Been Waiting for You to Escape Marriage for a Long Time – CH4

Chapter 4: The Breakup Fee

Although Shen Shuyi had grown up in America, deep down he was still a traditional Chinese man.

From childhood, while the old Master Shen had doted on him endlessly in terms of food, clothing, and comfort, he had been extremely strict when it came to matters of romance.

Ever since elementary school, Third Young Master Shen had never lacked admirers of both genders; by the time he reached middle and high school, his “peach blossom luck” was practically overflowing.

And once he entered college—after confirming his orientation—it went without saying.

Yet up until last week, he had never once had a serious boyfriend.

Part of it was because the old man was strict, and part because he was the type whose eyes were practically stuck to the ceiling—so arrogant he looked at people down his nose. No one ever measured up.

A few of his so-called “plastic brothers” in the circle would privately mock him behind his back:

“With how picky Young Master Shen is when it comes to dating, what’s he trying to do—find himself an emperor?”

But mockery aside, every time there was a party hosted by Shen Shuyi, whether men or women, everyone scrambled for an invite.

At the height of his popularity in America, any social gathering attended by Shen Shuyi was impossible to get into without connections; invitations were resold at exorbitant prices, yet still sold out instantly.

Whatever his flaws, one thing could not be denied—when it came to personal charm, the Third Young Master truly deserved to be called a heart-stealer.

As for his current boyfriend—whom he’d only been dating for a week and hadn’t even “warmed up” with yet—they’d met at one of those parties.

His boyfriend’s name was Li Sijia, a Chinese-American who’d grown up in Los Angeles.

His background wasn’t anything special, but in the overseas Chinese student community he was well-known—a cheerful, outgoing boy who got along easily with everyone.

They met at a party. Li Sijia had long heard Shen Shuyi’s name, and upon meeting him, immediately couldn’t forget him.

But Shen Shuyi was long accustomed to admirers. People who adored him could line up from America all the way to France. Toward Li Sijia, he hadn’t even spared a second glance.

Later, when the university organized a sailing event, Li Sijia—already a minor campus celebrity for his sailing skills—performed brilliantly in the race (though perhaps a bit like a peacock showing off).

That was the first time Shen Shuyi felt even a spark of interest—but just a small one.

Taking advantage of proximity, Li Sijia persistently pursued him for an entire semester. Finally, on the day students returned to campus, the two officially began dating.

He hadn’t intended to keep it from his family.

He simply never got the chance to tell them—because not long after, old Master Shen passed away.

Everything afterward became an utter mess—dealing with Hong Kong media, fending off covetous relatives—Shen Shuyi never found an opportunity to bring up the relationship.

Then, just yesterday, Shen Lu dropped a marriage arrangement on him out of the blue.

Now it was even harder to bring up Li Sijia.

From the way Shen Lu spoke, it was obvious he meant for the arranged spouse to be a live-in husband.

If he told his brother he was dating a foreigner and planned to stay abroad, Shen Lu would probably break his legs that very night.

That thought alone made Shen Shuyi shudder.

He couldn’t tell him. Absolutely not.

Li Sijia was a mixed-race Chinese-American who’d studied in the U.S. since childhood. His maternal grandparents were merchants; the family had long operated a major logistics business in America—one of the region’s most established old-money families.

All in all, even by Shen Shuyi’s sky-high standards, their family backgrounds were barely compatible.

But to be honest, Shen Shuyi didn’t love him much.

Li Sijia, to him, was just like a diamond—a beautiful, sparkling accessory to make himself shine brighter.

By contrast, Zhao Yuheng, that man… to Shen Shuyi, he was nothing but a cheap plastic ring from a convenience store—five cent a piece.

If Shen Shuyi passed him in his luxury car, he wouldn’t even give him a second glance.

His phone still showed the chat screen with the second young master of Tairan Real Estate.

Thinking of his tangled romantic life in America made his head—already aching from crying—throb even worse.

After the emotional roller coaster of the past day, he felt exhausted, heartsick, and irritated.

Leaning back on the sofa, at first he was just fuming helplessly, but soon his eyelids grew heavy. Still clutching his phone, he fell asleep mid-rage.

Uncle Lin, watching the young master he’d raised from childhood, sighed softly.

Then he fetched a wool blanket and gently covered him.

The next day, the old master was buried.

When Shen Shuyi arrived at the cemetery, he looked utterly drained—his face pale, faint dark circles beneath his eyes, and even redder rims around them.

He’d tried to reduce the swelling that morning with a boiled egg, but his eyes were still frighteningly red—like a startled, pitiful white rabbit.

Clearly, he hadn’t slept all night.

After greeting the elders who’d come to pay respects, Shen Lu turned and saw his youngest brother standing there like a delicate white flower trembling in the cold wind.

He sighed.

Sensing his brother’s gaze, Shen Shuyi instinctively tried to squeeze out a few tears.

But just as he was about to pinch his thigh to summon them, he remembered—he’d already used that trick earlier in the morning.

He’d tried every tactic—wailing loudly, silent tears, rolling on the floor, feigning pitiful weakness—

And all he’d gotten in return was Shen Lu’s cold remark:

“Let him cry. Those are crocodile tears. If he has the guts, let him cry all day!”

Once his “scheme” was exposed, Shen Shuyi lost all will to act.

He didn’t cry anymore, just stood there numbly—mourning the impending death of his love and freedom.

When Shen Lu approached, he straightened up.

Glancing at his chapped lips, Shen Lu said to the servant, “Bring Little Shu a cup of hot water.”

Hearing his brother call him by his childhood nickname, with such a gentle tone, Shen Shuyi’s heart briefly rekindled hope.

But before he could start his complaint, Shen Lu continued, “Did you meet him?”

