The revelation of Lu Zhiling’s identity hit the room like a physical blow. The Lu family of Changlin District, Jiangnan? Wasn’t that the illustrious house that had been wiped out in a single, tragic season? Rumors said the lineage had been bankrupted and buried. How could a daughter of a ruined family marry into the Bo family—the absolute apex of the Chaebol [Pinnacle conglomerates] world?
“Mrs. Bo, aren’t you considering changing your surname to fit your new station?” a reporter sneered, his voice dripping with the condescension of those who worship only current wealth. He was baiting her, implying that a fallen heiress should be grateful to lose her “shameful” name in exchange for the Bo mantle.
“No,” Lu Zhiling stated, her voice like the strike of a jade bell—clear, cold, and final.
Beside her, Bo Wang’s gaze remained fixed on her profile. His eyes were dark, unreadable pits of shadow, his usual predatory smile fading into a look of profound, contemplative intensity.
She took a soft breath, turning to him with a smile that was both tender and lethal. “I deeply love my husband, and I am willing to do anything for him,” she said, the words weaving a protective silk around them. “But I believe a surname is the first gift of one’s parents. It is the vessel of my education and my life. They nurtured me so that I might meet my husband at the very zenith of my beauty and intellect. To discard it would be to discard the very person he loves.”
The room was stunned. This was the ultimate Yuyan Yishu [Art of Language]. She hadn’t just defended her name; she had framed her refusal as an act of devotion to Bo Wang. Beside her, the corners of Bo Wang’s lips curled. He saw through the diplomacy to the steel beneath. She truly was a daughter of Jiangnan.
By 1:00 a.m., the media had been flushed out like a receding tide. The silence that followed was heavy and expectant. Lu Zhiling was bone-weary, but Bo Wang’s hand was a cold, firm shackle around her wrist. He led her through the labyrinthine corridors of SG Entertainment to a door at the very end of the restricted wing.
“Wait for me here,” he commanded.
As the door swung open, a wall of hysterical, jagged screams tore through the quiet. Lu Zhiling couldn’t help but peer into the void. The room was vast and empty, save for a group of men in white masks and dark hoodies—Bo Wang’s “living dead.” On the cold floor sat the disgraced executives, including the bloated Mr. Fang. Chen Xueran was huddled in a corner, her meticulously styled hair a matted nest as she wailed in high-pitched, nonsensical terror.
Bo Wang walked forward, his leather shoes clicking against the stone like the ticking of a doomsday clock.
“Mr. Bo! We were forced! It was Yu Yunfei! She gave the orders!” the executives shrieked, scrambling backward on their hands and knees.
Bo Wang gestured lazily. A masked man stepped forward and threw a thick stack of newspapers onto the floor. They were the early editions of the tabloids—vicious, libelous reports that had been prepared to bury Lu Zhiling.
Lu Zhiling’s eyes fell on one that had fluttered to the door. The headline was a jagged blade: 【From Street Prostitute to CEO’s Secretary: The Filthy Rise of Lu Zhiling】. The photos were distorted, photoshopped to show her in a vulgar, low-cut dress, looking like a common Jinv [Prostitute/Streetwalker].
“Who authorized this?” Bo Wang asked, his voice a low, terrifying hum. He didn’t care about the corporate betrayal. He cared about the ink used to stain his wife’s name.
When the trembling executives pointed to Mr. Fang, Bo Wang didn’t hesitate. He delivered a swift, brutal kick that sent the man flying against the wall. A sickening crack echoed through the room. Mr. Fang’s jaw hung at a grotesque angle, dislocated and useless.
“No need for interrogation,” Bo Wang said, touching the sandalwood prayer beads on his wrist with a chilling, monk-like calm. “I want to see blood tonight. Let it soak into these newspapers until the lies are unreadable.”
He turned to leave, then paused, his voice dropping to a whisper that made the hair on Lu Zhiling’s neck stand up. “Since they enjoy wagging their tongues so much, cut them out. We shall see if they make a fine dish for the dogs.”
“Bo Wang,” Lu Zhiling’s soft voice cut through the madness. She stepped into the light, shaking her head. “Don’t. Don’t dirty your hands or theirs. Let them go.”
