After breaking up with my boyfriend, I made a fortune and rose rapidly in my career.

A research team from the province will arrive in Qingjiang next week.

Chen Ping opened the window a crack, and the wind from the river, carrying the smell of mud and fish, rushed in. Zhou Hai was getting the workers drunk and making threats, the timing was perfect—a mass incident had occurred before the provincial leaders arrived, causing the management committee to lose face in the province, and he, the newly appointed secretary, would be the first to take the blame.

Zhao Deming sat opposite him, waiting to watch the show.

Han Zhiming's phone vibrated again. He glanced at the screen, and his expression changed drastically.

"Director, the workers have moved. More than sixty people have set off from the work shed in Qinghe Town and are heading towards the management committee. Some of them are carrying a banner that reads, 'Hard-earned money cannot be wasted.'"

What time will the provincial leaders' inspection convoy arrive?

"Tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, the route will pass by the management committee entrance on the main road, and then enter the park's businesses."

Where are the workers now?

"The intersection of the main road and the management committee office is right on the only route the research team could take."

Chen Ping grabbed his coat and walked out, bumping into Zhao Deming in the stairwell.

His suit jacket was buttoned up neatly, and his steps were neither hurried nor slow, as if he had just come back from a walk.

"Secretary Chen, I've heard about the situation outside. Zhao Deming, hands in his pockets, leaned against the corridor wall. Sixty or seventy migrant workers are blocking the road; the provincial leaders' motorcade won't be able to pass tomorrow. I suggest we immediately notify the Public Security Bureau and send a squadron of special police to clear them out before discussing anything else."

"Clear the area?"

"Yes. These kinds of mass incidents must be dealt with quickly; we can't let them escalate. If the provincial leaders saw this, the entire high-tech zone's performance evaluation would be ruined."

Chen Ping stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the shiny tips of Zhao Deming's leather shoes.

Special police cleared the area, workers filmed it, the video went online, and public opinion exploded. At that point, it wouldn't just be a question of whether the performance evaluation would be completed; it would be the entire management committee being dismissed.

This is what Zhao Deming was waiting for.

Whichever path he chooses, it's a dead end. Clearing the area will cause a public outcry; not clearing it will leave provincial leaders stuck in traffic, making the scene unsightly.

Unless, of course, the chessboard is overturned.

"Han Zhiming, does the management committee have a loudspeaker?"

Han Zhiming paused, stunned. "There should be some in the warehouse; they were used for safety awareness campaigns before."

"Find it, then call Li Chunsheng from the Finance Bureau. Bring a laptop, the kind that can connect to the bank's transfer system. Meet in the parking lot in five minutes."

Zhao Deming pulled his hand out of his pocket. "Secretary Chen, what are you doing?"

"Solve the problem."

Chen Ping didn't say anything more and went downstairs in a few quick steps.

At the intersection of the main road and the management committee, more than sixty migrant workers squatted in the middle of the road with two banners. The first one read, "Worked for three months, not a penny earned."

The foreman was a dark-skinned man in his early forties, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted. He was squatting on the curb smoking, with cigarette butts scattered all over the ground.

The Passat stopped about twenty meters outside the crowd. Chen Ping got out of the car, took the dusty megaphone out of the trunk, pressed the switch, and the megaphone whistled.

More than sixty heads turned around in unison.

Chen Ping held a megaphone in one hand and put the other hand in his coat pocket, walking straight into the middle of the crowd.

Han Zhiming followed behind, his palms sweaty.

"Fellow workers, I am Chen Pingfang, Director of the High-tech Zone Management Committee."

The echo from the horn bounced twice on the empty main road.

The dark-faced foreman stood up, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and sized him up.

"You're the new Party Secretary?"

"Yes. I'll settle the accounts for how much wages you're owed."

The crowd buzzed for two seconds.

Chen Ping put down the loudspeaker and walked up to the foreman.

"What's your name?"

"Old Qian."

"Old Qian, how many people do you have under you?"

"Sixty-three."

"How many months have you been working?"

"Two and a half months."

How much is each person's monthly wage?

Old Qian stubbed out his cigarette and held up five fingers. "Five thousand for a laborer, eight thousand for a skilled worker. It was supposed to be paid monthly, but one month, two months, three months—that bastard Zhou Hai just keeps dragging his feet."

Chen Ping turned to look at Han Zhiming. Han Zhiming took out his phone, pressed a few buttons on the calculator, and leaned over to whisper a number.

Chen Ping picked up the loudspeaker again.

"Let me do the math for you. Sixty-three people, two and a half months' wages, averaged out to both skilled and unskilled workers, the total comes to approximately 1.1 million."

