As soon as Lu Zhiling returned to her room, she turned the lock with a trembling hand. As she leaned against the heavy wood, her eyes fixed on the empty air the tears finally spilled over. She wiped them away quickly, her face hardening. The grievance and humiliation vanished, replaced by a cold, weary clarity.
Bo Wang was impossible to please.
She had been the victim of Qiao Yang’s harassment, and he had remained unmoved. He had openly dallied with the lead actress, yet she had swallowed her pride to protect his reputation—and still, he remained cold. He thrived on suspicion. Did he want her to play the role of the hysterical wife? Would he only believe she loved him if she screamed, threw a tantrum, or threatened to hang herself?
That night sleep was a ghost she couldn’t catch. By 2:00 AM, the bed felt like a cage of thorns. She drifted out to the south-facing terrace, where the world was a void of shadow. The night breeze whipped her hair across her face, the chill biting into her skin, but she welcomed the cold. It was honest.
She touched the ring on her finger. It felt less like jewelry and more like a Lele (a noose or tight binding rope), slowly tightening around her throat. Would she ever truly return to the soft, mist-covered hills of Jiangnan (the poetic, prosperous region south of the Yangtze River)?
“Still crying?”
The deep baritone sliced through the silence. Lu Zhiling spun around, her eyes bloodshot and her skin pale under the moonlight. Bo Wang leaned against the doorframe, a dark silhouette with one hand in his pocket.
“No,” she whispered, blinking back the dryness. She looked out at the stars. “I’m just… hungry. I want Crabapple Cakes (Haitang Gao—a traditional, flower-shaped fried pastry with a sweet bean filling).”
“Crying from hunger?” Bo Wang mocked, his voice a low drawl.
He watched her slender, stubborn back for a moment. Then, he strode forward, clamped his hand around her wrist, and hauled her toward the door.
He shoved her into the car and tore onto the deserted highway. Bo Wang drove with one hand, his thumb scrolling aggressively through his phone. “Which shop?”
Lu Zhiling glanced at the screen. He was searching for pastry shops. “It’s no use. The place I like closed at midnight.”
“Which. One.” His tone brooked no argument.
She pointed to a famous traditional stall. “That one, but it’s closed, Bo Wang.”
He ignored her. When they arrived, the street was a tomb of shuttered storefronts. Bo Wang leaned against the car door, his shirt fluttering in the wind to reveal a glimpse of his lean, muscular waist. He lit a cigarette, the ember glowing like a predatory eye. He dialed a number.
“Wen Da (the name of his high-level butler/fixer), you aren’t here yet? Should I come pick you up myself?”
Ten minutes later, the silence was shattered by a fleet of black sedans. Butler Wen scrambled out, mopping sweat from his brow.
“Young Master, Young Madam! The original chef is in Jiangnan visiting relatives. I’ve brought the five most famous pastry masters in the city. Will they suffice?”
Behind him, a group of chefs looked as if they had been dragged out of a fever dream, their uniforms buttoned haphazardly, their eyes bleary with shock.
“I just need a snack, really,” Lu Zhiling murmured, overwhelmed.
Bo Wang flicked his ash, looking every bit the Pizi (a roguish, dangerous street-smart hoodlum). He smirked at the butler. “Since Butler Wen has given the order, how would I dare disobey?”
Wen Da took the hint and barked into his phone. “Get the private jet ready! Now! I don’t care about the flight path! We are flying to Suzhou (a city in Jiangnan famous for its refined cuisine) to pick up the original chef! If you’re a second late, I’ll let the King of Hell (Yan Wang—the god of the underworld) play a joke on your life!”
“Bo Wang, stop this,” Lu Zhiling pleaded. “By the time he flies back, I’ll be starving.”
“You’re right,” Bo Wang said, looking at Wen Da. “Flying back takes too long. Have the jet take the chefs to Suzhou? No—open this shop now. Let these masters work here.”
Two hours later, the shop was ablaze with light. A plate of fragrant, steaming Crabapple Cakes was set before her. Lu Zhiling wanted to crawl into a hole. She looked at the trembling chef and the exhausted butler. “Thank you. I’m sorry for the trouble.”
The chef nearly knelt in terror. He had never seen a man summon a private jet and a motorcade just to satisfy a midnight craving.
“Is it good?” Bo Wang asked, sitting opposite her.
“Delicious,” she lied, taking a small bite. She held a piece out to him. “Try one.”
Bo Wang didn’t take the cake from her hand. Instead, he grabbed her wrist and pulled it to his lips, taking a slow, deliberate bite from the exact spot her teeth had touched. His dark eyes never left hers, filled with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
“Are you happy now?” Bo Wang asked as they left, his voice a low hum. “Eyes aren’t red anymore?”
“Yes,” she whispered. She placed her hand in his, and his warm fingers locked around hers with a crushing, possessive grip.
The car sped along the Qingjiang River. Lu Zhiling leaned her head back, watching the lights dance on the water.
“You really love looking at that river,” Bo Wang noted.
“My home is in the South,” she said softly.
“The people are gone. Why pine for an empty shell of a city?” He spoke with a cruel nonchalance that cut deeper than any blade. Lu Zhiling didn’t respond. She just watched the water.
He pulled the car over at the riverbank. It was the hour before dawn—the Liying (the deepest dark before the light). They sat on a bench in the cool mist.
Bo Wang reached over and pulled the tie from her hair, letting the dark waves spill over her shoulders. He leaned in, his large hand cupping the back of her head. He didn’t kiss her lips first; he pressed his mouth to the corner of her eye, tasting the salt of her dried tears through the strands of her hair.
“Bo Wang…”
He didn’t let her finish. He pulled her against his chest, his mouth crashing onto hers. It was a kiss of shifting moods—unrestrained and violent one moment, agonizingly tender the next. His fingers tangled in her hair, one strand winding tightly around his ring finger like a vow he refused to speak.
Time blurred into a fever of work. The premiere of The Rich and Powerful arrived. As an S+ level production (the highest budget tier for Chinese dramas), the internet was already a powder keg of anticipation.
At 11:00 AM, Lu Zhiling sat in the staff cafeteria with Gu Na.
“Xiao Qi, are the rumors true?” Gu Na hissed. “People are saying Bo Wang and Chen Xueran are… involved. If he bullies you, tell me. I don’t care if he’s a Bo; I’ll show him what happens to a Zha Nan (a ‘scum man’ or unfaithful partner).”
“I trust him,” Lu Zhiling said, her voice a calm facade.
“Why do you care more about the TV ratings than your own husband’s heart?” Gu Na asked, exasperated.
Before Lu Zhiling could answer, a ripple of movement spread through the cafeteria. Every employee stopped eating. Phones were pulled out. Heads turned. The air grew thick with mockery and pity directed straight at Lu Zhiling.
She opened her phone. The headline was a scream:
BO HEIR’S SCANDAL: FROM THE BLOOD-SOAKED JI WEDDING TO A SECRET HOTEL TRYST.
The article was a massacre. It featured photos of Bo Wang leading Lu Zhiling away from the Ji wedding, her wedding ring clearly visible—painting her as the “innocent” married mistress.
But below that were the new photos. Chen Xueran entering Bo Wang’s hotel suite. Chen Xueran in his office. And finally, a grainy, explicit shot of two figures in bed, with Chen Xueran in a woman-on-top position.
Lu Zhiling felt the world tilt. The trap had been sprung.