At this moment, Bo Wang’s thin lips were pursed in a hard line, his eyes deep and focused behind his frameless glasses. Lu Zhiling watched him, wondering if he was already dissecting the complex logistics of the Shipping Division.
She approached silently, setting the yogurt and fruit aside. Just as she was about to speak, she saw him extend a long, elegant index finger and begin to strike the keyboard with a series of deliberate, rhythmic taps.
Tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap.
Lu Zhiling blinked. Suddenly, she was reminded of her grandmother back at the estate, a woman nearly seventy who had recently become obsessed with a Happy Farm (a popular Chinese social media game like FarmVille) game. She used to sit just like this, poking at the keys with two fingers to “steal” her neighbors’ virtual vegetables.
She leaned in closer. The screen wasn’t a game; it was a blank document filled with a chaotic jumble of meaningless characters.
“Bang!”
Bo Wang shoved the keyboard away in a fit of irritation. “Typing is a damn nuisance!”
“What are you trying to write?” Zhiling asked softly. “I can do it for you, or you could use Voice Input (speech-to-text, common in China due to the complexity of characters).”
Bo Wang leaned back, his eyes flashing with a sharp, dangerous light as he looked up at her. “Do you want to lose your voice by talking so much?”
“So much?” Zhiling was puzzled. “Is the document that long?”
He didn’t answer. He simply stared at her, his gaze heavy and unfathomable. Zhiling realized then that this was likely a prerequisite set by Bo Zhengrong—mastering the digital side of the empire before he could take his seat.
Zhiling leaned over him, her slender, delicate hands—now mostly healed and smooth as jade—reaching for the mouse. She opened a search engine and pulled up a guide. Bo Wang watched her fingers dance across the keys with an effortless elegance, as if she were playing a classical concerto.
Suddenly, he reached out and pulled her onto his lap.
She stiffened as his arms encircled her, trapping her in his heat. The hem of her skirt brushed against his trousers, the fabric friction sending a small jolt through her. She exhaled a shaky breath and forced herself to focus on the screen.
A sheet of paper slid out of the printer. As she reached for it, intending to use the moment to escape his embrace, Bo Wang intercepted it. He sat up straight, his broad chest pressing firmly against her back, his chin resting against her cheek as he studied the paper. It was a keyboard layout, but instead of the English alphabet, each key was marked with different Radicals (the fundamental components used to build Chinese characters).
“Since you never spent much time learning Pinyin (the phonetic system using the Roman alphabet), you should use the Wubi (five-stroke) input method,” Zhiling explained, her voice trembling slightly. “Every character is a puzzle. You just break them down into parts. Look, there’s even a Mnemonic (a rhythmic rhyme used by students to memorize radicals).”
“Teach me,” he rumbled, his voice a low vibration against her ear.
Zhiling didn’t dare refuse. She took his large, calloused right hand and guided it to the home row. “There’s a specific posture. Index on J, middle on K, ring on L…”
As she positioned his fingers, he pulled her even tighter against him.
“And then?” his voice was a magnetic rasp, his heavy breathing brushing against her eardrum, making her heart skip a beat.
“You… you have to feel the posture,” she stammered, trying to remain professional. “These eight fingers stay fixed. That’s how you learn to Touch Type (typing without looking).”
“How do I feel it?” Bo Wang’s lips grazed her earlobe, the cool edge of his glasses sweeping over her temple. A flush crept up her neck, and she instinctively leaned away.
In response, Bo Wang leaned in and bit her earlobe—a sharp, possessive nip that made her gasp. “What are you dodging for? Keep teaching.”
“Type one,” he commanded, his eyes never leaving the screen.
“For example, your surname, Bo…” She pressed his fingers down one by one, breaking the character into its elemental parts: grass, water, and earth. The character Bo (薄) bloomed on the white screen.
His gaze darkened. “Now type… Lu Zhi Ling.”
She guided his hand again. “Y-N-J-X… see? After three letters, your name appears. Zhi is P-P. Ling is X-F-W-T.”
