The night was as dark as ink. In the master bedroom of the mid-hill villa, only a dim wall lamp was lit.
Fu Tingchen pushed his wheelchair into the room and immediately saw the person on the bed—a woman, wrapped in a pure white bath towel, wet hair draped over her shoulders, sitting with her head lowered in the center of his large gray-black bed.
At the edge of the towel, delicate collarbones and a small patch of fair skin were exposed.
He stopped at the doorway, tapped his fingertips lightly twice on the wheelchair’s armrest, and a cold arc curved at the corner of his lips.
Here we go again.
His stepmother really was… persistent.
“Chen Mo,” Fu Tingchen said without turning back, his voice flat, “you can clock off now.”
Behind him, the assistant Chen Mo—dressed in a suit, immaculately meticulous—bowed slightly. “Yes, President Fu. Do you need me to—”
“No need.” Fu Tingchen cut him off. “Close the door.”
The heavy solid wood door closed behind him, shutting out the hallway’s light and any possible prying eyes. The wheelchair rolled over the dark carpet, sliding silently toward the bed.
The woman on the bed seemed to tremble, her head drooping even lower.
Fu Tingchen stopped two meters from the bed, sizing her up with leisurely interest. The towel wasn’t wrapped very tightly; he could tell she had a good figure—the type Jiang Yan would choose. Young, full-figured, her face probably wearing deliberate timidity and ingratiation.
“Lift your head,” he said.
The woman slowly raised her head. She was indeed pretty, appearing to be in her early twenties, with large eyes that were now glistening with moisture, lips painted with pale pink lipstick, slightly parted, like a startled fawn.
Indeed prettier than the last one. Fu Tingchen thought indifferently.
“Who sent you here?” he asked, knowing the answer full well.
“It—it was Madam Jiang…” The woman’s voice trembled. “She said… said Mr. Fu needed someone to take care of him…”
“Take care?” Fu Tingchen let out a low laugh, a laugh that sounded especially clear and especially cold in the quiet room. “How thoughtful of her.”
He maneuvered the wheelchair a bit closer, almost against the edge of the bed. The woman instinctively shrank back, and the towel slipped an inch with the movement, revealing more skin.
Fu Tingchen reached out his hand.
The woman closed her eyes, her eyelashes trembling violently.
His hand didn’t touch her. Instead, it passed over her and pressed a button on the headboard.
“Aaah—!”
A shrill scream instantly exploded in the room.
It wasn’t the woman’s voice—it was the speakers. A top-of-the-line audio system simulating a woman’s realistic cries of pain, mixed with weeping, pleading, and some indescribable sounds, echoing through the bedroom at just the right volume.
The woman’s eyes flew open, her face ashen.
Fu Tingchen leaned back in his wheelchair and lit a cigarette, the crimson glow flickering in the dimness. He just quietly listened to the continuous “screams,” occasionally taking a drag, his expression as indifferent as if he were listening to a boring piece of background music.
Around the corner of the hallway, separated by a single wall, Jiang Yan stood pressed against it, her carefully maintained face furrowed in a deep frown.
Here we go again.
Every time it was the same—the woman’s screams, weeping, pleading… and then the next day, those women she had so carefully selected would flee the villa with terror-stricken faces, not even wanting the money, only shaking their heads tearfully no matter what was asked, saying “too terrifying,” “he’s not human,” “I can’t take it anymore.”
A cripple in a wheelchair—what tricks could he possibly pull to reduce women who had seen the world to this state?
Jiang Yan couldn’t figure it out. But the less she could figure it out, the more uneasy she felt. Ever since his father Fu Zhenguo passed away and the will was announced, granting him full control of Tingwei Group, Fu Tingchen had become increasingly inscrutable.
After the car accident, the doctors had diagnosed him with lumbar damage—he’d be confined to a wheelchair for life. Yet that ruthless intensity and iron grip of his were even more unsettling than when he’d been standing on his own two feet.
So she had to plant her own people by his side. Fifteen percent of the company’s shares wasn’t enough. What she wanted was all of Tingwei—for her son, Fu Tingye.
Even though Tingye had his heart set on joining the special forces and had zero interest in business, Jiang Yan didn’t care. If her son didn’t understand, she could manage it for him. The Fu family’s assets absolutely could not all fall into Fu Tingchen’s hands.
The “screams” from the bedroom lasted nearly an hour before finally stopping.
Jiang Yan adjusted her expression, putting on a look of concern. Just as she was about to step forward, the master bedroom door opened.
A woman staggered out—her bath towel in disarray, hair a tangled mess, makeup completely ruined, eyes red and swollen, with several suggestive red marks visible on her exposed skin.
When she saw Jiang Yan, she lunged forward and shoved a check back into Jiang Yan’s hand, her voice hoarse: “Mrs. Jiang… take your check back… I’m done, I’m really done… He—he’s too much of a pervert… I can’t take it…”
With that, she ran barefoot toward the staircase as if a demon were chasing her.
Jiang Yan clutched the stack of returned checks, the veins on the back of her well-maintained hand bulging slightly.
“Useless thing!” she cursed under her breath.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than the master bedroom door opened fully.
Fu Tingchen wheeled himself out, having changed into a dark gray silk robe, the collar slightly open, his hair half-damp as if he’d just showered. His face carried the languid satisfaction of someone who’d been gratified, along with a trace of obvious displeasure.
“I say,” he looked at Jiang Yan, his tone carrying no respect—bordering on flippant, “can you find someone reliable next time?”
Jiang Yan forced a smile: “Tingchen, what’s wrong? This one… didn’t satisfy you either?”
“Crying and whining about not being able to take it before I’m even done—bad luck.” Fu Tingchen lit a cigarette, the smoke hazing over his deep-set brows and eyes. “A mood killer.”
“Tingchen, you’re thirty now. You can’t just think about your own comfort.” Jiang Yan spoke with earnest patience. “You need to consider finding someone who can stay by your side long-term, to take care of you. Given your situation… those well-bred young ladies from families of equal standing probably wouldn’t be willing to marry into this. These girls may be of ordinary background, but they’re docile and sensible. If you treat them well, perhaps…”
“Marriage?” Fu Tingchen let out a scoff, cutting her off. “Marriage is so boring. I like things the way they are now—a different one every day. Keeps things fresh.”
He flicked his ash, his gaze sliding past Jiang Yan’s stiff face, and said slowly: “Next time, find someone who can take more of a beating. Don’t bring me another one that’s all looks and no substance.”
With that, he maneuvered his wheelchair around and returned to the bedroom.
The door closed once more.
Jiang Yan stood in the empty corridor, still clutching the stack of money, her fingertips ice-cold.
How many times now? How many did this make? Every single one the same—sweet and delicate going in, like they’d seen a ghost coming out. What on earth did Fu Tingchen do to them? He was a cripple—how could he possibly “rough them up”?
The more she thought about it, the more agitated she became. She turned and headed downstairs, her high heels striking the marble floor with sharp, rapid clicks.