Guide to Rising to Power as a Wife in Beijing's Elite Circle

Fang Jingxiu's car drove into the military family compound at the foot of Xishan Mountain. The sentry at the gate saw the license plate, saluted, and let it pass.

The snow inside the courtyard was heavier than outside, the branches of the sycamore trees were covered with a layer of white, the streetlights were not yet on, and it was already dark.

When Fang Jingxiu pushed open the door, the living room lights were on.

A bunch of winter plum blossoms sits on the shoe cabinet in the entryway, their pale yellow petals appearing particularly soft in the warm light.

This is my mother's habit; every December, there must be wintersweet in the house. She says that without wintersweet, it doesn't feel like the New Year.

He changed into slippers and hung his coat on the hanger. The bubbling sound of simmering soup came from the kitchen, mixed with the aroma of scallions, ginger, and garlic—warm, comforting, like a gentle hand resting on his shoulder.

"Brother Xiu is back?"

"mom."

"You've lost weight. Have you been eating poorly again?"

"I've eaten." Fang Jingxiu changed his shoes. "Mom, where's Dad?"

"He just got back and is in his study upstairs. You can go up and call him down for dinner."

Fang Jingxiu nodded and went upstairs.

The innermost room on the second floor had its door ajar. Fang Jingxiu knocked three times, neither too hard nor too softly.

"Come in."

He pushed the door open and went in.

Fang Zhenguo didn't look up; his pen moved steadily, each stroke deliberate. Twelve characters were written on the paper:

"The Central Military Commission coordinates overall planning, prepares for war, and provides political guidance."

Every stroke is powerful and penetrating, exuding an unquestionable authority. This isn't calligraphy practice; it's setting the tone. It's for those below, and for those above.

Fang Zhenguo finished writing the last stroke, put down the brush, and looked up.

"What's wrong?"

"Dad, my secretary, Qin Yang, was taken away by the Discipline Inspection Commission today."

"Why?"

"The digital transformation project of Zhongzhou Province," Fang Jingxiu said. "Liu Changhe's men tampered with it; Qin Yang handled that document. Now they've arrested Qin Yang, trying to extract information from him."

"Have you handled this before?"

"I handled it."

"Is there any evidence against you?"

"have."

Fang Zhenguo nodded and did not ask any further questions.

He knew that in this position, no one could be investigated. He was one of them. Fang Jingxiu was one of them. The person who arrested Qin Yang was one of them. No one was clean; it was just a matter of whether someone wanted to investigate, and to what extent.

"What are you worried about?"

"I'm worried that the disciplinary committee will investigate me."

The father didn't answer immediately. He picked up the cigarette case on the table, took out a cigarette, and lit it. The smoke curled upwards, spreading in front of him.

"Jingxiu, do you know about Zhongbo?"

Fang Jingxiu was taken aback.

At the end of last year, the director of the Central Museum was suddenly taken away. The official announcement was just a single line, saying that he was suspected of job-related crimes. After the brief announcement, there was no further sound, as if this stone had never been stirred up in the slightest.

But behind closed doors, within the circle of people who truly know the truth, the truth has long been known to everyone: he was a complete scapegoat.

The real inside story is so shocking that it dares not be made public.

It wasn't just a few pieces, or even dozens; it was all the cultural relics in the National Museum of China—not a single one escaped being switched.

The real national treasures were all replaced without anyone noticing, leaving only these worthless fakes sitting there, fooling all the ordinary people who come here seeking fame.

Of the historical relics that we can see, touch, and are proud of today, how many are still authentic?

"How could a mere curator, even with considerable power, possibly have the audacity and extraordinary ability to single-handedly swallow up the entire museum's national treasures? He doesn't have that much influence, nor does he have such a strong backing. From beginning to end, he was merely a pawn pushed to the forefront to shoulder all the blame."

He took a drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled.

"He was just a scapegoat. He was sent to the First Inspectorate and stayed there for three months. And now? He's on vacation abroad, unscathed. Living in a villa, driving a sports car, posting photos on social media every day. Who even remembers what happened at Zhongbo?"

Fang Jingxiu's hands clenched slightly. Of course he knew. In the ears of ordinary people, "inspection" meant supervision, inspection, and justice.

But to high-ranking officials, the word "inspection" is a joke. Inspect whom? Who's inspecting? And after the inspection, what happens?

Some people went in, some people came out, and some people moved to another place to continue their lives.

Inspections are merely a show for those below. They're meant to make the people feel that someone is in charge. But whether the higher-ups actually investigate depends on who the official has offended.

It makes the media feel they have news to report. It makes those in power feel they have achievements to write about. As for whether those people were actually investigated, sentenced, or truly punished, nobody cares.

"Jingxiu, your secretary is just a pretext. They don't want to arrest him, they want to arrest you. But they don't dare to easily touch your current position. So they'll start by digging into the people around you, bit by bit. They'll dig as far as they can, and stop when they can't dig any further. That's the rule in officialdom: before they touch you, they'll touch the people around you. They'll see your reaction, see what you're made of, and see if you're worth touching."

He stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to Fang Jingxiu.

"So you can't do anything about it directly. Qin Yang is your secretary. If you do something, it will be like you're trying to hide something. They'll say you're guilty, that you're panicking, that you're scared."

Fang Jingxiu certainly knew. But he couldn't remain inactive. Qin Yang had followed him for six years and knew far too much about him.

If Qin Yang speaks up, he might not die, but he will definitely be severely injured. It takes a hundred days to recover from a serious injury, and in that hundred days, his opponent can do a lot of things.

"Dad, I can't move directly. But it's different for you."

"What do you want me to do?"

"You don't need to show up directly. Just mention it casually in a military setting; you don't need to say much. One sentence will suffice."

Fang Zhenguo looked at him with a hint of admiration in his eyes.

He didn't need to personally bail people out, he didn't need to call the disciplinary committee, and he didn't need to speak to anyone.

All you need to do is casually mention at a dinner party, a meeting, or an informal setting, "My son's secretary has been arrested, but I don't know what he did wrong."

This statement will be like a pebble thrown into a lake. Ripples will spread outwards, reaching the ears of those who need it: the disciplinary committee, the supervisory departments, and those who want to take action against Fang Jingxiu.

They'll try to speak to Fang Zhenguo. It won't be formal, forceful, or commanding. But it's more terrifying than a command. Because a command can be refused, but this casual remark cannot.

Refusing a formal order is disobeying organizational arrangements. Refusing a casual suggestion is disrespecting a former leader. Face is more important than orders.

Once you lose face, your path narrows.

If the road is narrow, you can't go far.

The authorities are constantly inspecting and urging, but the people are not investigating.

It can only make high-ranking officials laugh.