Bo Wang turned, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, unstable light. “You think it’s dirty?”
“I think it’s unnecessary,” she replied, her voice a steady anchor. “They are already ruined. If we force them to live, stripped of their power and exiled, they will eventually turn on Yu Yunfei to save themselves. Watching dogs bite dogs is a much more elegant entertainment, don’t you think?”
Bo Wang stared at her, the bloodlust in his veins cooling under her gaze. He kicked the newspapers one last time. “Burn them,” he ordered his men. “And release these animals when they are half-charred. I want them to smell their own fear for the rest of their lives.”
Back in the quiet of the penthouse office, the adrenaline had faded, leaving Lu Zhiling in a state of exquisite exhaustion. Bo Wang sat beside her on the sofa, scrolling through the viral headlines.
The digital world was in a frenzy. The “Corridor Kiss” had become the most searched video in history. The narrative had shifted from a sordid affair to a grand, cinematic romance.
“They’re calling it the ‘Sensual Kiss of the Century,'” Bo Wang noted, his thumb tracing a photo of him biting off her begonia hairpin. He looked at his own bare ring finger, then at her wedding ring. “Am I the only one who noticed? I don’t have a ring.”
“You never asked for one,” Lu Zhiling murmured, leaning back. “You said this was a temporary agreement. I didn’t want to cause trouble for your second marriage.”
The temperature in the room plummeted. Bo Wang’s phone clattered onto the table as he leaned over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. “My… second marriage?”
“I was only thinking of the ‘expiration date’ you set,” she said, trying to maintain her composure.
Bo Wang let out a chilling, hollow laugh. He grabbed her hair, not painfully, but with a possessive force that forced her to look at him. “Lu Zhiling, do you think I’m a man of mercy? You’ve seen what I do to sheep that don’t die with the first blow. I watch them bleat until they are empty.”
He moved closer, his lips brushing hers, his scent—a mix of sandalwood and cold adrenaline—overwhelming her. “Don’t ever speak of leaving again. I don’t like the sound of it.”
He untangled a strand of her hair, his movements suddenly, terrifyingly gentle. “I haven’t touched you yet. All I want is to consume you. I’ll think about the ‘expiration’ after I’ve had my fill of your skin.”
The next day, they traveled to the ancestral mansion deep within the Shenshan [Sacred Mountain]. The air here was thin and ancient, a place where the Bo family’s secrets were buried in the soil.
Ding Yujun, the family matriarch, ignored Bo Wang entirely, pulling Lu Zhiling into a fierce hug. “My lucky star! You’ve made me so proud!” She glanced at Lu Zhiling’s stomach, which was just beginning to show a soft, rounded curve. “Four months… soon we will know if the Bo legacy continues.”
Inside the family’s private theater, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of old wood and hidden agendas. Yu Yunfei and Xia Meiqing sat like competing queens, their smiles brittle.
As the opera Faust began, Bo Wang sat in the back row, far from the prying eyes of the elders. He lifted the armrest between him and Lu Zhiling, pulling her onto his lap in the darkness.
“It’s Faust,” she whispered, her heart racing as his hand slid up her thigh, the heat of his palm seeping through the silk of her dress. “It’s about the pursuit of everything… even at the cost of one’s soul.”
“I’ve already sold mine,” Bo Wang rasped. He turned her face to his, his kiss deep, hungry, and demanding. His hand moved higher, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, perilously close to the center of her heat.
“Bo Wang… everyone is right there…” she gasped into his mouth.
“Let them watch,” he muttered, his lips moving to the sensitive hollow of her throat. “I want you to stay in the bridal chamber tonight. No more excuses.”
After the performance, Ding Yujun pulled Lu Zhiling aside, her eyes shimmering with a secret joy. She handed her a faded, vintage photograph. It was the gate of the Lu mansion in Jiangnan—overgrown with weeds, its stone lions weathered, but still magnificent.
“I’ve sent the lawyers,” the grandmother whispered. “The Lu family home is being returned to your name. You are no longer a guest in this world, Zhiling. You are coming home.”
Lu Zhiling stared at the photo, the weight of her ancestors finally rising to meet her. The “Secretary” was dead. The “Wife” was a mask. The Heiress of Jiangnan had finally returned.