Lu Zhiling’s eyelids twitched violently.
Bo Wang was treating this entire power struggle like a game to pass the time. He had no genuine hunger for the throne, yet he dared to spit in the face of Bo Zhengrong’s authority while standing right in front of him.
Ding Yujun, sensing the rising tension, intervened with a note of panic. “Zhiling, get up. You’re pregnant—don’t strain yourself. Take Bo Wang back to your quarters to rest. I’ll have Dr. Qin sent up immediately.”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
Lu Zhiling stood, her joints stiff, and moved to Bo Wang’s side. As she reached out to help him, he draped a heavy arm across her shoulders, leaning his entire weight onto her slender frame. He played the part of the wounded soldier with alarming commitment, looking every bit the man at death’s door.
The family watched them go, their skepticism warring with the gruesome sight of his “wounds.”
Suddenly, Bo Wang stopped. He turned back toward Yu Yunfei and Xia Meiqing, a predatory glint in his eyes. “I almost forgot. You two suffered so much in that snake forest; all that screaming and arguing must have exhausted you. As your junior, I’ve had the kitchen prepare a special tonic to restore your vitality.”
The room collectively held its breath. Bo Wang… offering a gesture of filial kindness?
Two servants marched in, carrying a massive earthenware crock [Note: A traditional Chinese clay pot used for slow-simmering medicinal soups]. They set it down and heaved the lid open.
A plume of thick, herbal steam billowed out. As the mist cleared, the contents were revealed: submerged in a milky-white broth were thick, obsidian-black coils of snake meat. At the center of the pot, several severed snake heads had been propped up, their lidless, glassy eyes fixed in a permanent, dead stare directly at the two mistresses.
“AHHHHH—!”
The scream that tore from Xia Meiqing’s throat was primal. she scrambled backward, nearly toppling over the sofa. Yu Yunfei fared worse; her face turned a ghostly shade of blue, her throat seizing as she began to wheeze. Her asthma attack returned with a vengeance, and she slumped toward the floor, clutching her chest.
“Take it away! Get it out of here!” Bo Zhengrong roared, his face purpling with rage.
Bo Wang stood his ground, a slow, bloody smile spreading across his lips. He reached up to wipe a stray drop of “blood” from the corner of his mouth—a gesture that looked hauntingly cruel. “Enjoy, ladies. It’s far more nourishing than simple mutton.”
With a flick of his wrist, he caught Lu Zhiling’s hand and led her toward the elevator, leaving the chaos behind.
The heavy doors of the upstairs suite clicked shut, instantly muffling the screams below.
Lu Zhiling felt as though her shoulder had been crushed under his weight. She gently shook him off and went to grab the makeup remover. When she turned back, Bo Wang had already stripped off his shredded shirt. His torso was a canvas of fake gore and real, jagged scars—a sight of broken, masculine beauty.
“Wait,” she called out as he headed for the shower. “You need the oil. If you don’t remove that theatrical pigment properly, the residue will irritate your skin.”
Bo Wang looked at the bottle with pure disdain. “Troublesome.”
“It’s only troublesome if you end up with a rash,” she countered. She moved to put the bottle away, but Bo Wang suddenly pivoted.
“You’re going to do it for me?”
Lu Zhiling froze. Before she could answer, he snagged her wrist and hauled her into the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the marble tub, his long legs sprawled out, his eyes tracking her every move with a dark, expectant intensity.
She hesitated, looking at the “blood” coating his skin. “Why don’t you rinse the top layer off first?”
Without a word, Bo Wang reached for his belt, his fingers working the leather with a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“Fine, fine! I’ll do it,” she stammered, grabbing a warm washcloth to dampen his face first.
Bo Wang sat perfectly still, his gaze anchored to hers. As she poured the oil into her palms and rubbed them together to warm it, the air in the bathroom grew heavy and humid. She reached out, her soft fingers beginning to massage the oil into his jawline and cheeks.
“Your acting was quite impressive today,” he remarked, his voice a low vibration.
He watched her pursed lips, her focused expression. She had masterfully manipulated the entire clan—portraying him as a misunderstood hero while forcing the mistresses into a corner. She had even silenced the Second Uncle by using the weight of his own “moral” reputation against him.
“My eldest brother used to say that you have to adapt to your opponent,” she said softly, her hands moving down to his neck. “With hypocrites, you must seize the moral high ground. With the shameless, you must be more shameless than they are. Defeating ‘magic’ with ‘magic’ is the only way to win.” [Note: “Defeating magic with magic” is a popular Chinese internet slang for using an opponent’s own nonsensical or extreme tactics against them.]
