Song Xinya followed Sheng Changpu into the hotel lobby.
The sharp click of her high heels against the floor was loud, crisp, and brisk—impossible to ignore.
Sheng Changpu turned to look at her, fury churning in his eyes. “You’re following me because you want me to treat your husband’s hand?”
“I’m not begging you,” Song Xinya said. “I’m asking you to keep your promise.”
She took out her phone and played a recording she had made in the private room moments earlier—
Qian Sansen: “What a coincidence. There happens to be an international burn specialist here today. Let him take a look at your husband.”
“Dr. Sheng, what do you say?”
Sheng Changpu: “Fine.”
Song Xinya: “When will Dr. Sheng be available? Tomorrow?”
Sheng Changpu: “Tomorrow afternoon works.”
The recording captured everything clearly. Sheng Changpu had personally agreed to treat Song Xinya’s husband’s hand, and they had even arranged a specific time.
When the recording ended, Sheng Changpu’s face had turned livid.
Song Xinya said, “A promise is like water spilled from a basin—once it’s out, it can’t be taken back. And several of your esteemed doctor friends heard you make it. Dr. Sheng is renowned across the world. Surely you don’t intend to go back on your word?”
“A gentleman’s word is his bond. To break your promise is the behavior of a petty man.”
“So, a famous expert like you is planning to act like a petty man?”
Sheng Changpu’s face darkened until it looked almost black.
Thinking back to their conversation in the private room, strangers usually introduced themselves by name when they first met. Song Xinya had done no such thing. Instead, she had struck up lively conversations with the various eminent doctors, drawing them closer and creating a friendly atmosphere. Then she had casually brought up the fact that her husband’s injured hand had never been properly treated.
In that congenial setting, Sheng Changpu had naturally agreed to treat her husband’s hand.
Which meant—
He had fallen straight into her trap.
From the moment Song Xinya entered the private room, she had been laying her plans. First, she concealed her identity. Then she steered the conversation toward treating her husband’s hand. Finally, she successfully lured Sheng Changpu into the snare.
Every step carefully calculated. Not a single opening left. Flawless.
Sheng Changpu suddenly understood.
He let out a cold laugh. “Everyone says I’m the most intelligent medical expert alive. I never imagined I’d fall for your trick.”
Song Xinya smiled lazily. “There’s nothing surprising about losing to me. High intelligence doesn’t mean high emotional intelligence, and it certainly doesn’t mean you’re better than everyone else.”
Sheng Changpu was used to being respected wherever he went and had long since grown accustomed to hearing people flatter him. Hearing Song Xinya speak so frankly, he felt as though she were insulting him.
He swept his sleeve aside. “I’m not treating your husband’s hand.”
“So you’re going back on your word?”
Sheng Changpu sneered at her. “Have you no shame?”
“You agreed to something and then reneged. You’re the one with no shame.”
In truth, Song Xinya had expected Sheng Changpu to go back on his word from the beginning.
A man who could raise a son who became a rapist—how decent could he possibly be?
Like father, like son. Rats breed rats.
If the beam above is crooked, the beams below will be askew. A man without virtue cannot raise virtuous descendants.
Song Xinya had followed Sheng Changpu out precisely so she could insult him.
It felt wonderful to curse out the father of a scumbag.
Wonderful to make the scumbag’s scumbag father tremble with rage.
Anyone who wronged her could expect her to curse their entire ancestry!
At that moment, a waiter approached with a tray bearing two bowls of freshly prepared Buddha Jumps Over the Wall soup.
Without so much as asking, Sheng Changpu snatched up one of the bowls and hurled it viciously at Song Xinya.
Han Jingyi came running after them. When he saw what was happening, his eyes widened, and he sprinted toward Song Xinya.
But a tall, handsome figure reached her first. He seized Song Xinya by the arm, yanked her backward, and shielded her behind him.
It was Qin Yuhe.
Han Jingyi was one step too late again.
The porcelain bowl slammed into the center of Qin Yuhe’s white shirt and slid down his body before crashing to the floor.
