The atmosphere in the bedroom was thick with a heavy, suffocating silence. Ding Yujun and Jiang Fusheng stood like statues, paralyzed by the sight of Bo Wang—the cold, untouchable heir—feeding Lu Zhiling with such raw, mouth-to-mouth intimacy.
Jiang Fusheng was the first to snap; she spun around, her back to the bed, her face burning with the shame of witnessing something so private. Bo Wang sat there, his expression souring into a mask of dark irritation. He was used to her being the submissive, quiet doll, but the moment she was delirious with fever, her hidden thorns came out. She wasn’t just refusing him; she had actually raised her hand to strike him.
“Zhiling is just… she’s lost in the fever,” Ding Yujun whispered, trying to smooth over the tension for the sake of the girl on the bed.
Bo Wang didn’t reply. His jaw tightened as he aggressively chewed the remaining Haitang Gao [Begonia Pastry], his eyes fixed on the pale woman who had dared to slap him.
“It’s so strange,” Jiang Fusheng murmured, still keeping her back turned. “The pastry was made by a master chef. Why does she crave it so much yet reject the taste the moment it touches her tongue?”
“Is she searching for a flavor she can’t quite name?” Ding Yujun wondered aloud, her heart aching. “Perhaps we should have the kitchen try other Jiangnan [South of the Yangtze] delicacies. But there are hundreds… how do we choose?”
“Uncle Feng,” Jiang Fusheng suggested suddenly. “Feng Zhen has been by her side for years. He must know.”
Half an hour later, Feng Zhen was ushered into the gilded cage of the Bo estate. The sight of Lu Zhiling—frail, broken, and shivering under the weight of her trauma—sent a sharp sting to his nose.
“Miss isn’t looking for a master chef’s recipe,” Feng Zhen said, his voice thick with unshed tears. “She is craving the Haitang Gao that the late Madam used to make.”
Bo Wang’s gaze shifted to him, dark and predatory.
“Madam was never very skilled in the kitchen,” Feng Zhen explained softly. “The pastries she made were… strange. No one else liked them. But Miss, she was so afraid Madam would be sad that she would eat every single one, smiling and telling her mother they were the best in the world. So, Madam kept making them, just for her.”
The room went silent. It wasn’t about the food. It was about the mother she had lost to the flames.
Ding Yujun’s eyes grew moist as she tucked the silk duvet tighter around the girl. “How much has this child suffered? Even in her dreams, she doesn’t dare call out for her mother.”
Bo Wang didn’t offer a word of comfort. He stood abruptly, his presence cutting through the sentimentality like a blade. “Come with me,” he commanded Feng Zhen.
He led the way out, past the family members still huddled in the lobby. He didn’t spare them a glance. He headed straight for the specialized pastry kitchen. Once inside, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing his powerful forearms, and slammed a bag of flour onto the stainless steel table.
“Speak,” he said, his voice like cold iron.
“Speak… about what?” Feng Zhen stammered.
“The pastry. Describe the taste.”
Feng Zhen scrambled to remember. “The ingredients were simple, but Madam loved to innovate. Instead of the traditional red bean paste, she used a blend of two different honeys. It smelled like heaven, but the taste was… mismatched. Clashing.”
Outside, the servants were in a flurry. Yu Yunfei watched the commotion with a frown. “What now?”
“The Young Mistress wants a specific childhood flavor,” a servant replied breathlessly. “The Young Master is in the kitchen himself.”
Xia Meiqing let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. “Zhengrong, you might as well hand the keys to the kingdom to Lu Zhiling now. Look at how they worship her.”
Bo Zhengrong didn’t look up from his tea, his face ashen. “Are you quite finished being a nuisance? The old lady is making a point. She is showing us that Lu Zhiling is untouchable. If you want to keep your place in this house, you’ll pray for that girl’s recovery.”
Inside the pastry room, fine white flour hung in the air like a mist. Bo Wang had removed his Fo Zhu [prayer beads], his long, elegant fingers working the dough with a practiced, rhythmic violence.
“There were scallions, too,” Feng Zhen added, watching in awe as the billionaire heir kneaded the flour. “Madam said it ‘heightened the soul’ of the sugar, but it was just… odd.”
The kitchen became a laboratory of grief. Bo Wang worked through the night, his face a mask of absolute focus. He forced the chefs to create every possible combination of honey—jasmine, clover, wildflower—while Feng Zhen tasted them all, marking the failures with a grimace.
Six hours passed. The sky turned a bruised gray. Feng Zhen was near collapse, his cheeks aching from tasting dozens of experimental batches. Bo Wang stood over him, flour dusting his dark shirt, his eyes gleaming with a sinister, sleep-deprived intensity.
“Try it,” Bo Wang ordered, holding out a fresh pastry.
Feng Zhen took a bite. His eyes widened. The sweetness hit his tongue—cloying, almost too much, followed by the strange, sharp kick of the scallions. “This is it! This is Madam’s taste!”
Bo Wang’s thin lips pressed into a hard line. “The scallions were the key,” he muttered. It was a culinary disaster, but to Lu Zhiling, it was the taste of home.
At dawn, Bo Wang returned to the bedroom. He looked wretched—his trousers white with flour, his sleeves pushed up to reveal fresh, red burns on his arms from the hot oil.
Lu Zhiling was still caught in the throes of a nightmare. He sat on the edge of the bed and broke off a piece of the warm cake. “It’s the Haitang Gao. Eat.”
She opened her mouth like a fledgling bird, her tongue grazing his scorched fingertips. The contact sent a jolt through him, a spark of heat that had nothing to do with the stove. She didn’t chew at first; she simply held the flavor in her mouth, her body going still.
Then, the first tear fell.
“Mom…” she whimpered.
In the dark theater of her mind, she was back in the sunlit living room. Her mother was laughing, her brothers were teasing her, and the world was whole. Then, the sky turned black. The laughter turned to screams. The scent of pastries was replaced by the stench of burning flesh and gasoline.
“No… come back… all of you, come out!” she screamed in her sleep. She began to thrash, her fingernails digging into the silk sheets, searching for a hand to hold.
Bo Wang pulled her into his arms, pinning her against his chest to stop her from hurting herself. But she fought him, her nails raking across the fresh burns on his arms, peeling away skin in her blind panic. He hissed in pain but didn’t let go.
“Behave, Lu Zhiling,” he growled into her hair. “If you’re good, I’ll give you another piece.”
The mention of the pastry acted like a sedative. She slumped against him, her hand sliding beneath his shirt, seeking the solid heat of his skin. Her nails, tipped with her own dried blood, traced a faint, shivering line across his waist.
The sensation was agonizing—an electric, itchy thrill that made Bo Wang’s blood simmer. He gripped the back of her neck, his teeth bared. “Are you trying to kill me, Lu Zhiling?”
She didn’t answer. She simply clung to him, her small hand firm against his skin. He fed her the rest of the cake piece by piece, his eyes never leaving her face. She chewed slowly, tears streaming silently into the fabric of his shirt.
When the cake was gone, he tried to lay her back down, but the moment his warmth receded, her brow pinched in a look of unbearable grievance. She reached out, her hand groping for him, pulling him back into her space.
“Hug me…” she whispered, her voice broken and small. “Please… don’t leave me in the dark.”
Bo Wang’s heart, usually a cold, hollow thing, gave a heavy, irregular thud. He climbed into the bed beside her, pulling her small, shivering body flush against his. She burrowed into him, her face pressed against his pulse, her hands wandering beneath his clothes to find the sanctuary of his back.
In the quiet of the morning, surrounded by the hum of medical monitors, he held the girl who had both slapped him and sought him out as her only anchor.