“You little jinx! You caused my mother’s stroke. You aren’t part of this family—get out! I’ve already sold you, now vanish from my sight!”
“You still dare to sleep? We bought you to be a mule, not a guest. Get up and sort the offal [Xia Shui: Organ meats like intestines and heart, considered low-class work to clean]! Move! Do you want another beating?”
“Tang, it’s better for you to die alone than for all of us to perish. Just take the fall for the theft.”
“Brother Tang, we’re brothers, right? Do me a solid. Let me take the second-in-command spot at the casino. With a face like yours, there are plenty of Fu Po [Rich, older women who seek younger male companions] willing to keep you. Isn’t that a better life anyway?”
“Brother Tang, look at this bag—it cost 20,000 yuan. Boss Xiao said the moment you’re dead, he’ll adopt me as his goddaughter and buy me everything. We’ve known each other since we were ten, and I’ve watched you suffer. You might as well just give up.”
“Now that Qi Xue is dead, the Bo family has no tie to the Qi family. You are a Bo, not one of ours.”
“That our family produced such a disgrace for an eldest grandson… why didn’t he just rot in the gutters?”
The jagged shards of memory pierced through his mind, making Bo Wang’s eyes darken into a bottomless abyss. This wasn’t the first time he had heard Lu Zhiling say “we,” but she was the only one whose “we” didn’t feel like a trap or a lie. It was different from the venomous world he knew.
Lu Zhiling walked to the opposite side of the desk, spreading out a long sheet of Xuan paper [High-quality handmade paper used for Chinese calligraphy]. She gathered her wide, flowing sleeves with a graceful tuck and began to grind the ink stick against the stone.
Bo Wang tracked her movements, his gaze heavy. Once the ink was dark and lustrous, she selected a brush from the holder, dipped it, and leaned over the paper. Her long, ink-black hair cascaded down her shoulder, her posture as serene as a mountain lake. In one fluid motion, she wrote eight bold characters.
The ink dried, and she held up the meter-long scroll for him to see:
【衔胆栖冰，来日方长】 (Xian Dan Qi Bing, Lai Ri Fang Chang)
[A poetic encouragement: “To endure hardships with stoic resolve (tasting gall and sleeping on ice), for the future is long and full of hope.”]
Her handwriting was striking—strong yet elegant. Bo Wang stared at the character “栖” (Qi—to perch or inhabit) for a long time.
“I used to have another name,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
“Hmm?” Lu Zhiling looked up.
He didn’t look away, his eyes tracing every curve of her face. “A-Tang.”
Lu Zhiling blinked. Was he looking for a Zi [A courtesy name given to adults in traditional Chinese culture]? She began mentally scrolling through inspirational characters for “Tang” when he spoke again.
“Call me that.”
“Ah?” She was startled, but she obeyed, her voice softening into a gentle lilt. “A-Tang.”
The name, which usually tasted like copper and blood in his mouth, sounded like silk when she spoke it. Bo Wang’s gaze deepened, a predatory heat flickering in his eyes.
“Do you like your old name?” she asked.
“No,” he replied instantly, his expression hardening.
“Then why…” She trailed off.
He didn’t answer. He just stared at the lips that had just uttered his name. “Bo Qi” was the name given to him as proof of his father’s love for Qi Xue; “Bo Wang” was the name that marked him as a reminder of his mother’s betrayal. But “A-Tang” was the name given to him by the illiterate old woman who found him in the dirt. She had named him after sugar (Tang), hoping his life would finally be sweet. But because she couldn’t write, his registration was missing a stroke, turning “Sweet” into something broken.
“Which Tang?” she asked.
Bo Wang didn’t explain the missing stroke or the years he spent as “Huang Tang.” He simply kicked his chair back and gestured. “Come here.”
Lu Zhiling walked over, and before she could react, he hooked a hand around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. His other hand snaked up to the back of her neck, his fingers burying themselves deep in her hair, pinning her in place.
“In your eyes,” he rasped, his eyes locking onto hers with a terrifying intensity, “am I really that good? Am I worth the birthday gifts? Worth drowning yourself in the river for? Worth fighting your family and giving up diamonds for? Is this house, this teaching… is it all real?”