Thick broth smeared across his clean, well-tailored white shirt. Yellow and white blotches seeped through the fabric, spreading into a huge, filthy stain.
The sea cucumber, abalone, fish maw, scallops, mushrooms, and other ingredients from the soup scattered across the floor.
Steam rose from the places on Qin Yuhe’s shirt that had been soaked with the hot broth.
Song Xinya poked her head out from behind him and stared at the steaming spot on his chest. Nervously, she asked, “Were you burned?”
Qin Yuhe reassured her first. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”
Song Xinya knew he had a cleanliness obsession, so she hurriedly said, “Go clean up in the restroom.”
She tugged him toward the restroom by the arm, but Qin Yuhe pulled her back.
“Wait.”
The waiter holding the tray had been startled by the sudden turn of events. He stood nearby, frozen in place, not yet having left.
Qin Yuhe walked over, picked up the remaining bowl of Buddha Jumps Over the Wall, and approached Sheng Changpu. He raised his arm and poured the entire bowl over Sheng Changpu’s head.
The thick golden broth streamed down from his hair. Oily soup dripped down his face.
The three strands of hair that had just separated after being stuck together were glued into a single strand again.
The difference was that last time it had been water. This time it was rich broth, which held them together even more firmly.
That reckless, unrestrained way of doing things—and the overwhelming presence that crushed everyone else the moment he appeared—could only come from someone born into a wealthy and powerful family. An ordinary household could never nurture the innate bearing of a man born to rule.
Sheng Changpu immediately realized who he was.
Qin Yuhe—the man who had beaten his son half to death.
Qin Yuhe’s voice fell without a trace of warmth. “If you have a problem, come to me. You’ll still be alive. But if you lay a hand on my wife, I’ll make sure you and your son are buried together.”
The hatred in Sheng Changpu’s eyes turned into fear. He did not dare make another move.
Qin Yuhe turned around, took Song Xinya’s hand, and led her toward the exit.
Beside one of the pillars in the lobby, less than three meters away, stood Han Jingyi.
He watched as Song Xinya was led away by Qin Yuhe.
As they walked, Song Xinya kept wiping Qin Yuhe’s white shirt with tissues. The concern in her eyes shone like the sun—bright, clear, and dazzlingly obvious.
Why?
Why had he been late again?
If he had arrived just one minute earlier—just one minute—the man shielding Song Xinya would have been him.
But there were no ifs.
He had not been given that perfectly timed minute.
All he had was a shattered heart as he watched her leave with another man.
Inside the Rolls-Royce, Song Xinya sat beside Qin Yuhe, her slender, graceful body nearly pressed against him.
She held a tissue in her hand and kept wiping the stains from his white shirt. Her beautiful face was turned toward his neck, and the warm breath she exhaled brushed against his Adam’s apple.
Her unique fragrance slipped into his nostrils. With every breath he took, it was like a drop of water falling into a spring, merging into his bloodstream and stirring ripples within him.
Whenever Song Xinya spoke, her warm breath scattered like a handful of dandelion seeds—soft and dense, yet carrying a faintly prickling itch. One puff after another landed on Qin Yuhe’s Adam’s apple.
“Why won’t it come off?”
“The broth from the Buddha Jumps Over the Wall is really stuck on there.”
“Aren’t you uncomfortable wearing clothes that are wet and dirty?”
Her fingers pressed against his chest, rubbing back and forth. The pads of her fingers brushed against his chest, stirring a fiery heat.
Suddenly, Qin Yuhe caught her wrist.
“All right. Stop wiping.”
His voice was hoarse, and his Adam’s apple bobbed again and again.
Song Xinya looked up at him with clear eyes. “Why won’t you let me wipe it?”
Qin Yuhe replied, “Because you’re starting a fire.”
Song Xinya froze, her eyes following the line of his chest before she lowered her head and glanced down.
“Your fire... it’s burning pretty fiercely...”
Qin Yuhe lazily flicked the white shirt clinging to his skin with one finger.
“Keep wiping me for a while longer, and it’ll burn even hotter...”
