Song Xinya returned to her bedroom, looked at the camera, and said in a cheerful voice, "I'm back."
At that moment, Qin Yuhe was sitting in his office chair, a fountain pen in hand as he reviewed documents. In the quiet air, the soft scratching of the pen tip against paper could be heard.
His fingers were long and elegant, his strokes bold and forceful, his handwriting neat yet fluid—graceful and unrestrained, like drifting clouds and startled dragons.
Next to the documents, in an empty spot, sat a backup phone. Its screen stayed lit, displaying a surveillance feed.
The moment the cheerful female voice sounded, Qin Yuhe's pen halted abruptly, the stroke coming to a sharp stop.
"I'm listening."
His deep, magnetic voice landed in Song Xinya's ears like fine threads of electric current flowing into them, making her earlobes go weak.
"I thought you weren't there. It feels like every time I call you, you're always around."
Qin Yuhe set the document aside, put down his pen, and set aside whatever important work he had—fixing his gaze on her on the screen, doing only one thing:
Talking to her.
"My phone keeps the chat window open at all times. I'm on standby for you, around the clock."
Song Xinya curved her lips into a smile. "Then should I also keep my phone's chat window open at all times, on standby for you?"
Qin Yuhe: "No need. That's a standard I set for myself. For you, I have no demands—I only hope you're safe and happy."
Song Xinya let out an "aww," her eyes curving into crescents. Her head felt light and fuzzy—she was so smitten.
Just one more day, and the two of them would finally meet.
She couldn't wait. She wished time would speed up.
"Did you book tomorrow's flight tickets already?"
Qin Yuhe's calm voice came through: "I don't fly commercial. I use my private jet whenever I travel."
Song Xinya: "Alright, I guess I was projecting my poor-person mindset onto your rich-person ways."
Qin Yuhe: "It's fine. In the future, you'll get used to traveling by private jet too. That will become your everyday reality."
Song Xinya: "I want a hug from a big shot."
Qin Yuhe: "My arms aren't that long—they can't reach from Modu to Jingbei."
Song Xinya: "Then give me a kiss. Pucker your lips at the screen and blow me a smooch."
Qin Yuhe let out a light, clear laugh. His sharp, intense features turned warm and gentle: "Yaya, you can ask me for money. One million, five million, ten million—any amount. But don't ask me for something like that. I can't bring myself to do it."
Song Xinya gave a dismissive "tsk." "Now you're all reserved. But before, you lifted my top, buried your whole face in my clothes, pressed yourself against me, and sucked, licked, and bit."
Qin Yuhe: "..."
"Different times, different deeds."
Song Xinya: "When the bowl is in front of you, you eat; when you put it down, you play the innocent."
Qin Yuhe: "You had your fill of me too."
Song Xinya's hackles shot up: "Who—who had a fill of you? I've never had a fill of you."
Qin Yuhe said in a lazy, rakish tone, "So you want to taste me and see what it's like?"
Song Xinya blushed even harder. Her normally sharp mind had completely short-circuited, and all she could blurt out were three dry words: "You're shameless!"
Qin Yuhe: "You're just like me."
Song Xinya: "..."
"Who's like you? We're nothing alike."
Qin Yuhe: "Now you're singing it."
Her rushed tone earlier did sound similar to that viral internet song "We Are Not the Same."
Song Xinya: (ᗜ˰ᗜ)
Mortified.
She opened the wardrobe, grabbed her pajamas, and dashed into the bathroom: "I told you, I'm going to shower."
After finishing her shower, Song Xinya heard the soft scratching of pen on paper coming from the camera.
Knowing he was busy with work, she stayed quiet. She pulled back the covers, slipped into bed, and casually picked up a book, lying there in silence.
She'd been too busy with work lately—the moment she lay down in bed, her eyes went fuzzy, and she couldn't take in a single word.
She casually grabbed a book and held it in front of her face, pretending to read.
Her mind grew drowsy, and the book slipped, landing on her face with a soft flap.
Qin Yuhe looked up at the screen and saw the book's title: The Emperor's Gentle Love, His Delicate Darling Can't Bear It.
She'd been reading this book nonstop lately.
With all the proper books out there, she kept reading this little spicy novel instead.
Clearly, his wife had been feeling quite a bit of — how shall we say — pent-up desire lately.
Qin Yuhe took all of this in and thought to himself: since she wants it that badly, once he gets back tomorrow, he'll make sure to give her full satisfaction.
...
In a luxurious penthouse, Sheng Tianjun sat lazily wrapped in a bathrobe by the floor-to-ceiling window, a lit cigarette held between his fingers.
He had just showered, his hair still soaking wet, hanging loosely downward. Water droplets dripped from the ends and ran down his face.
His messy bangs half-covered his eyes, and wisps of smoke curled in front of his face, giving him an overall damp, brooding aura.
Standing beside him was a middle-aged man wrapped up like a mummy.
His head, arms, torso, and legs were all covered in white bandages.
Sheng Tianjun shot him a glance: "A man who's six-foot-six and weighs a hundred and eighty pounds, reduced to this pathetic state by a woman? I can't believe you."
The middle-aged man said, "She's no ordinary woman. She's got brains and guts—a tough one to deal with."
Sheng Tianjun: "If she were easy to get, I'd have already gotten her long ago. Why would I need you?"
The middle-aged man: "Young Master Sheng, this counts as a work injury, right? You should reimburse my medical bills."
Sheng Tianjun: "You useless failure—you couldn't get the job done, and now you're asking me for money?"
He pulled open a drawer, took out a thick stack of cash, and threw it in the middle-aged man's face.
Countless red banknotes fluttered through the air like snowflakes.
The middle-aged man bent down and picked them up one by one.
A perfect demonstration of the saying: a man can't exactly refuse money just to keep his dignity.
Sheng Tianjun finished his cigarette, rose from the chair, and said with confidence, "It's time I handle this myself."
He made a phone call. The moment the line connected, his tone shifted from aggressive and arrogant to frail and breathless, as if he were on the verge of death.
Like he had some sort of serious illness.
Like a total schizophrenic.
When Song Xinya received Sheng Tianjun's call, she was asleep.
Being woken up suddenly in the middle of the night—even a donkey would be annoyed.
Naturally, her tone wasn't friendly: "Who is this?"
Sheng Tianjun let out a "weak" cough and said, "Teacher Song, I have a fever."
Song Xinya: "If you have a fever, go see a doctor. Calling me—what, am I supposed to cure you?"
Sheng Tianjun: "My family isn't with me. There's no one to take me to the hospital."
Song Xinya: "Are you an idiot? If no one can take you, call 120."
Sheng Tianjun coughed violently for a while: "Teacher Song, I feel so awful. I want to come to you."
Song Xinya: "What for? I'm not your mother."
Sheng Tianjun: "Teacher Song, aren't you scared I'll burn up and die?"
Song Xinya: "If that really happened, I'd buy a string of firecrackers tomorrow and celebrate with joy."
Click—she hung up.
She put the phone down, crawled back under the covers, and muttered, "That Sheng Tianjun—what a psycho."
Qin Yuhe, still awake at this hour, had heard the entire late-night phone call.
Song Xinya’s voice was very soft, her mumbled words barely intelligible.
Qin Yuhe caught the word “lunatic” but didn’t make out the name that came before it.
The eighth day arrived.
Song Xinya was full of anticipation, looking forward to meeting Qin Yuhe tonight.
She was radiant, walking into the office with a spring in her step.
The moment she sat down at her workstation, she spotted a card on her desk.
She opened it and saw four words written on it:
I want to f— you.
