Jiang Fusheng collapsed onto the floor hearing this question, as her face drained of all color. She raised both hands, shaping them unconsciously into a large, perfectly rounded zero.
“…”
Lu Zhiling’s long eyelashes trembled faintly. “Isn’t there… an exception?”
“There is favoritism. There are exceptions,” Jiang Fusheng said hoarsely. “But only for those the young master loves. And you—”
She could not finish the sentence. Everyone around knew the truth: Lu Zhiling had married into the Bo family because she was pregnant.
They were husband and wife in name, yet the eldest young master had never held even the slightest affection for her.
“Let me think,” Lu Zhiling said quietly.
Her gaze shifted, thoughtful yet calm. “Fusheng, help me destroy the wig and those clothes first.”
She paused before continuing, her voice steady. “No one should recognize me. I changed my makeup, kept my head lowered the entire time—it’s unlikely anyone noticed. But if you appeared at the Black Spade Club, there will definitely be questioning.”
(The Black Spade Club was a high-end private club frequented by elites—any disturbance there was never simple.)
“And with your straightforward temperament,” she added gently, “you wouldn’t be able to withstand an interrogation.”
She needed to cut off the danger before it reached him—before Bo Wang turned his attention toward Jiang Fusheng.
“Oh—okay!” Jiang Fusheng had already panicked. She scrambled to her feet and rushed out.
Lu Zhiling remained seated.
She lifted her head slightly, watching the sheer curtain sway as the night breeze slipped through the window. Her lips pressed together, and a faint metallic taste bloomed on her tongue.
If one could be biased and make exceptions for those they loved… then what about those who loved them?
Without favoritism, without exceptions—how much tolerance could there be?
Perhaps none. But at least without tolerance, there would be no hatred, no deliberate scrutiny.
Before her thoughts could settle, the door was suddenly pushed open.
Jiang Fusheng stood there, face ashen. “It’s bad. I heard Butler Wen downstairs say that the eldest young master has returned.”
“…”
Lu Zhiling twisted the fabric at her cuffs tightly.
The night atop Sacred Mountain was deep and heavy, the air saturated with floral fragrance.
Wen Da hurried forward with several servants in tow. Just as he reached the car, the glossy black door opened from inside and Bo Wang stepped out.
His face was expressionless not giving any hint of his inner thoughts.
“Young Master,” Wen Da wiped the sweat from his brow seeing this and said . “The kitchen has prepared a late-night snack for you. Is there anything else you’d like to eat—”
Bo Wang did not spare him a glance. He strode straight inside, his footsteps echoing sharply against the polished floor as he ascended the stairs.
Wen Da froze.
Was the young master… returning to his bridal chamber?
Bo Wang did not slow down until he reached the third floor. His footsteps resonated through the long corridor.
Recahing to his destination he lifted his eyes slowly.
The door he sought stood ahead.
His gaze darkened, excitement coiling beneath the surface. A dangerous smile curved faintly at his lips.
People who wanted to be beaten by him were common every where ,but the people who wanted to die were rare.
And tonight will be the night when there must be a death.
He lit a cigarette, drew it between his lips, and exhaled lazily as he approached the room.
Before he reached the door, voices drifted out from inside.
“Young Madam, I’m truly sorry,” Jiang Fusheng said guiltily. “You asked me to bring the tea master from the teahouse to deliver tea to the young master, but I couldn’t.”
(The tea master referred to a specialist from a traditional teahouse, someone trained in brewing tea according to classical methods.)
Bo Wang’s eyes darkened.
He did not enter. Instead, he leaned against the wall.
“He’s not there. It’s not your fault,” Lu Zhiling replied softly.
Her voice was gentle, unhurried, entirely without resentment.
Bo Wang narrowed his eyes.
That voice—soft resistance, faint and restrained—overlapped with fragments from that chaotic night.
Jiang Fusheng asked again, confused, “But it was clearly you who wanted to send tea to the young master. Why did you insist I say it came from home? Even if he wasn’t there, I could have asked the club manager to pass along your concern.”
“He misunderstands me,” Lu Zhiling said calmly. “My concern would only make him uncomfortable.”
Her tone remained mild. “I only wanted him to drink some tea—to sober up.”
“Everyone in the household says you’re using your pregnancy to climb higher,” Jiang Fusheng said hesitantly. “But I feel like you truly like the eldest young master. You like him… very carefully.”
“…”
Bo Wang bit down on his cigarette, eyes filled with cold mockery.
So his new wife was laying groundwork, weaving sentiment into survival.
Without seduction, how could she remain in the Bo family?
And liking him?
Ridiculous.
Inside the room, Lu Zhiling was silent for a few seconds. Then she smiled faintly.
“I don’t know if it counts as liking,” she said softly. “But I’ve known him for a long time.”
“Huh?”
“When I was little, I learned to paint,” she continued. “I once saw an online painting called Newborn. It depicted ducklings breaking free from their shells.”
