To outsiders, Yin Feng’s life seemed enviably smooth sailing. Born into a wealthy family with business-minded parents, he attended private elite schools from an early age. He excelled academically, standing out among his peers at every stage, and effortlessly gained admission to Peking University, emerging as a rising star in psychology.

Moreover, he was handsome, kind, righteous, strategically minded, and socially adept. He used his income to support numerous underprivileged children; he particularly valued his readers’ experiences, once attending a book signing in terrible weather that left him with a cold, and another time traveling far to play piano privately for a disabled reader. His company flourished with substantial profits, a testament to his decisiveness, vision, and leadership abilities… In short, to those who didn’t know Yin Feng well, he seemed to embody the perfect man.

Only those close to him—his former parents, Chen Feng, and Su Ziyi, and the few confidants who had followed him for years—knew he wasn’t the person others perceived him to be.

He had peculiar temperaments and inconsistent preferences. You never knew which words might anger him or what unrelated matter might please him. He disliked onions, despised yogurt, hated Wednesdays, but loved Saturdays. He despised white but loved black. Once he decided on something, even if proven wrong, he would persist if someone pointed out the error.

But when he committed to something, his focus was absolute. He could seclude himself in a remote villa for six months with only food and water deliveries to write a new book or become so engrossed in an interesting book that he wouldn’t eat, drink, or sleep for 24 hours. Once, when he was reading a new work by an American psychologist, a girlfriend came to his home dressed provocatively to seduce him. He responded with a cold laugh—no, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—and without anger, coaxed her to bed and had her undress. The girl thought she had finally won him over, but he left her hanging for hours. Only after she got dressed did she learn he had flown elsewhere for seclusion.

Regarding relationships, he had only truly dated two women. The rest were merely rumors or results of his whimsical teasing and mockery. But being a cultured man, his mockery of women who tried to seduce him could be too sophisticated for them to understand. For instance, when a lady deliberately fell into his arms wearing a light pink dress, with her shoulder strap strategically slipping to reveal her chest—because rumors said Yin Feng liked large breasts—he helped her up and smiled slightly, saying, “You remind me of a pink Aristolochia.” The woman’s heart fluttered, and though Teacher Yin took no further action, his smiling eyes convinced her of his interest. She even bragged about it afterward, adding another romantic rumor to his reputation.

Days later, the woman happened to search online and discovered that Aristolochia flowers resemble pig liver.

…

As a mature, successful, wealthy man, Yin Feng had physical needs and enjoyed having a woman’s attentive companionship. Given his unrestricted profession and absolute authority in his company, he was accustomed to controlling everything in his life. This especially applied to women—since it was about his pleasure, he naturally chose those who suited his tastes.

He preferred petite, fair-skinned, docile, even somewhat delicate women. He didn’t mind if they wanted his money; even less if they desired his looks. Shouldn’t women depend on men’s abilities and physical presence? Besides, he never planned for long-term relationships. It was just for pleasure and satisfaction.

As for when and with whom he might spend his life, he never contemplated such questions. It was like a phantom void that would make him lose his sense of control if he thought about it. So he restrained himself from harboring expectations or making assumptions.

This massive change was completely unexpected for Yin Feng. Upon waking, he had only briefly communicated with Chen Feng, learning that his injury and memory loss occurred a year ago, but he couldn’t remember anything from the year before that either. He had told You Mingxu the truth; something about this woman’s questioning compelled honest answers. His last clear memory was indeed attending the press conference a year and a half ago, then falling asleep in the car on the way home due to exhaustion.

When he woke up, he found himself in this hospital room. As a psychology professional, he understood that the human brain was the most complex, precise, and mysterious organ. Even brain specialists probably couldn’t explain why he had lost exactly this period of memories. If pressed, he could theorize both physiological and psychological causes.

Physiologically, the brain trauma might have damaged specific memory-related areas; psychologically, perhaps something completely unbearable had happened during this year and a half, causing his subconscious to hide those memories upon waking, leaving him only with his pre-incident self.

…

Hah, pretending to be completely uninjured?

The thought struck Yin Feng as mockingly ironic, particularly of himself. However, for thirty years, he had always followed his own heart. If his subconscious didn’t want to be awakened, he wouldn’t force it. Including everything during his memory loss period—whether he had acted foolishly or fawned over a woman, as Chen Feng had briefly summarized—what’s past was past.

Now that he was awake, he would naturally live according to his true nature. He was Yin Feng.

…

So, after that brief burst of intense pleasure, when he nearly lost himself to physical and emotional desire, You Mingxu’s cold, obviously restrained words brought Yin Feng back to his senses.

He looked at the woman beneath him—strong-willed, physically aroused, yet with a hint of melancholy in her eyes. He realized she wasn’t kissing him, but rather the 10-year-younger version of himself from the past year.

This realization gave Yin Feng a very strange feeling. He felt both displeased that this woman seemed to look down on his current self, and uncomfortable that someone had glimpsed something private about him. More importantly, his rationality quickly returned. With everything unclear, getting involved with this seemingly deeply attached yet domineering woman wasn’t a wise choice. He couldn’t remember their past—should he let her lead him by the nose?

So he smiled, rolling off her. But since it was his bed, he naturally wouldn’t give it up, lying there brazenly with a blanket pulled over his waist to hide his body’s reaction. He said, “No.”

You Mingxu suddenly sat up and jumped off the bed. She had never experienced anything like this—a man kissing and embracing her, then cleanly tossing her aside and telling her he felt nothing. This was the same man who once found even a single strand of her hair fragrant. The stagnation in her heart spread silently, and her face felt hot. Yet she couldn’t accept it—how could she possibly accept losing You Yingjun like this?

She whirled around to face him and said, “You stay put. Whether you remember or not, Yin Feng, you still owe me. I’m not someone you can summon and dismiss at will.”

She stared into his eyes, desperate to find even the slightest trace of You Yingjun. But Yin Feng’s gaze remained distant, even carrying a hint of indifference as he smiled faintly and looked away.