Moonlight slipped through the sheer curtain, pale and quiet. Her long hair spilled loose over Bo Wang’s hand as he gripped her tightly, strands brushing against his knuckles like silk.
Lu Zhiling didn’t resist.
Only her long lashes trembled faintly, her cheeks slowly blooming into a fragile, pale pink—betraying the storm she kept buried beneath the surface.
Bo Wang’s dark eyes pinned her in place, capturing every tiny reaction. His tongue pried her lips open, seizing her softness with merciless precision before invading without hesitation.
She froze.
Then, as if something inside her snapped, she tilted her head back, chasing him instead—greedily seeking his lips, his tongue, breathlessly clinging to the contact.
“…”
She really dared.
Bo Wang grabbed the back of her neck and yanked her away, his grip firm, possessive. His gaze dropped to her swollen, reddened lips, heat surging sharply up his spine and settling thickly in his throat.
He forced himself to suppress the urge to go further—to take more.
Instead, he leaned in again, this time only brushing his lips lightly against hers, barely touching, the restraint more dangerous than violence.
“You really like me that much?” he asked softly, voice low and rough.
“If you don’t believe me,” she replied without hesitation, breath still unsteady, “I’ll say it as many times as you want…”
“What if I told you to die?”
He cut her off mid-sentence.
His tone was flat—no anger, no mockery. Just cold certainty.
The wind outside abruptly stilled.
The gauze window curtain (a thin paper or fabric divider common in traditional-style rooms) drifted back into place soundlessly, as though the world itself had gone quiet.
Lu Zhiling had prepared herself for many reactions. She had rehearsed them in her mind countless times.
But this—
She was still stunned.
“What…?” Her voice came out faint.
“Heh.”
Bo Wang looked down at her expression, gave a short, derisive laugh, then released her without warning and turned away.
He didn’t explain.
He didn’t look back.
Lu Zhiling stared at his retreating figure, confusion tightening in her chest.
What did he mean by that?
After a while, Jiang Fusheng slipped in quietly from outside, closed the door, and hurried over. “Young Master went to the study. He won’t be back for a while. How did it go? Did you pass his test?”
Only then did Lu Zhiling finally relax her hands, which had been clenched tightly at her sides the entire time.
Both palms were a mess.
Blood smeared the lines of her hands, flesh torn open, the skin unrecognizable. Crimson soaked the broken razor blades hidden in her grip.
“What… what are you doing?!” Jiang Fusheng stared at her in horror.
“Now that my eyesight has recovered,” Lu Zhiling said calmly, “I fear i will instinctively dodge when I see a fruit knife coming at me. This was the only way to focus.”
She had forced herself not to dodge, enduring the pain head-on.
She walked over, pulled out a tissue, wrapped the two broken razor blades inside, and handed them to Jiang Fusheng. “Dispose of them.”
“A fruit knife?” Jiang Fusheng froze before realization hit. “The young master stabbed you?”
“Yes.”
“You told me to put the fruit knife in the room… and you deliberately let him stab you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Jiang Fusheng asked, disbelief written all over her face.
Lu Zhiling washed the blood from her hands, watching the water turn pink, then fade as it spiraled down the drain.
When Jiang Fusheng said Bo Wang had suddenly returned, something already felt off.
Today, the Black Spade Club (a private, high-end social club) was crowded with guests. Only the main entrance had CCTV. The waiter who gave the wrong directions was far too busy to notice her entering that corridor.
It was unlikely the investigation would immediately trace back to her—or Jiang Fusheng.
Later, she realized the problem wasn’t the waiter.
If Jiang Fusheng had brought an ordinary tea master, Bo Wang wouldn’t have reacted so aggressively.
Jiang Fusheng wasn’t new to the Bo family. She knew the rules, the taboos, and how to explain them beforehand. If Lu Zhiling were truly just an ordinary tea master, Bo Wang wouldn’t have suspected a thing.
The problem was her.
