“She can sleep wherever she damn well pleases!” Bo Wang’s voice cracked through the tension like a whip.
“…”
Lu Zhiling stood in the wake of his outburst, her mind a whirlwind of confusion. What was the point of him demanding Jiang Fusheng return, only to snap like that? Despite her bewilderment, she moved with practiced grace. She gently dried Bo Wang’s hair, the damp locks cooling under her touch, and prepared a cup of calming, spirit-soothing tea [An Shen Cha: A traditional herbal brew, often containing dried longan or jujube, used in TCM to settle the nerves and aid sleep]. Once he was settled, she nudged him back toward his room to rest.
Bang!
Bo Wang slammed the door with a deafening roar that vibrated through the floorboards.
Returning to her own quarters—the room now cramped with a newly added second bed—Lu Zhiling found Jiang Fusheng frantic. The girl was squatting on the floor, shoving clothes into her luggage with trembling hands while muttering a mantra of despair: “It’s over, it’s over… I’m dead meat.”
“It’s not over,” Lu Zhiling said, her voice a soothing balm. She offered the tea to her friend. “Bo Wang agreed you can head back tomorrow. Have a sip; it’ll steady your heart.”
Jiang Fusheng moved to collapse onto the edge of the bed, but Lu Zhiling quickly intercepted her, steering her to a nearby chair instead. Even as she drank, Fusheng’s hands shook so violently the porcelain clattered against her teeth.
“It really is nothing, Fusheng,” Lu Zhiling sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed with a helpless smile.
“…”
Jiang Fusheng looked at her with a face full of mourning, as if she were already attending her own funeral. “Does the Young Master want to sleep in the same room as you? Does he think I’m a dian deng pao [Electric lightbulb: Chinese slang for a ‘third wheel’ who ruins the romantic atmosphere]? From the look in his eyes just now, I thought he was going to kick me to death.”
Lu Zhiling paused, the thought flickering through her mind before she dismissed it. “Unlikely.”
Bo Wang was a creature of pure whim. He had despised the idea of the family banquet, then suddenly attended. He claimed no interest in the Bo family inheritance, yet rushed to the hospital at midnight to seize it on her behalf. Even his desire for her was a jagged, unpredictable thing; they shared a room, yet she spent her nights on the sofa.
A man like that—wild, unmoored—would surely grow bored if forced into the domesticity of sharing a bed every night. He wasn’t the type to settle into the “oil, salt, soy sauce, and vinegar” [A Chinese idiom referring to the mundane, everyday realities of married life].
“Really?” Fusheng whispered, still unconvinced.
“Really. Perhaps he just doesn’t like his space invaded,” Lu Zhiling reassured her.
Fusheng drained the tea and crawled into bed, pulling the duvet over her head as if it were a shield. Sensing her friend’s lingering terror, Lu Zhiling tried a different tactic. “Don’t dwell on it. Think of something happy… Did you see Bo Wang’s physique just now? It was… impressive, wasn’t it?”
She pictured that waist—tapered, powerful, and lean. Every time she caught a glimpse of his bare skin, she had to fight the urge to let her eyes linger a second too long.
“…” Jiang Fusheng nearly levitated off the mattress. “Do you think I have the guts of a leopard? You think I’d dare look at the Young Master’s abs?”
“Then you truly missed out,” Lu Zhiling teased, a hint of genuine regret in her tone.
“Zhiling! That’s your husband!” Fusheng hissed, scandalized. “How can you talk to an outsider about missing out on your husband’s body?”
Husband? The word felt foreign. Lu Zhiling looked down at the diamond ring on her finger. Like the jewelry, their marriage was a temporary ornament, a contract written in ink rather than blood. It didn’t belong to her.
“Alright, sleep,” Lu Zhiling said, patting her friend’s shoulder. “Since you’re so terrified of him, starting tomorrow you’ll help Uncle Feng manage the teahouse. And help me track down that motorcycle.”
Her ultimate goal never changed: reclaiming the Lu family’s lost legacy.
As the lights died and the room fell into a heavy, velvet darkness, Fusheng’s voice drifted through the air. “Zhiling… you’re so soft. If I were the Young Master, I’d want to hold you every single night.”
“Shut up. Sleep.”
The morning sun spilled across Bo Wang’s bed, illuminating the sharp, erotic lines of his back muscles. He lay half-submerged in the sheets, the blanket slung low across his hips.
