The office was a vacuum of silence, insulated from the roaring crowds fifty floors below. Here, the scent of expensive sandalwood incense fought a losing battle against the sharp, metallic tang of blood. Lu Zhiling stood paralyzed for a heartbeat, her eyes fixed on the man who sat like a wounded emperor on the black leather sofa.
“A woman, soaked in her own life-force, pushed me out of that car inch by bloody inch,” Bo Wang said. His voice didn’t shake; it was worse—it was hollow, as if the boy who had survived that crash was still standing on that mountain road, watching the world burn. “Her mouth was a ruin; she couldn’t scream, she could only wave for me to run. I walked forward as if under a spell. Then, the explosion happened. A severed arm flew through the air and landed right in front of my feet. Even then, that hand seemed to be pointing the way, telling me to keep going.”
Lu Zhiling listened, her gaze dimming with a sudden, painful empathy. She understood the Shouxing (The wounded animal nature) of the man before her. He was referring to the car accident that had claimed his mother when he was only five years old. It was the original sin of the Bo family, a tragedy whispered about in the halls of the Haomen (Hyper Mansions) but never spoken of with such brutal clarity.
“She drove me away to keep me alive,” Bo Wang said, leaning back. The movement pulled at the wound on his waist, and he hissed through his teeth—a sound of raw pain that made Lu Zhiling’s heart skip. “I owe her a life. Taking her inheritance back from the man who betrayed her—from my own father—is my only way of settling that debt. Every drop of blood I spill is a payment on that loan.”
Lu Zhiling stepped forward, her movement as fluid as silk. She took out a fresh roll of gauze, her hands steady despite the chaos in her mind. “That’s not how you calculate the bond between a mother and son,” she whispered, her voice like a cool balm in the feverish room. “I believe your mother would rather you live a Jiankang (Healthy) and happy life than watch you turn your body into a graveyard for her inheritance.”
Mother. The word was a forbidden incantation. Bo Wang’s eyes lowered, staring at her with a raw, naked intensity that felt like a physical weight against her skin.
“Besides,” Lu Zhiling continued, her fingers grazing the heat of his skin as she applied the antiseptic, “once you have absolute control over the conglomerate, taking back what is yours will be effortless. There is no need to rush into your own ruin. You are the hunter, Bo Wang. Don’t let them turn you into the prey.”
Bo Wang gazed at her for a long time, the shadows under his brow making his eyes look like deep, unlit wells. Then, a slow, dark smile curved his thin lips. “I’ve been watching the live broadcast of the premiere,” he said. Even while bleeding out, he had watched her. He had seen her dismantle Chen Xueran and the “Old Guard” with the precision of a master surgeon.
His woman was no pushover. She had set the industry on fire, leaving Yu Yunfei and Xia Meiqing—the conspirators behind the scenes—practically spitting blood in their private villas.
“Speaking of which,” Lu Zhiling said, setting the medical scissors aside. She reached for the roll of medical tape, her face mere inches from his. “What do you think about Chen Xueran? For the sake of your reputation, you must sever all ties now. She didn’t just fail you; she tried to bury you.”
“And if I don’t?” Bo Wang’s eyes narrowed. He was searching for the Cu-yi (The smell of vinegar/jealousy). Was this the calculated move of a secretary, or the possessive streak of a wife?
“I don’t think she’s the type to care about her name,” Lu Zhiling replied, refusing to take the bait. “But if she truly liked you, she would have protected you. Instead, she became a dagger held by your enemies. Why keep a broken weapon?”
Bo Wang’s hand shot out, his fingers encircling her wrist like an iron manacle. He pulled her closer, until the heat radiating from his chest warmed her face. “Never mind,” he rasped. “We’ll have to go downstairs eventually. The world is waiting for a corpse, but I intend to show them a King.”
Lu Zhiling looked at the messy gauze on his chin. She reached out, her soft fingertips pressing the bandage down to smooth it. The touch was electric; it didn’t hurt him, but it ignited a deep, maddening itch in his soul.
Bo Wang’s eyes darkened to a void. He tightened his grip, his thumb tracing the pulse point in her wrist. “Come here,” he commanded, his voice a low, obsessive rumble that vibrated in the small space. “Kiss me.”
Lu Zhiling looked at him helplessly. A sea of media awaited them below, he was literally bleeding from a knife wound, and yet his mind was focused on the curve of her neck. She knelt on the sofa between his sprawling legs, placing a hand on his shoulder for balance.
Thinking of the scandalous bed photos—those manufactured images of him with another woman—she felt a surge of uncharacteristic rebellion. She avoided his lips. Instead, she pressed her mouth against his prominent Adam’s apple—the most vulnerable, masculine point of his throat.
Bo Wang’s breath hitched violently. The sound was a low growl of surprise and surrender. As she tried to pull away, his large hand moved to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the hair held by her Haitang (Begonia) hairpin, forcing her back down.