Bo Wang had likely recognized her from the CCTV footage—not her face, but her figure. She was confident her disguise was flawless.
Which meant he remembered her body.
They had history. And in his eyes, if she had been pretending to be blind, then sticking two velvet flowers on his door would look like deliberate mockery.
(Velvet flowers were traditionally used in Chinese culture as hair ornaments or symbolic tokens; in this context, they carried ambiguous meaning—easily twisted into insult.)
Bo Wang’s sudden return was meant to confirm his suspicions.
So she struck first.
The fruit knife was a deliberate hint. And just as she expected, Bo Wang used it to test her.
Mentioning the painting, confessing affection—those were forced diversions, meant to shift his focus.
Even if she guessed wrong, the conclusion would still be the same:
She was the tea master. She was the one who left the flowers.
At worst, she would insist the flowers symbolized affection, not insult—anything to soothe him and prevent a violent backlash.
But it seemed Bo Wang had accepted another explanation.
That was why he didn’t interrogate Jiang Fusheng again.
After hearing all this, Jiang Fusheng was full of awe as she applied medicine to Lu Zhiling’s hands. “How could you think of all this so fast? You’re incredible.”
“It’s not over yet,” Lu Zhiling said quietly. “Go tell Uncle Feng to make two velvet flowers as soon as possible, so the club’s investigation can be closed. Hopefully, this will end as a false alarm.”
This was the best outcome she could imagine.
“Alright.” Jiang Fusheng glanced at her mangled hands, heart aching. “You’re far too cruel to yourself.”
“It’s nothing.”
Better she hurt herself than let Bo Wang hurt her.
“Zhiling…” Jiang Fusheng hesitated, curiosity creeping in. “Did you really have a crush on the young master when you were little?”
“No,” Lu Zhiling answered plainly. “I made it up.”
Jiang Fusheng’s jaw dropped. “You acted so convincingly, I thought it was real.”
Lu Zhiling smiled faintly, then found her thoughts drifting back to Bo Wang’s words earlier.
How could someone respond to a confession by telling someone to die?
What kind of man was he?
…
The study was sealed in silence.
Only a single lamp burned on the desk, its light shallow and restrained, barely pushing back the shadows that clung to the corners of the room. Bo Wang sat there unmoving, one elbow braced against the tabletop, fingers pressed to his temple as though the weight in his head refused to disperse.
The painting lay before him.
He had already looked at it countless times—yet he couldn’t stop.
The brushstrokes were rough, almost childish, lacking any polish. And yet, every detail was precise. The scattered shells, the uneven shoreline, even the absurd little crab claws half-buried in the sand—exactly as she had described them.
Not exaggerated. Not romanticized.
Accurate.
That was what irritated him the most.
He didn’t care about pedigree. Or appearances. Or whether someone loved him for who he was or what he represented. Those things bored him.
But this—
This painting had caught him off guard.
A knock broke the stillness.
Bo Wang’s gaze darkened instantly. Without lifting his head, he reached out and turned the painting face-down, as if hiding a weakness even from the walls.
“Come in.”
Butler Wen Da entered quietly, posture respectful as always. “Young Master, the Old Madam asks that you remain at home tonight. She would like you to have breakfast with the Young Madam tomorrow morning.”
Bo Wang didn’t respond immediately.
“What if I don’t?” he asked at last, tone idle, as though discussing something trivial.
Wen Da didn’t even blink. “Then I’ll prepare two ropes and hang them outside your door for the Old Master and Old Madam. Should we also move the Young Madam to another room? So she isn’t frightened.”
Bo Wang finally looked up.
His eyes were cold, sharp enough to cut.
“Tell the Old Madam,” he said calmly, “to stick out her tongue when she hangs herself. That way she’ll scare the woman into leaving.”
Silence.
Wen Da lowered his head even further. “Understood.”
“What are you waiting for?” Bo Wang snapped. “An invitation?”
“I’ll take my leave.”
The door closed.
The study returned to stillness.
Bo Wang leaned back slightly, eyes drifting once more to the desk.