He doubted her. He wanted to tear her apart to find the lie, yet he was hopelessly captivated by the truth of her.
“Of course you are,” she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs. She tried to shift, but his grip was iron.
Bo Wang leaned down. His thin lips brushed against her cheek, trailing a path of fire before he suddenly caught her earlobe between his teeth. He bit down—not enough to draw blood, but firm enough to make her gasp.
“Uh…!” Lu Zhiling winced, her body tensing. “Bo Wang? What’s wrong?”
He didn’t answer with words. Sensing her sharp intake of breath, his eyes turned feral. He replaced the bite with the slow, deliberate lick of his tongue against the sensitive skin of her ear.
The wet, hot sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. “Bo Wang…?” she stammered, her voice trembling.
“A free lunch,” he murmured against her ear, his breath hot and smelling of tea. “Want to taste it?”
His lips migrated from her ear to the corner of her mouth, his presence overwhelming. The room was so silent that the sound of their synchronized breathing felt like a physical touch. Just as the tension reached a breaking point, he pulled back an inch, his voice raspy with a sudden, playful edge.
“Go cook for me. I’m hungry.”
Lu Zhiling stood in the kitchen, staring at the high-end appliances like they were alien technology. She had watched Jiang Fusheng cook a thousand times—how hard could it be?
She pulled a fish from the fridge, dropped it into a pan of hot oil, and—
BANG!
Bo Wang sprinted into the kitchen. “What happened?”
The stove was a war zone. The pot was on the floor, and a fish—unscaled and untouched by a knife—was twitching in a puddle of boiling oil, splattering everywhere. Lu Zhiling stood back, spatula held like a sword, her face pale.
“The… the dead fish jumped at me,” she said, trying to maintain her dignity.
Bo Wang leaned against the counter, a rare, genuine smirk tugging at his lips. “You can play the guzheng and write master-class calligraphy, but you can’t cook a fish?”
“The recipe didn’t say it would fight back!” she protested. “And it didn’t say anything about scales!”
“Lu Zhiling,” he laughed, stepping in. “The fish in the picture has its belly open for a reason. You have to remove the Xia Shui [innards] first.”
“Stand aside.”
She watched, mesmerized, as Bo Wang took over. His movements were surgical, fluid, and practiced. He scaled, gutted, and cleaned the fish with a speed that spoke of a life spent in survival, not leisure. Lu Zhiling quietly stepped forward and rolled up his silk sleeves, her fingers lingering on his forearms.
Soon, three dishes and a soup were steaming on the table.
“Why aren’t you praising me?” Bo Wang asked as she took her first bite of the spicy, tender fish. “Is my cooking below your standards?”
Lu Zhiling looked at him, her heart aching. To her, cooking was a hobby. To him, it was a reminder of the slaughterhouse and the orphanage, where he cooked food he wasn’t allowed to eat unless it was stolen leftovers.
“Cooking is too tiring,” she said softly. “We can order takeout, or have Fusheng come back. I don’t want you to force yourself to do things you don’t want to do.”
Bo Wang’s eyes softened for a fleeting second. “So concerned about me?”
“Always.”
He smirked. “Well said. But what were you going to learn? How to stir-fry scales?”
She flushed. “Just eat.”
As they finished, Bo Wang’s voice turned magnetic again. “Write me four more words later. I want to hang them up.”
“What words?”
“Blinded by lust,” he quipped, a predatory glint in his eye.
SG Entertainment, Jiangbei.
The secretariat was buzzing with gossip. “The moment Madam Yu left, the directors vanished on ‘business trips.’ They’re avoiding the new Young Master like the plague.”
“I heard he’s a nightclub regular with no education,” Linda, an assistant loyal to the previous regime, sneered. “Fifteen years in the gutters and not even a primary school diploma. He’ll ruin this company in a week. The only real heir is Madam Yu’s son.”
Knock, knock.
The glass door opened. A woman stood there, dressed in a modern Hanfu [Traditional Chinese clothing]—a flowing, wide-sleeved blouse with a ribbon woven into her dark hair. She looked like a moonbeam amidst the corporate gray.
“Who are you?” someone asked.
“I am Lu Zhiling,” she said, her voice gentle yet carrying an unmistakable steel. “Secretary to President Bo.”