A faint, crystalline melody drifted into the room.
He listened with hooded eyes for a long moment before rising. Following the sound, he found her on the south-facing terrace. Lu Zhiling sat before a guzheng [A traditional Chinese zither with 21 strings], her profile etched against the morning light. Her hair was tucked neatly behind her ears, and her fingers, fitted with plectrums [Small picks used for plucking strings], danced across the silk. The wide, gauze sleeves of her robe swayed with her movements, lending her an ethereal, scholarly beauty that seemed to quiet the very air.
In the distance, the low groan of a ship’s horn on the Qingjiang River harmonized with the ancient strings.
Bo Wang stood frozen, lost in the sight of her bathed in that “velvety glow”—a woman who looked like a painting brought to life.
Lu Zhiling hit a discordant note and paused. Catching his reflection in her periphery, she rested her palms on the vibrating strings to silence them and turned with a radiant smile. “Good morning.”
Bo Wang’s pupils dilated. A sudden, sharp hunger gnawed at him—one that had nothing to do with breakfast.
Lu Zhiling took in his shirtless form, her gaze darting away with a mix of helplessness and heat. Is it a crime to wear a shirt in this house? she wondered.
“It’s brisk today,” she said softly, avoiding his bare chest. “Don’t catch a cold.
Than she asked him as if to divert her own mind .Do you have an interest in the music?”
“Just looking,” he replied tersely.
“Grandma gave me this guzheng. I’m just practicing. Did I wake you up just now?”
“No.” He turned away, his silence an invitation to follow.
“Go wash up,” she called after him. “I’ll heat up breakfast so we can eat together.”
“Fine,” he muttered lazily.
When he emerged, dressed but still carrying that dangerous, predatory energy, the table was set. Lu Zhiling sat focused on peeling a hard-boiled egg, her slender fingers working with delicate precision. She handed the white sphere to him naturally, a domestic gesture that felt strangely intimate.
“Did you make this?” he asked, taking a bite.
“Fusheng did before she left.”
They ate in a companionable silence, the only sound the clink of porcelain. Bo Wang noticed the flowers in the vase had been changed—fresh, vibrant, and full of life. It felt less like a cold mansion and more like a home.
“Bo Wang,” Lu Zhiling said, sliding her phone across the table. “Want to play a game?”
He glanced at the screen. It was loud, colorful, and clearly designed for toddlers. He tapped start, and a cheery, synthesized female voice piped up: “Little friend! Please click on the character you hear: ‘Yao’!”
Bo Wang’s expression went dead. He looked at her with a chilling calm. “Lu Zhiling, if you’re tired of living, you don’t have to go to these lengths. I can kill you quite easily. I’m a very kind man.”
Yes, the kindest villain in the world, she thought. Aloud, she said, “It’s literacy software. It just wants to see where you are so we can start building your foundation.”
“Crazy.” He tossed the phone aside.
Lu Zhiling caught it and leaned in, her eyes wide and pleading, her voice dropping into a soft, persuasive lilt. “Just for a moment? Please? For me?”
If he couldn’t pass a basic literacy test, how could he ever navigate the shark-infested waters of the Bo family business?
Bo Wang watched her, his gaze darkening as he toyed with the Buddhist prayer beads on his wrist—a stark contrast to the violence he was capable of. “I’ll do your test. But first… meow for me. Like a cat.”
Lu Zhiling felt a flush of heat crawl up her neck. Where does he get these twisted ideas?
“Fine, if you don’t want to…” He started to pull away.
“I’ll do it!”
She steeled herself. She curled her fist by her cheek, tilted her head, and let her hair fall over her shoulder. With a stiff, embarrassed smile, she let out a soft, breathy sound. “Meow~”
The sound was “bone-deep”—a vibration that seemed to settle right in the pit of Bo Wang’s stomach. His tongue brushed against his teeth. In that moment, a dark, possessive urge flared within him—to find a silken rope, tie her to the bedposts, and never let her leave this room again.
“…”
The silence was deafeningly awkward.
Lu Zhiling quickly pulled her hand back and shoved the phone into his grasp. Bo Wang stared at her for a long beat before he began tapping the screen with aggressive speed.
The phone kept chirping: “Good job, little kid!”
Finally, the results popped up. “Congratulations! Your vocabulary is approximately 1400 characters! You’re doing great! Keep it up!”