He reached out—then stopped himself.
After a brief pause, he flipped the painting face-down again, as though denying himself even that much.
…
The bedroom lights were on when he entered.
Lu Zhiling sat on the sofa, a porcelain bowl cradled carefully in her hands. Steam curled faintly into the air, carrying the subtle sweetness of rock sugar bird’s nest soup (a traditional tonic, often used to restore strength and calm the body).
Her movements were unsteady.
Each time the spoon brushed the gauze wrapped around her palm, her fingers stiffened slightly, pain flashing through her before she forced it down again.
“Who’s there?” she asked, straightening her back as if she hadn’t heard him enter.
Bo Wang’s gaze went immediately to her hands.
The bandages were neat—but not clean. A faint stain had already bled through.
Then he saw the fruit knife resting nearby.
Understanding clicked into place.
His jaw tightened.
“Are you mentally unstable?” His voice was flat, but something sharp edged beneath it.
She turned toward him, lips curving into a small, careful smile. “I asked Fusheng to make bird’s nest soup for you. It’s still warm.”
“How did you know I’d stay?” His eyes darkened. There was warning there.
“I didn’t,” she replied simply.
He paused.
So whether he returned or not, she would prepare it anyway.
Annoying.
He didn’t respond. Instead, he walked past her toward the bathroom, fingers loosening the buttons of his shirt as he went, movements lazy, indifferent—like she wasn’t even there.
Lu Zhiling froze.
The light traced the lines of his body as fabric slipped away—shoulders broad, back taut, muscle shifting smoothly beneath skin marked by old scars. They weren’t dramatic, but they spoke of violence, of survival, of a life lived without softness.
Heat crept uninvited into her chest.
She hated it.
She couldn’t stop it.
Halfway to the bathroom, Bo Wang suddenly turned.
Their eyes met.
His gaze was direct, heavy, as if he could feel her attention on him even without sight.
But Lu Zhiling’s face was empty, eyes unfocused, expression obediently blank.
After a moment, he turned away again and stepped inside the bathroom—leaving the door open.
The sound of water filled the room.
It was steady. Intimate.
Her ears burned.
Get a grip, Lu Zhiling.
She lowered her gaze to the bowl in her hands, focusing on the rising steam, the warmth seeping into her palms, trying to drown out the image her mind insisted on replaying.
When he came out, his hair was still damp, dark strands clinging to his forehead. Loose gray loungewear hung casually on his frame, fabric barely concealing the heat radiating from his body.
For a split second, she forgot to breathe.
Her wounded palm throbbed sharply as she shifted the bowl, instinctively supporting it with both arms. The motion was awkward, clumsy.
In Bo Wang’s eyes, it looked like devotion.
Like she was guarding that bowl as though it mattered more than herself.
He let out a quiet, amused breath. “You didn’t think I’d eat it just because you went through the trouble, did you?”
She blinked. “Huh?”
“Don’t overthink it.” His tone was lazy, dismissive. “You won’t get anything from me.”
Clearly exhausted, he turned and leaned back against the wedding bed, phone in hand. No blanket. No shirt. Complete disregard.
Lu Zhiling set the bowl down carefully.
Only then did the reality settle in.
If he slept here—
Swallowing, she asked softly, “Since you’re staying tonight… should I prepare the bed for you? Which side do you prefer?”
He stopped scrolling.
Looked at her.
“You want to sleep with me?”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of her dress. “Is that… not allowed?”
A slow, dangerous smile tugged at his lips. “It’s fine,” he said lightly. “As long as you’re not afraid of waking up with your guts all over the sheets.”
Her smile faltered—just for a second.
“I’ll sleep on the sofa,” she said gently, retreating without protest. “You should rest.”
She lay down, hugging a cushion to her chest, eyes closed.
But sleep never came.
The room was quiet—but to Lu Zhiling his presence pressed in from every direction, heavy and unavoidable, like a beast that hadn’t decided yet whether to bare its teeth or not .