She kept her palm pressed against the back of his hand, moving his fingers as if they were one entity. “It’s like every word has its own secret code. It’s difficult at first, but with your mind, you’ll master it in no time.”
j
A bit of flattery, she hoped, would soothe the beast. It worked. Bo Wang began to type on his own, his speed increasing with every stroke. Soon, their names were listed together on the document: Lu Zhi Ling. Bo Wang. The cursor flickered between their names, a rhythmic, pulsing heartbeat of light.
“You can practice the rest yourself,” Zhiling said, attempting to stand. But Bo Wang’s hands remained on the keyboard, his arms forming a cage around her.
“Let me out first?” she asked.
“Busy typing. Find your own way out,” he said without looking at her, the blue light of the monitor reflecting off his lenses.
Zhiling felt helpless. She looked at his serious expression—he seemed truly engrossed, yet he wouldn’t move an inch to let her pass. She glanced at the small space beneath his arm and his knee. Desperate, she began to crouch down, intending to crawl out from under his arm.
Just as she reached the floor, Bo Wang stopped typing. He looked down at her, his expression a mixture of dark amusement and predatory hunger. He pushed his glasses up with his middle finger, a slow, dangerous half-smile spreading across his face.
“Lu Zhiling,” he purred, leaning down until his face was inches from hers. “If I let you leave this study unscathed after you’ve presented yourself to me like this, I’d be a very poor host, wouldn’t I?”
“I… I just wanted to leave so you could study,” she whispered, her heart hammering. “I didn’t have any impure thoughts (a common euphemism for lust).”
“I find that hard to believe,” Bo Wang said, his hand snaking out to grab her arm, pulling her back toward the heat of his body.
The study door remained closed for a long time.
When Lu Zhiling finally emerged, her legs felt like jelly and her long skirt was rumpled. She looked down at the pale skin of her shoulder and neck, now covered in fresh, blooming red marks.
Yu Yunfei had once called him a wolf. As she smoothed her hair, Zhiling realized that wolves, much like dogs, have a primal need to mark what belongs to them.
On the other hand news of Bo Wang’s ascent into the Bo family’s shipping empire rippled through the elite circles like a tidal wave. While Yu Yunfei’s reaction remained a mystery behind the gates of her new exile, Xia Meiqing made her fury known, shattering sets of luxury skincare and porcelain teacups in a single day of hysterics.
The newspapers were equally frenzied, dedicating full pages to experts who dissected the move. Was this a mere trial by fire, or a definitive signal that the “Madman” was being groomed for the throne?
Lu Zhiling remained on edge. The entertainment industry was a den of vipers, but it was a small, garnish-like piece of the Bo family’s wealth. Shipping, however, was the Solid Pie—the core of their power. In that world, you either swallowed a massive fortune whole or were devoured by the sharks. As stuck in the Shenshan estate to Protect the Pregnancy (a traditional Chinese practice of bed rest and medication to prevent miscarriage), she felt vulnerable, unable to stand by his side to ensure he didn’t walk into a trap.
The days of her confinement were long and languid. She drifted between sleep and keeping the family elders company—watching the koi, or playing Shadow Puppetry (a traditional folk drama using leather figures) with the old master. Since her health crisis, the mandatory herbal medications left her feeling like a wilted flower, her strength seeping away into the mattress.
So as another day like that a soft, burning touch on her lips pulled her from a heavy dream.
She opened her groggy eyes to find Bo Wang looming over her. He smelled of cold air and expensive tobacco, his presence commanding and dark. He didn’t just kiss her; he claimed her, his mouth sucking on her lips with a slow, rhythmic intensity while his hand slid around her neck, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. His other hand found the curve of her waist, his fingers digging in with a possessive heat.
“You’re back,” she murmured against his mouth, her voice thick and sweet with sleep.
The sound acted like a match to a fuse. Bo Wang let out a low growl, climbing onto the bed to pull her flush against his chest. He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, his kisses turning frantic and hot before settling into a steady, hungry rhythm.