No need to specify whom—it was clearly about that “fiancé,” Zhao Yuheng.

At the mention of him, Shen Shuyi’s anger flared.

That man was the root cause of all his current misery.

“Yes, I met him,” he snapped.

“And how was it?” Shen Lu asked.

Shen Shuyi slammed his teacup on the table. “How was it? He’s fierce, cold, and poor as hell!”

(Well, fine—his face was barely passable.)

Three “as hell”s in a row—enough to show just how dissatisfied Young Master Shen was with his supposed fiancé.

Shen Lu merely took it as nonsense.

He shook his head—he really didn’t get it.

That Zhao family was personally chosen by their grandfather—an old and respected household, with high standing in both China and abroad. Their roots traced back to Beijing; in the imperial days, they’d even been related to the royal family. And the Zhao patriarch had once fought side by side with their grandfather—there was no question of their character.

What kind of pedigree would satisfy his brother?

Shen Lu knew him best: his standards were impossibly high—give him the stars and he’d still get bored in two days.

The claim that “Zhao Yuheng is poor”? Shen Lu didn’t believe it for a second. He assumed his brother was just venting.

Coldly, he said, “Poor? What do you want, then? A husband who’s an emperor? God himself?”

“I just don’t like him,” Shen Shuyi muttered weakly, still defiant. “You’re forcing me to marry him—you’re ruining my life.”

Too tired to argue, Shen Lu thought for a moment, then said earnestly, “If you don’t like him, spend more time together. That’s how relationships work—you talk, you get used to each other, and eventually, you’ll like him.”

Hearing that, Shen Shuyi’s heart sank even further. Clearly, his brother was determined to pair him with Zhao Yuheng.

Their conversation ended awkwardly, neither willing to continue.

Soon after, it was time for the coffin to be lowered.

Only then did the pain in Shen Shuyi’s heart become truly unbearable—his tears seemed to rise straight from his chest, filling his whole body with ache.

No suffering could compare to it.

He couldn’t accept that his grandfather was gone, nor could he change it. The loss of a loved one was like a dark, endless tide, washing over his already battered heart again and again.

He didn’t even remember how he made it through the afternoon. The sky was gray, his grandfather’s coffin cold as stone.

He remembered himself as a toddler, stumbling on the lawn, bawling his eyes out, and his grandfather crouching beside him, smacking the ground and scolding the grass for “bullying” his precious boy.

He remembered that bushy beard tickling his face as his grandfather laughed, lifting him high into the air:

“My good boy, grandpa’s pearl, my little treasure, my precious gem.”

He remembered his grandfather, frail on his hospital bed, saying softly,

“Everyone has their day. I just can’t bear to leave you. Life’s so short, my boy. Family ties are shallow—we only get to be grandfather and grandson for a few decades. If only it could be for centuries, I’d watch my good boy grow old too, haha…”

It felt like being dropped into freezing seawater. The world blurred; all he could see was the shimmer of his own tears.

As pallbearers lifted the million-dollar golden-nanmu coffin, the family was allowed one last look.

Suddenly, Shen Shuyi broke free and lunged toward it. The outburst stunned everyone—bodyguards rushed forward, holding him back as he screamed hoarsely,

“Grandpa!”

The cry tore through the crowd—those who heard it wept; those who saw it felt their hearts break.

Like a wounded animal, Shen Shuyi struggled madly in the bodyguards’ arms, his mourning robes dragging in the mud, his eyes fixed desperately on his grandfather’s peaceful face.

He could hardly breathe.

Then he heard Shen Lu’s panicked voice—rare for the usually composed man:

“Little Shu!”

And everything went black. His chest hurt, then nothing—he fainted.

Two days after the funeral, Shen Shuyi stayed home to rest.

Seven or eight caretakers hovered around him, terrified their fragile young master might collapse again.

Fainting in front of hundreds of people at his grandfather’s funeral had caused a media storm.

Now, every paper and social media outlet in Hong Kong was filled with headlines about “Third Young Master Shen fainting from grief at the funeral.”

In the past, Shen Shuyi would have nitpicked every article, raging at false reports, scouring Twitter and Weibo with his alt accounts eight hundred times a day, even personally fighting with trolls.

Now, he didn’t have the energy.

He’d cried himself gaunt these past few days, barely eating. His already-slender frame looked even more fragile—his skin pale, his body weak.

Bundled up in bed, he looked like a high schooler, small and helpless.

Uncle Lin, heart aching, coaxed him into drinking some soup.

He said the nutritionist had stayed up all night making it with imported Australian ingredients—Shen Shuyi’s favorites—and reminded him that grief or not, one still had to eat to live.

Shen Shuyi knew he couldn’t go on like this, but the moment he drank, he vomited it all back up. He lay there, listless and feverish.

Watching, Uncle Lin wished he could take the suffering in his place.

After a few sips, Shen Shuyi just sat by the window, staring blankly outside like a cat that had lost its owner.

For some reason, Hong Kong had seen a once-in-a-century snowfall that winter. Snowflakes fluttered gently outside the glass.

Uncle Lin sighed quietly and was just about to leave when the garden security radioed in—a message relayed through Auntie Li.

Uncle Lin nodded, then knocked softly on the door.

Shen Shuyi turned, his once-sparkling fox eyes now dull and lifeless.

Uncle Lin said gently,

“Young Master, there’s a gentleman surnamed Zhao waiting at the gate—the young man from that day.”

Shen Shuyi froze—then it hit him.

Of course. The three-day deadline had arrived.

Zhao Yuheng had come to collect his 500,000 breakup fee.

Author’s Note:

Little Shu is now a sad, hopeless milk-tuxedo cat who’s lost his grandpa… ??

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