Mr. Dior : Chapter 4: The President’s Million-Dollar Bride (4)

The consultation room was a fairly spacious room, decorated in a style similar to the main lobby. Dr. Que sat behind a medieval-style desk, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with one fist pressed against his lips, looking somberly at the projection screen on the opposite wall. It was playing a scientific report. Seeing the two men walk over, he motioned for them to watch.

As artificial brain interfaces become more popular, many problems have followed. Because the interface is connected to the user’s neurons, if the user suffers an impact from an external cause while the system is active, it is very likely to cause neurological disorders.

A neurology expert appeared on screen, warning the public to be careful to protect their heads and avoid being hit by heavy objects. Afterward, the screen cut to the streets of the United States, where a protest against artificial brain interfaces was taking place.

Abolish the interface, bring back smartphones! The slogans were shouted loudly. People held small flags and banners while blowing into small plastic horns. Some painted big red crosses over pictures of the father of the brain interface, while others shaved their heads and painted 3D holes on them to illustrate the brain damage that could occur when the system malfunctioned.

On a podium towed by a small truck, which moved slowly with the crowd, a burly father was passionately describing his family’s tragedy. His child had been watching a Superman movie when a piece of drywall fell from the ceiling and hit his head, leading the boy to believe he was Superman.

He has already tried to jump off a building three times this week. Yesterday, he insisted that his X-ray vision let him see the color of the neighbor girl’s underwear, and he got a good beating from her older brother. His eyes are still swollen. As he spoke, he picked up his eight-year-old son, who had panda-like black eyes, and burst into tears.

Citizens, do not panic, I am here to save you! The little boy grabbed his father’s microphone and said with a solemn expression.

It looked deeply moving, but someone quickly pointed out that the law did not allow minors to be equipped with brain interfaces, and this father should be arrested. The speaker was so frightened that he immediately hugged his son and fled, even as the child in his arms continued to strike dramatic poses.

These idiots. Dr. Que turned off the projector, mocked them in Mandarin with an American accent, and asked Jiao Qi and Zhang Chenfei to sit in front of him. He had already carefully reviewed the information Jiao Qi had sent earlier and had a good idea of the situation, but he still needed to perform detailed tests for a proper diagnosis.

Your name.

Heh, my name? Do you not know? Zhang Chenfei crossed his legs, staring dominantly at the clearly ill-intentioned doctor. As a president who held the lifeblood of the world economy in his hands, no one should be unaware of his name.

Sorry, I am American, so I don’t know much about Chinese celebrities. Dr. Que lowered his head and wrote a record on a form.

Oh? Then who was it that tricked me into buying a set of “Ultimate Luxury Deep Sea Caviar Daisy” skincare products last week? The wise president exposed Dr. Que without hesitation as he tried to muddle through.

Daisy… skincare products? Jiao Qi’s face turned dark, and he narrowed his eyes at Dr. Que.

Ah, haha… Dr. Que laughed awkwardly and filled in “Normal memory, no errors” in the memory status column.

You are still a bit too inexperienced to play games with me. Zhang Chenfei sneered. No one can escape the eyes of Dior Zhang.

The series of tests took the entire afternoon. Dr. Que gave Jiao Qi a detailed report along with a pricey medical bill. According to the tests, Mr. Zhang has developed Brain Interface Disorder Syndrome. You saw the earlier report; because of the impact from external force, his memory and behavior have become somewhat chaotic.

Such news was not allowed to be reported in China for fear of causing public panic. Brain Interface Disorder Syndrome belongs to cutting-edge research, and there is currently no systematic treatment method in China.

It just so happens that my mentor is currently doing research in this area. Dr. Que said, not without pride, trying to make the client understand what a wise decision it was to choose him as a personal doctor. Jiao Qi carefully reviewed the report, which showed that most of his lover’s normal memories were fine, but a small portion had been replaced, causing a bias in his cognition of himself and the world.

Do you know what his interface showed at the last moment? Dr. Que adjusted his glasses and asked seriously.

Jiao Qi looked back at his demonically charming lover, his temple pulsing. Probably… The President’s Million-Dollar Bride…

Is that so? Dr. Que seemed a bit disappointed, looking down at the information he had checked overnight. I thought it was The President’s Million-Dollar Bride or The Wicked Young Master’s 99th Runaway Wife.

Is there any difference? Jiao Qi felt like hitting someone. Dr. Que didn’t realize what he had revealed and continued to babble on with science facts. This condition wasn’t something everyone who took a hit would get; it only had a two in a thousand chance. The original developers had considered such a situation, so they had made provisions.