She lost her balance, her hand sliding down his firm chest—slick with the spilled wine he had been drinking and the copper stain of his blood—until it came to rest against the hard, narrow curve of his waist. He reeked of iron, medicine, and the raw, intoxicating scent of a man who had just survived a battle.
“Just a little longer,” he whispered, his voice broken and husky. He wasn’t asking; he was pleading in the only way a man like him knew how.
She moved her lips from his throat to his collarbone, her tongue tracing the line of his bone through the thin fabric of his opened shirt. Bo Wang’s breathing became ragged, a heavy, desperate sound that filled the lounge. For a moment, the power dynamic shifted; the Secretary was the one holding the life of the CEO in her hands.
Finally, she rested her forehead against the crook of his neck, her heart hammering against his ribs. She didn’t want to cause more bleeding, but the heat between them was a wildfire.
“Find me some clothes,” he said eventually, his voice regaining its steel. “I’m going down to finish this.”
Bo Wang donned a satin black shirt and a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. On any other man, it would look like office wear; on him, it looked like armor. Even with the slight paleness of his skin from the blood loss, he possessed a lethal elegance that no celebrity could mimic.
As they reached the glass doors leading to the lobby, Lu Zhiling felt a surge of cold anxiety. “Are you going to clarify things?” she asked, her voice hushed.
Bo Wang didn’t answer. He simply watched her silhouette in the glass. Suddenly, he spun her around, pinning her against the cold, transparent door. The bright lights of the long corridor illuminated them like a stage. He lowered his head to her ear, his breath hot. “Lu Zhiling… are you so afraid of me having an affair with that woman?”
“It would ruin the Bo family’s stock,” she managed to say, her breath coming in short gasps.
“Is that all?” He chuckled, a deep, sexy sound. “You’re a jealous woman, Secretary Lu. Own it.”
He leaned down and did something scandalous—he bit the begonia hairpin from her hair with his teeth, letting her long, black hair cascade down like a silken waterfall over her shoulders. He pressed his lips to her neck, the sensation of his mouth through the thin gauze of her dress more intense than skin-on-skin.
He didn’t care about the cameras. He didn’t care that they were steps away from a national scandal. He turned her around and kissed her with a fierce, possessive hunger that made her legs go weak.
“I haven’t touched another woman, wife,” he murmured against her lips, his hand sliding down to her ring finger to caress her hidden wedding band.
They were unaware that in the lobby, a panicked technician—or perhaps a silent ally—had switched the preview for the second episode to the live surveillance feed of the top-floor corridor.
The entire room of reporters, executives, and rivals went dead silent. On the massive 4K screen, the “cold and heartless” heir of the Bo family was seen in a cinematic embrace, biting off his secretary’s hairpin and kissing her with a passion that suggested they were the only two people left on earth.
“Wife?” Ji Jing, Bo Wang’s playboy friend, sat in his hotel room watching the feed, his jaw dropping so low his cigarette fell onto his bare foot. “Holy crap… she’s the real sister-in-law! I almost hit on the Queen!”
When the glass doors finally hissed open, the media swarmed like a hive of disturbed hornets. But they weren’t met with a flustered secretary. They were met with Bo Wang, who held Lu Zhiling’s hand with a grip that brooked no argument.
“Mr. Bo, what is your relationship with Chen Xueran?” a reporter stammered, his voice trembling.
Bo Wang’s legal team, led by the top lawyer in the country, stepped forward like a phalanx of dark knights. They began handing out lawsuits for defamation as if they were party favors. The reporters, realizing they had been filming the CEO’s actual wife all along, began to bow and apologize in waves—a sea of black suits bobbing in frantic Daoqian (Apology).
“Mr. Bo, your chin…” someone whispered, noticing the band-aid.
Bo Wang touched the bandage Lu Zhiling had placed there. He looked at her with a teasing, roguish glint in his eyes that the cameras captured for all of China to see. “We kissed too hard,” he said coolly. “I didn’t want anyone to see the evidence of how much my wife adores me.”
The lobby was stunned. It wasn’t just a PR move; it was a total annihilation of the scandal.
A reporter, shaking, held up a mic. “Mrs. Bo, can you tell us—”
Lu Zhiling took the microphone. Her eyes were no longer those of a subservient secretary. They were cold, brilliant, and held the weight of a thousand years of ancestry.
“My surname is Lu,” she said, each word a strike of a bronze bell. “I am Lu Zhiling, of the Lu family from Changlin District, Jiangnan. My family has seen dynasties rise and fall. Do you truly think a cheap actress and a few fabricated photos could disturb my house? Remember my name. You won’t get another chance to forget it.”
The silence that followed was absolute. The “Secretary” was gone. In her place stood the Matriarch of the Bo family, a woman whose roots in the scholarly south ran deeper than any corporate empire.