The investment banking bigwig on the other side joked bluntly, “Come on, you just like handsome men!”

Julie shot him a playful look, feigning annoyance, then turned to Edward Harris: “It’s strange, I’ve never seen you on the cover of magazines like Fortune or Entrepreneur.”

She teased, “If you showed up in person for publicity, maybe there’d be even more positive marketing effects.”

“Shaw doesn’t even attend roadshows himself; instead, he sends that lanky researcher from his company. He’s practically the most mysterious founder in Silicon Valley.”

“Better not—if he really made the cover, people might mistake Fortune for GQ!”

Edward Harris smiled. “It’s not that exaggerated. My looks don’t fit the mainstream aesthetic here.”

“Says who?” Julie’s smile didn’t fade; her cheekbones were flushed from the wine, making her words even more direct. “You look like a Eurasian mix, with the best features from both sides. I bet you had plenty of admirers back in school, right?”

Women in the world of fame and fortune being interested in Edward Harris was nothing new; everyone present had seen it happen a few times.

“Julie, are you still trying to make a move on him?” someone else teased outright. “Forget it, Shaw’s already taken.”

The smile on Edward Harris’s face was faint. In others’ eyes, his face had a kind of refined, out-of-place Eastern aura, even though his life had nothing to do with privilege.

Listening to their banter, Edward Harris observed coldly in his heart, but outwardly kept smiling, showing no sign of displeasure. He knew very well that many of those flattering him on the surface were mocking him behind his back. Social climbing, sycophancy, cunning maneuvering—he’d heard these words about himself too many times in private.

The host and actual organizer of the banquet—Mr. Jones—simply watched the others with a beaming smile, occasionally chatting with Edward Harris about the new product their company was about to launch. This business magnate seemed very approachable, but when he wasn’t smiling, he exuded a natural authority.

At the dinner, Edward Harris barely ate, just a few bites of steak; the rest of the time he spent talking with several investors—discussing ideas, plans, and future prospects, pushing forward the company’s urgent Series C funding. He spoke at a steady, unhurried pace, calm and confident.

Midway through, one of the investors changed the subject, but cut straight to the point.

“Shaw, you don’t look so well today. You weren’t like this when I saw you yesterday. Did something happen?”

Edward Harris was momentarily taken aback, then smiled.

“No, maybe I’ve just been working too long lately, so I look a bit worn out.”

After the meal, the waiter served dessert, claiming it was a cherry almond bavarois made by Seattle’s top pastry chef. When it was brought out, Edward Harris kept staring at the cherries on top of the cake, but had no intention of eating them.

“Shaw?” Mr. Jones even noticed his distraction. “Try this, you’ll like it.”

Edward Harris responded, picked up the fork beside him, scraped off a small piece, deliberately avoiding the glistening, beautiful brandied cherry on top.

After the banquet ended, he stayed behind to talk with Mr. Jones, who offered him some very helpful advice, but didn’t touch on anything personal—just told him to take care of his health.

“I will.”

Leaving the hotel after the banquet, Julie noticed he wasn’t driving and offered to give him a ride back to his hotel, but Edward Harris politely declined. Perhaps not used to such lack of tact, Julie was stunned for a moment before remembering to roll up the driver’s window.

“Well then, I wish you a wonderful night.”

Edward Harris walked alone through the cold, unfamiliar streets of Seattle. The snow was falling harder and harder, showing no sign of stopping. He recalled what someone at the banquet had said—hoping the snow wouldn’t get too heavy, or there’d be a strike tomorrow.

What a fragile city, brought to a halt by a single night of snow.

He suddenly felt a bit envious, his steps pausing in front of a convenience store. After hesitating for a few seconds, Edward Harris went inside. When he came out, he was holding a pack of Marlboros and a packet of disinfectant wipes, having borrowed the store’s lighter, and sat down outside.

The sunshade umbrellas used in summer had been left out for the winter, so the tables and chairs underneath were free of snow.

He hadn’t bought this brand of cigarettes in a long time; the packaging seemed to have changed again. It was no longer the so-called “Aurora” someone once mentioned, just an ordinary black and blue.

He had just lit one and taken a drag when he got a call from David Clark.

“Where are you? Are you done?”

Edward Harris exhaled a puff of smoke, the white mist swirling before his eyes. The alcohol was evaporating from his hands, making them cold and a little stinging. His tone grew a bit lazy. “Not attending but still so concerned?”

“I couldn’t be bothered to go. Too much hassle.”

Hearing his Chinese accent, Edward Harris always found it odd. “Just speak English.”

David Clark was a friend he’d met back at S University, someone he really clicked with—a true Eurasian, with a French real estate developer father and a Chinese mother who was a powerhouse in pharmaceuticals. If it hadn’t been for this passionate rich kid acting as his angel investor, Edward Harris’s entrepreneurial journey wouldn’t have gotten off to such a quick start.