Because of You: Junping and Yuerong

Chapter Eight: Airport Meet Up

After a month had passed, I found myself sitting at the airport waiting for Cheng to arrive from South Korea. I had ended up telling Jundao everything, and he had surprised me by saying that he thought I should also tell Cheng. It wasn't because my idea for a counter attack wasn't good; it was because he thought Cheng would know exactly how to put my plan into action.

My plan was simple. I wanted to do the same thing to my mother that she had done to Yuerong and Grandfather (Yuerong's grandfather told me to call him this—I have yet to be able to do it to his face, but this is how I thought of him in my mind since they left). I wanted her followed with pictures taken, preferably at angles that either made her look like she was doing something nefarious even if she wasn't, or at least pictures that made her look older. 

My mother was incredibly vain and worked very hard to always look so put together in public that no matter what angle the paparazzi shot pictures, she would still look good. Having bad pictures of her would be no small feat.

To be honest, I didn't expect to find out that my mother was doing anything bad. If my father wasn't able to find enough evidence for him to divorce her, then I knew I wouldn't. No, just as she really hadn't found anything to wound Yuerong or Grandfather, I wouldn't find anything on her, but I wanted her to feel like I did when I saw those pictures. I wanted her to be nervous and worried when she talked to me. I wanted her to feel anger that she was being followed and recorded (oh, yes, I wanted that to happen, too). I wanted her to know that I was no longer the child that she could assume was always going to take care of her and defend her.

I was angry that for so long, even though I felt no love for her, I had felt sorry for her. I had seen her as this pitiful woman who had made the mistake to think that she had fallen for a rich man when really she had fallen in love with the image of a prince rescuing her and taking care of her. I had seen her as this naive woman who was brought on dramas where the cold CEO fell for the plucky heroine who exposed the heart of gold he had hidden under his mask. 

I had always seen her as the victim in her marriage to my father even when I realized that she had married him for his image and money because I thought she was at least trying while my father, on the other hand, barely spoke to her. He was friendlier to the servants and to his staff at work. He merely tolerated her.

 I doubt that she had ever had deep feelings for him; her love has always been for herself. I knew early on that she had assumed that my father would dote on her the way her father and grandfather had—the way the hero seemed to in the movies. She was surprised when he did not. She was bewildered when he began to be annoyed by her. She was angered when he began to ignore her.

She truly believed that she was the victim here, and because she talked to me more than my father did, I believed that, too. Even when I realized at the age of 10 that she never really thought about me as another victim in this family, I still felt sorry for her.  Even when I accidentally learned that the story I had been brought up with about her praying at the temple every day when she was pregnant with me wasn't about her hope for me or her piety but because she was praying for a boy so that she would never have to get pregnant again, I still felt sorry for her.

Her eyes were constantly on being the "best wife" to my father in public so that he wouldn't have just cause to divorce her. It was fairly easy for her. There would be no scandals like Jundao's mother because she didn't have any desire for love. 

All her desire was for status and power, but not power for which she really had to work. She wasn't like some of the women you see in dramas who want to run the corporation themselves. She just wanted the power of being a powerful man's wife—the person who could decide whether or not certain families were allowed in certain circles, be invited to certain fundraisers, be allowed into certain schools.

I had learned not to care about appearances or to want anything from her to keep the peace. I tried to stay low, be quiet, and stay out of trouble. I was fine because she never really bothered me. I had started getting a little embarrassed by how she loved to talk about my looks and which daughter would get to marry me, but I hadn't thought about it much. I knew that she would never tie me to anyone until I had raised my stock price by inheriting the company outright or at least by becoming a member of the executive team. My marriage would be another power grab for her. 

However, since I never planned on getting married (what seventeen year old guy does?), I was never worried about this either. I knew she would be upset in the future because I knew I'd be bored by every suitable partner that she would parade in front of me. How did I know? Because I was already bored by all the kids that she thought I should be friends with, and I hated every girl she deemed fit for me.  She always picked the quite, obedient, slightly vapid types--the kind who would grow up to be a daughter-in-law that she could easily manipulate.  

I had actually liked some of the daughters of my mother's acquaintances, but my mother had never liked those girls. They had all been smart and interesting and one, Yifan, had been laugh out loud funny, but my mother had warned me against all of them, implying that they were dangerous.  I knew even at the time that she had really meant dangerous to her. These girls would grow up to be women who wanted their own lives.  That was not the kind of daughter-in-law my mother wanted.

Thus, I had been angry myself ever since the car carrying Yuerong away from had disappeared from my sight. I was angry at myself for ever feeling sorry for my mother and for allowing her delusions about me to continue just so I'd be left alone.

Jundao had been right. I hadn't cared before about anything, and this had made my mother assume that her plans were going to work. She took my silence as agreement with her sentiments and plans. The fact that I hadn't really rebelled, other than being kind of lazy, gave her confidence. The fact that the only time I seemed to get angry was when I defended her in front of my father gave her a false sense of my loyalty to her.  But those fights with my father were more about his behavior not hers.  

And now, she had overstepped. I might have let her dream go on longer if she had not overstepped.

If she had not posed a threat to Yuerong and Grandfather, I might have just put her refusing permission for me to go on the trip in the category of all the other selfish, paranoid things my mother had done over the years. However, it wasn't even just the trip. It was those pictures.

When Cheng came into the international terminal, he didn't look surprised to see Jundao, but he was definitely surprised to see me.

Looking at me but speaking to Jundao, he said, "You didn't say he was coming."

Jundao, who was trying to walk around the two carts that Cheng had, one of which was pushed by a stranger who had approached us (Cheng's secretary? one of my dad's people?) said, "I didn't want you contacting him. I'm worried that his phone might be bugged."

My head spun quickly at that. "What? Is that why you insisted that I leave my phone behind?"

Cheng grabbed my arm and quickly shook his head at Jundao. He then indicated to the man to walk ahead with the carts.

When the man had walked ahead, Jundao continued. "Junping, I couldn't risk the chance that your mother probably has a tracking device on your phone. We don't need her knowing you are at the airport. We don't need her knowing that we are all together."

Even with the evidence of the pictures, this still surprised me. Cheng, however, was not phased one bit. He only said, "Oh, it has come to this then."

He made a phone call. "We will be leaving here in ten minutes. I need a VIP meeting area for three set up." He glanced at me. "Make sure there is at least one fried dish."

I raised my eyebrows. Cheng rarely ate fried foods, and he always chastised me for my "street tastes."

The other thing he said was, "Oh, and a phone. I need a clean phone."