“I was drawn to it immediately. I thought the painter who paints it must be incredibly talented and interesting. I kept pestering my parents to let me become their student.”
She smiled gently. “They told me it was painted by the eldest son of the Bo family. He was only a child back then.”
Jiang Fusheng asked curiously, “So… what did you keep pestering them about?”
Lu Zhiling paused, embarrassed. “I kept pestering them to let me marry him.”
“…”
Bo Wang nearly choked on his cigarette.
What an unusual method of seduction.
He turned sharply and entered the room.
Jiang Fusheng jumped to her feet in shock when she saw him enter . “Young Master—”
Lu Zhiling also stood up abruptly, panic flashing across her face.
“Get out.”
Bo Wang’s voice was low and magnetic, devoid of any warmth.
Jiang Fusheng fled the room without hesitation.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Bo Wang than turned to his legal wife.
She stood barefoot on the carpet, long hair cascading loosely over her shoulders. Her features were delicate, her expression unsettled—only her eyes remained dull, unfocused.
She wore a red satin nightdress (a traditional bridal color symbolizing fortune and marriage), cut short at the knees. The fabric clung softly, the V-shaped neckline framing her collarbone, the belt cinching her slender waist.
Bo Wang stared at her for a long moment, then tugged at his collar irritably.
“Tell me,” he said coldly, “how did a single painting convince you to marry me?”
Mockery laced his voice.
“…I just thought it was interesting,” Lu Zhiling replied after a pause.
“Never seen a duck lay an egg?”
“No.” She shook her head. “In that painting, the first thing the duckling saw was the sunrise over the sea. The first sound it heard was its shell cracking…”
She spoke slowly, absorbed in memory.
Bo Wang stubbed out his cigarette, picked up the fruit knife from the table, and approached her step by step.
“…On the shore,” she continued softly, “there was a tiny crab claw poking out of the sand…”
The blade flashed.
He stopped the knife just before her eye.
A lock of her hair fluttered down, cleanly severed.
She did not move.
A faint smile lingered on her lips. “The painting is about birth. But really, it’s about new life. Even the sunrise.”
Silence.
Bo Wang froze.
So it wasn’t her.
The person at the Black Spade Club were not her.
Lu Zhiling blinked. “You… are you standing in front of me?”
The knife clattered to the floor.
She startled, shrinking back. “What did you throw—”
Bo Wang seized her chin without warning, his fingers tightening at her throat.
The strength in his grip was terrifyingly precise—not crushing, not careless, but controlled, as though he knew exactly how much force was needed to make her breath falter without snapping it entirely. Lu Zhiling’s inhale caught sharply in her chest, her pulse slamming against his fingers.
The night air pouring in through the open window was icy, slicing against her overheated skin.
For a moment, she thought he would tighten his grip.
Instead, he loosened it.
His hand slid lower, the pressure at her throat easing into something almost deceptive. His thumb brushed slowly across her lips, tracing their shape as if memorizing them, as if testing whether they would tremble beneath his touch.
His voice dropped, low and intimate, carrying a faint, dangerous amusement.
“You fell for me,” he murmured, “because of a painting?”
“…Yes.”
Her answer came softly, but it did not retreat.
Bo Wang’s gaze locked onto her face, sharp and searching, as if trying to peel her open layer by layer. Lu Zhiling lowered her eyes under that scrutiny, her lashes casting faint shadows against her pale cheeks.
“I know I’m not worthy,” she said quietly.
Each word seemed to cost her something.
“I know you think this is a trap. I know you don’t believe there was no calculation behind this.” Her fingers curled slowly at her sides, nails biting into her palms. “I also know who you are… and who I am.”
Her voice trembled despite her effort to steady it.
She swallowed, her throat tightening again—this time not from his hand, but from the weight of what she was saying.
“If I could choose,” she continued, her voice growing thinner, “I wouldn’t want this child. I never wanted to use it to trouble you.”
The words came out fractured, imperfect, painfully honest.
She drew in a shallow breath, forcing herself to go on.
“I like you,” she said. “I want to understand you. I want to know what kind of person you are, beyond what everyone fears.” Her lips pressed together briefly before she added, almost in a whisper, “But I will leave when the time comes. I won’t cling to you. I won’t force myself into your world.”
She lifted her head at last.
Her eyes were red at the rims, moisture clinging stubbornly to her lashes. Tears trembled there, unshed—not because they weren’t there, but because she refused to let them fall.
Bo Wang stared at her.
For the first time, there was a crack—so faint it was almost imperceptible—in the composure he wore like armor.
Something shifted.
The mockery in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something darker, heavier, and far more dangerous. His hand slid from her chin to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair as he pulled her abruptly into his arms.
The force of it stole her balance.
Before she could react, his lips came down on hers.
Hard.
Not gentle, not exploratory—possessive, claiming, as though he were trying to silence her words, her resolve, and the fragile courage she had just laid bare.
The kiss carried no tenderness.
Only dominance.
Only hunger.
And the unmistakable warning that once he stepped into her space, there would be no retreat untouched.