He paused for a moment, then glanced around at the workers squatting on the ground.

"Zhou Hai of Datong Construction owes you this money. But today, the management committee will pay it for him first."

The crowd fell silent.

Old Qian opened his mouth, but didn't react.

"Now. On the spot. One by one."

Chen Ping waved his hand behind him. Li Chunsheng climbed out of the back seat of the Passat with his laptop, set it up on the hood, plugged in his phone's hotspot, and logged into the bank's transfer system.

"Does anyone have a payroll roster?"

Old Qian pulled a crumpled notebook out of his pocket, opened it, and on each page were written names, job titles, and attendance days. The handwriting was crooked, but the entries were clear.

Chen Ping took the notebook, flipped through two pages, and handed it to Li Chunsheng.

"Print according to this booklet. Each person should verify their ID number and bank card number, confirm the amount in person, and sign after each printout."

Li Chunsheng glanced at Chen Pingfang, asked no further questions, and began operating the system.

The first worker approached, a tall, thin man whose calluses had almost erased his fingerprints. He gave his name and card number, and Li Chunsheng typed it in and pressed enter. His phone chimed with a notification that the money had been deposited into his account.

The tall, thin man looked down at his phone screen three times, and when he looked up, his eyes were red.

"We've arrived. We've really arrived."

The crowd erupted in uproar.

Sixty-three people lined up in a long queue, stepping forward one after another. Li Chunsheng's fingers clattered across the keyboard, and with each stroke, the phone on the other end of the line rang.

Within half an hour, all sixty-three wages were credited to the account.

No one held the banner anymore; it was thrown on the ground and blown by the wind to the curb.

Old Qian squatted on the curb, put the crumpled notebook back into his pocket, and looked up at Chen Pingfang.

"Secretary Chen, you are the first official I've ever met who speaks with real money."

Chen Ping handed the megaphone to Han Zhiming, squatted down, and looked Lao Qian in the eye.

"Old Qian, the management committee will advance this money first, but we'll eventually have to get it back from Datong Construction. Did you sign a labor contract with Zhou Hai?"

"What a load of rubbish! It was just a verbal agreement, not even a piece of paper."

"I lived in the makeshift shelter for two and a half months. Do you have any entry and exit records, attendance sheets, or even just photos of the construction site on your phone?"

Old Qian patted his pocket. "I have photos. Every day after I finish work, I take a picture and send it to my wife to prove I haven't slacked off."

"Organize these things and come to the management committee tomorrow. The management committee will collect the money that Datong Construction owes you. If Zhou Hai can't pay, it will be deducted from his project deposit."

Old Qian stood up, his legs were a little numb, and he swayed slightly.

"Secretary Chen, there's something I'm not sure if I should say."

"speak."

Old Qian took a half step closer and lowered his voice.

"Zhou Hai doesn't just owe the workers money. He cuts corners on the work he takes, and keeps two sets of accounts. One of them is a secret ledger, recording how much he gave to the management committee and how much he returned."

Chen Ping placed his hands on his knees and didn't move.

"I've seen that notebook with my own eyes. It had a leather cover and was about the same size as the ledgers used to keep track of work hours on our construction site. Every entry was written clearly—who received the money, how much, and when."

How did you see it?

"One night, Zhou Hai got drunk and was making a phone call and cursing in the workers' shed. His notebook fell out of his bag. I picked it up for him and glanced at it."

Chen Ping stood up and patted the dust off his trousers.

"Old Qian, are you free tonight?"

"have."

"Nine o'clock tonight, fourth floor of the Management Committee, office 408. Don't tell anyone."

Old Qian nodded, turned around and called his coworkers to get into the van they had come in. The engine sputtered a few times, and the van wobbled onto the main road, disappearing into the distance behind the streetlights.

The main roads have been reopened to traffic.

Han Zhiming put away the loudspeaker, ran back to his car, and sent a message: "Director, the route for tomorrow's survey is all set."

Chen Ping got into the driver's seat but didn't start the car. He stared at the rearview mirror—in the window on the third floor of the management committee building, there was a figure standing behind the curtains, watching for a long time before retreating.

The office of Zhao Deming is on the third floor.

At 9:03 p.m. that night, Lao Qian knocked on the door of 408.

He placed a plastic bag on Chen Ping's desk and took out a leather-bound ledger from it.

The cover was worn and frayed, with a dried cement stain on the lower right corner.

Chen Ping turned to the first page.

Date, amount, recipient's name.

The first line reads: Zhao Deming, cash, 200,000 yuan.