Suddenly, he caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze—a bottomless abyss of dark intent. “Have you ever used those ‘tactics’ on me?”
Lu Zhiling’s heart skipped. She didn’t pull away. “Do you find me particularly scheming and unlikable today?”
Bo Wang searched her eyes for a long moment, seeing the flicker of genuine apprehension there. He let go, leaning back. “It doesn’t matter. Play your games with them all you want. Just don’t mess with me.”
The unspoken threat hung in the air: If you try to play me, I will destroy you.
She forced a smile and continued cleaning his skin, her movements gentle.
“Only the face?” Bo Wang asked, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes roamed her body.
“Do you want to do the rest yourself?” she asked, handing him a fresh cloth.
“I told you. I hate being troubled.” He didn’t reach for the cloth.
Lu Zhiling bit her lip and moved the cloth to his chest. She leaned in close, her breath warm against his skin as she began to work the oil into the faux wounds on his torso. Her palms were soft, pressing against the hard ridges of his muscles, carefully dissolving the dark purple stains.
The bathroom fell silent, save for the sound of Bo Wang’s breathing, which was growing increasingly heavy and ragged. The air was electric. Suddenly, he reached out, his hands gripping her waist and hoisting her up onto his lap.
Lu Zhiling gasped, her eyes wide as they collided with his—dark, dangerous, and filled with a sudden, violent hunger. Instinctively, she made a gagging sound, her face turning pale.
Bo Wang’s hand snapped up, covering her mouth, his brow furrowing in a mask of fury. “Are you fucking allergic to men? You puke every time I touch you.”
“…” She looked at him with wide, “innocent” eyes.
“Get out,” he growled, shoving her away. He knew if she stayed another second, he wouldn’t care about her “condition” or the consequences. He stood up and stepped into the shower, turning the dial to ice-cold.
The next day, the mountain air was crisp, a silver mist clinging to the pines. Lu Zhiling sat on the terrace of Dijiangting, looking out over the green canopy. She had officially moved in, and her first task was clear: transform this cold, hollow space into a home—and transform Bo Wang into a contender.
Bo Wang’s penthouse was a testament to his personality—ridiculously large, cold, and mostly empty. She set to work immediately. She drew back the heavy curtains, letting the sunlight pour in. She brought in a creamy white dining table, a bouquet of fresh flowers, and a fish tank that hummed with life.
She turned one wall into a floor-to-ceiling library, filling it with the curriculum Ding Yujun had sent. It was a daunting list: television, film, variety shows, journalism… the “Big Names” of the industry were ready to teach him.
As she was organizing a conference table, a voice spoke from behind her. It was Wen Da, the butler. “Young Madam, the Master requests you in the study.”
Inside the study, Bo Zhengrong looked at her with a chilling gaze. “Don’t think your little tricks with the fake blood fooled me, Lu Zhiling.”
“I had no intention of fooling you, Father,” she said, her voice calm and clear. “I drew those wounds based on the real ones he took for the family on Nanyang Road. I simply wanted to remind everyone what he is capable of enduring for the Bo name.”
Bo Zhengrong was silent for a long time. “The Bo family values the eldest son, but I value results. Whoever can shoulder the burden of this empire will inherit it. But mark my words—you won’t be able to hold onto that ‘wolf-trapping rope’ for long.” [Note: A “wolf-trapping rope” implies a leash used to control a dangerous, wild predator.]
“We shall see,” she replied with a confident smile.
While Lu Zhiling was nesting, Bo Wang was in a different world.
In a dimly lit, high-end nightclub, the air was thick with the scent of expensive liquor and the thrum of bass. But in one corner, the scene was absurd. Ji Jing and his group of wealthy “playboys” were sitting in plush bathrobes, their feet submerged in soaking tubs while getting massages.
“Oh, yes… that’s the spot,” Ji Jing moaned, sipping from a thermos of goji berry tea [Note: A common trope in Chinese “health-conscious” humor; young people doing “old man” health activities in degenerate settings]. “One must live a healthy life, brothers. Alcohol is a slow poison.”
The group roared with laughter. “Goji berries in a nightclub? You’re a legend, Ji!”
“Brother Wang,” Ji Jing called out, looking at the dark figure sitting silently in the shadows. “Want a sip of health?”