house?
Uncle Wen said:
Framing costs around 100,000+,
Total cost depends on interior finish—basic or deluxe, classic or modern style.
Wen Xian whispered, "Basic finish. We're farmers, we don't need luxury."
Jiang Chen kissed her cheek:
"But we'll give my beautiful wife the best home."
Then he told Uncle Wen:
"Make it deluxe, classic style."
Uncle Wen replied:
"Roughly cost: 300,000+, and if you want hardwood floors and furniture, add another 100,000."
Over 400,000 ¥ was needed!
Jiang Chen lay back on the clinic bed, hands behind his head, daydreaming of a spacious three‑story home—parents on the first floor, he and Wen Xian on the second, his sister on the third… He delighted in the fantasy.
But the mind-churned truth: the clinic only brings in about 1,000 ¥ per month. Not nearly enough.
If they wanted to get rich quickly, he'd need to treat wealthy patients like Han Yan.
Which reminded him: when she asked him over, it was at a modest apartment complex—surely not her husband's address. A secret home?
He kept his phone on, waiting. Two weeks later, Han Yan finally called: meet me at Jiangqing City District A to help me treat an illness.
He found the address odd—too ordinary for a big chairwoman.
That night, he arrived at her door.
She let him in, silent. She led him in, glanced down the corridor to check no one was watching, then closed the door firmly. Feels like a spy op.
Inside, he noticed only a small pair of women's slippers on her rack. It must be mostly unused by others.
She saw him glance and offered:
"Try these—they're a little bigger."
Handing them to him with her toes, she wore the plain plastic pair instead. He watched the movement with a smile; she blushed and tucked her foot back in.
They sat on the living room couch; she offered fragrant tea.
"You're punctual," she said.
"Aunt Han, I wouldn't dare arrive late," he replied, sipping.
He surveyed the home—it was modest, unadorned.
"Is this your home?" he asked.
She smiled enigmatically and peeled a tangerine for him:
"I own several apartments as investments. This one is just mine to come when I want peace—no one else ever comes here."
A private hideaway. Clearly, she brought him here for something hush-hush.
She wore a long skirt and sleeveless white chiffon top—elegant, mature, subtly alluring. The top hugged her bust, shifting slightly in his view, and Han Yan's demeanor felt different—warm and domestic, rather than the poised hostess he'd last met.