“Are you hungry?” she asked weakly, her fingers tangling in his hair. “I’ll have the kitchen prepare something.”
“I’m fine,” he rasped. He leaned against the headboard, keeping her pinned in the circle of his arm. He took her hand, his calloused thumb spinning the ring on her finger. “Why are you always sleeping? Every time I come back, you’re lost to the world.”
“The Pregnancy-Preserving Medicine (traditional herbal decoctions) makes me so drowsy,” she explained, leaning her weight into him.
Bo Wang froze. “Is there something wrong with the medicine?”
“No, Grandma supervises the brewing herself,” she reassured him with a faint smile, though her back ached with a dull, persistent throb. “Dr. Qin said it’s a normal side effect.”
Bo Wang’s brow furrowed in a dark scowl. To him, seeing her this frail felt worse than the alternative. She turned her head, resting her chin on his chest, forcing herself to stay awake. “How is the Shipping Division? Are you settling in?”
For now, Shenshan was deceptively peaceful. Xia Meiqing was busy performing her six-month Charity Penance, and Yu Yunfei was gone. But the silence worried Zhiling; it felt like the quiet before a storm, and she feared they were quietly sharpening their knives for Bo Wang.
“Zhizhi,” he called her softly, his large hand sliding beneath the hem of her silk pajamas. His palm was warm and slightly rough as it stroked the smooth, sensitive skin of her back, his touch igniting a slow-burn fever in her blood.
“Mmm?”
“What if I get outplayed in Shipping?” he asked, his eyes searching hers. “What if I lose everything?”
Zhiling blinked, then realized the game he was playing. He didn’t want advice; he wanted the taste of her devotion. She nestled deeper into his embrace. “It’s okay. I still have my teahouse, Guiqi Tower. My business is booming because everyone knows I’m the Bo family’s eldest daughter-in-law. I can support you. As long as you don’t demand private jets and cannons, I can keep you well-fed.”
A smug, sexy smile spread across Bo Wang’s face. He liked her sweet lies, even if he knew she was just humoring him.
“I’ll show you something,” he said, reaching for her phone. He used her fingerprint to unlock it and opened a Literacy Challenge App (a common educational app in China used to test vocabulary and character recognition).
Zhiling watched, stunned, as his fingers flew across the screen. He bypassed the easy levels and dived straight into the Highest Tier—a level filled with obscure characters and complex idioms that would stump a college graduate.
He didn’t miss a single one.
“Wow! Your vocabulary has reached over 5,000 characters!” the app’s animated panda cheered.
Zhiling snatched the phone, her eyes wide. “How? You’ve only been practicing for two months!” She had taught him to write, but to master thousands of complex phrases from scratch in such a short time was nothing short of genius.
“Was it hard?” Bo Wang asked, an arrogant brow raised.
“Extremely,” she whispered. She realized then that her worries were misplaced. It wasn’t a question of whether Bo Wang could conquer the shipping world; it was simply a matter of whether he wanted to.
“Then give it to me,” he said, holding out his hand.
“What?”
“My gift. How long has it been since you gave me something?” He was shamelessly demanding a reward for his academic progress. “You don’t have any Keepsakes (traditional tokens of love) for our engagement?”
Zhiling felt a flush of guilt. She had hidden Gu Na’s rings so well even she didn’t want to look at them.
“I’m going to the Menzhong Sea (a coastal region) for business. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow,” Bo Wang hinted, his gaze dropping to her lips. “I expect a gift when I return.”
“I’ll buy you something,” she promised obediently.
“If you can’t buy one… just find one,” he added, his voice dropping an octave.
He was thinking of the missing wedding rings. His men had searched the globe and found nothing, and he was tired of waiting. If she simply “found” those original rings, it would be a greater aphrodisiac than anything money could buy.
He leaned down, his lips ghosting over hers. “Wait for me, Zhizhi. And when I get back, make sure you aren’t too ‘sleepy’ to show me how much you missed me.”
The promise of what would happen upon his return hung in the air, thick and undeniable, as he pressed her back into the pillows for one last, searing kiss.