“Keep it up, my ass,” Bo Wang hissed.
But Lu Zhiling was beaming. “1,400 characters? And you taught yourself? Without a single teacher? Bo Wang, that’s incredible. I truly admire you.”
She wasn’t faking. Her eyes were bright with genuine wonder. She remembered how her brother used to coax her into her studies with the same honeyed praise.
Bo Wang leaned over the table, his shadow looming over her, his eyes cold. “Are you flattering me, Lu Zhiling? Even the servants here have degrees. Are you mocking me?”
“I’m not,” she insisted, meeting his icy stare. “Anyone can learn with a tutor. But you survived the dark and learned this on your own. That takes a brilliance most people don’t possess. With your talent, mastering the rest will be a piece of cake.”
The ice in his gaze thawed, just a fraction.
“You want to tutor me?”
“Yes.”
He scoffed. “Your own education stopped when you were fifteen.”
She had gone blind then, her formal schooling cut short. The semi-literate teaching the illiterate, he thought.
Lu Zhiling didn’t flinch. “It’s true. I didn’t even finish the Gifted Youth Program [A prestigious, accelerated track in Chinese universities for child prodigies]. I can only give you a basic foundation. I hope you won’t mind my lack of credentials.”
Gifted Youth Program? Bo Wang frowned. He pulled out his own phone to look it up.
Damn. She wasn’t just a dropout; she was a genius who had hit a wall of tragedy.
Before he could refuse, she led him to his large conference desk. It was covered in stacks of calligraphy practice books [Mi Zi Ge: Grid paper used for practicing Chinese characters to ensure balance and stroke order]. There were even phonetic learning machines and elementary textbooks.
“I thought about using standard primary school books,” she said, piling on the praise, “but you’ve already mastered complex management and architecture through observation. Those would be too boring for you. So, I turned SG Group’s internal business documents into calligraphy templates. You can practice your writing while familiarizing yourself with the company’s operations. A two-pronged attack.”
She even pulled over a cabinet stocked with his favorite snacks and a massage chair. “If you get tired, we can take a break.”
Bo Wang felt like he was being played, but her “coaxing” was so comfortable, so warm, that he found himself sitting down. He took the fountain pen she offered. His grip was awkward—heavy-handed like a child’s—but he started to write.
Lu Zhiling leaned down beside him, her hand covering his. Her fingers were cool and soft, her fragrance—something like plum blossoms and rain—filling his lungs.
“Too much force,” she whispered, her breath tickling his ear as she adjusted his grip. “Relax. Let the pen breathe.”
Bo Wang’s breath hitched. He watched her fingers manipulate his, the intimacy of the touch sending a jolt through him.
“Try again.” She stepped back, and the warmth left with her.
Irritated by the loss, Bo Wang scrawled the next characters with a scowl. Lu Zhiling leaned in again, her chest nearly brushing his shoulder. She guided his hand through a stroke. “Heavy at the start, light at the end. See? Your handwriting is naturally beautiful; it just needs a little polish.”
He looked up. Her lips were inches from his.
She continued to hover, pouring him water, massaging the tension from his shoulders, and layering praise upon praise. Bo Wang found himself falling into the rhythm, writing ten, fifteen, twenty pages without realizing it.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, looking over his work. “We need a ‘hit’ project within two months to solidify your position. Movies take too long. A TV series or a variety show?”
“You’ve already decided on a TV series,” Bo Wang said, not looking up.
Lu Zhiling blinked. “How did you know?”
He gestured to the calligraphy sheets he’d just finished. “You put sixty percent more drama industry data in these templates than variety show stats. Your bias is showing.”
He twirled the pen, finally looking her in the eye. “Most domestic dramas are filmed and aired simultaneously now. Two months is tight, but doable for a launch. But Lu Zhiling… I didn’t realize you were such a gambler. You’re betting everything on a single premiere?”
She was stunned. He hadn’t just been copying characters; he had been analyzing the data, calculating production cycles, and reading her mind.
She remembered what Grandma Bo had said: He was a genius before the accident. He could read at three, recite poems at four. The accident hadn’t destroyed his brain; it had just buried his potential under years of trauma and “crooked” living.
“I want to try,” she said, her voice firm. “Bo Wang, I believe we won’t lose.”
She said “we.”
Bo Wang looked up at her, the word echoing in the quiet room, a strange, new weight settling in his chest.