What provisions?

Memory auto-clear system.

In fact, most of the interface information was stored in peripherals; the internal memory capacity was limited and would be cleared automatically on a regular basis. Once the portion of information causing the disorder is cleared by the system, Dior Zhang will revert back to Zhang the Big-Dick. But there is no certainty as to how long this will take.

Please just bear with it for a few days. Dr. Que looked at Jiao Qi with sympathy.

As he was speaking, Jiao Qi was suddenly pulled away by a great force, his back slamming into a solid chest. Warm lips pressed against his ear, the tone deep and dangerous. Chatting with another man for so long right in front of me, hmm? Baby, do not easily challenge my patience.

I can’t even bear a day of this. Jiao Qi’s knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists.

Then I will write you a prescription. As a thoughtful personal doctor, Dr. Que was committed to satisfying any request from his clients. With that, he sent a video zip file to Jiao Qi.

What is this? Jiao Qi clicked on his interface to check.

This is a video collection of people with this condition that my mentor gathered. Take a look and you will find comfort. Dr. Que took off his glasses, tucked the temple into his pocket, and smiled with an angelic glow.

This hell is supposed to provide comfort?

Laughter is the best medicine. Dr. Que tried hard to show off his proficiency in Chinese.

Jiao Qi couldn’t laugh at all. He drove his lover, who was satisfied after swiping his black card to pay the bill, back to the apartment in the city center.

This apartment was where they stayed on weekdays, a two-story duplex. The first floor held the living room, dining room, and kitchen, while the second floor had the bedroom, study, and walk-in closet. To demonstrate his determination to never sleep in separate rooms, Zhang Chenfei had bought this house of over 200 square meters that had only one bedroom.

After a hot shower, he felt much better. As Jiao Qi came out drying his hair, he saw that the man had changed into a silk bathrobe, sitting on a high-backed armchair like an emperor, sipping red wine.

Come over here and please me. The President hooked a finger at his little delicate wife, his deep, charming eyes full of desire and banter. Jiao Qi ignored him and spent a few moments drying his hair with a blow dryer.

Click. The wine glass hit the coffee table heavily, and Zhang Chenfei narrowed his eyes dangerously. Come here, don’t make me say it a third time!

His wife seemed startled, dragging the blow dryer over, and with a buzzing sound, blew the President’s dripping wet hair into a “Lion King” style.

Running his slender fingers through the hair, the President clutched the armrests of the sofa in annoyance. This annoying little demon was clearly seducing him. With his hair standing up, Zhang Chenfei grabbed his wife’s wrist, snatched the dryer away, and tossed it onto the carpet. He said in a husky voice, Please me, and I will give you everything you want.

Jiao Qi patted his dog-like head, picked up the dryer, put it back in the bathroom, and climbed into bed to sleep.

The President downed his red wine, pressed his lips together, and sneered. Are you playing “hard to get” with me?

Jiao Qi rolled his eyes and patted the space next to him. Stop fooling around, come to bed, we still have to go to work tomorrow!

I don’t like men who play hard to get. Don’t make me lose interest in you, too.

Are you going to sleep or not? If you aren’t sleeping, go to the living room! Jiao Qi kicked at him, but he grabbed his ankle and gave it a light lick.

Mmm… The situation was just too much to handle. Jiao Qi tried to pull his leg back, but unexpectedly, he loosened the belt of his bathrobe in the struggle. Now, he really looked like he was “refusing to welcome,” and the situation became impossible to explain.

It was another act of overbearing and rude possession. At least he had bathed this time, though he still didn’t wear a condom.

Waking up the next morning, Jiao Qi found a check by his pillow.

I don’t want it. Jiao Qi threw the check back at him.

Zhang Chenfei’s eyes were full of interest. His little delicate wife was truly unique, so pure and unpretentious.

Take it, it’s what you deserve. The President licked his lips, savoring last night’s pleasure. Jiao Qi casually tore the check up and threw it in the trash.

Returning a check is pure and not greedy, but tearing it up right in front of him is rude and ungrateful. Zhang Chenfei sneered, took out his checkbook, signed another one, and forcefully stuffed it into his wife’s shirt pocket. You have to accept what I give you, whether it’s money or my…

The last few words were too vulgar and were automatically muted in Jiao Qi’s ears. He pulled out the check and stuck it onto the President’s forehead. Putting aside the fact that I am the guarantor for your checking account and that it is my money that gets deducted if you overspend, who exactly are you trying to insult with this two-hundred-dollar check?