The next day at 5:30 AM, Ban Ban tiptoed out of the master bedroom. Her bare feet padded softly across the hallway carpet, and she paused for two full seconds in front of the guest room door.
The door was shut tight, and not a sound came from within. She bent down to peek through the crack at the bottom—the light was off. He was still asleep.
Nodding in satisfaction, she made her way downstairs to the kitchen.
Sister Jiang was already prepping ingredients for breakfast and looked startled as Ban Ban walked in. “Madam? Why are you up so early?”
“Morning, Sister Jiang.” Ban Ban rolled up her sleeves. “I got up to make breakfast for Wen Ting’an.”
Sister Jiang almost dropped the egg in her hand. “Madam is going to cook it herself?”
“Mhm.” Ban Ban stepped up to the counter to inspect the ingredients. “If I want to be a good wife, how do I go about it? Well, it starts with breakfast.”
A smile touched her face as she spoke—a genuine, earnest smile, not born of petty defiance.
Watching as she deftly tied her hair into a neat topknot, fastened an apron around her waist, and began rummaging through the fridge, Sister Jiang couldn’t help but notice how small her back looked under the harsh overhead light, exuding an extraordinary earnestness.
“What is Madam planning to make?”
“What does he like to eat? Tell me, Sister Jiang.”
“In the mornings, the Young Master usually just has iced coffee, along with a sandwich or a steak. He’s not picky, but the coffee is a must.”
Ban Ban pulled a prepared whole chicken out of the refrigerator, followed by ginger slices, scallions, and goji berries.
She turned back and blinked playfully at Sister Jiang. “Since he’s not picky, I’ll make him noodles. Southern-style noodles, with a clear chicken broth base.”
Watching her work from the sidelines, Sister Jiang couldn’t help asking, “How does Madam know how to do all this?”
“I used to make them for my dad and sister all the time back home.” Ban Ban dropped the chicken into a pot of cold water to blanch, her movements fluid and practiced. “My dad has a picky palate and spent years eating away at whatever my mom could whip up. After Mom passed away, I took over. Dad and Sister were always so busy, and since I couldn’t help much with other things, I picked up cooking and loved trying out different recipes for them.”
As she spoke, she scooped out the blanched chicken, replaced the water with a fresh batch, added ginger and scallions, brought it to a boil, and then turned the heat down to a gentle simmer.
“A good broth has to start with proper chicken stock,” she said, securing the lid and wiping a thin sheen of sweat from her forehead.
By 6:30 AM, the soup base had taken on a faint, golden hue. Ban Ban started a separate pot of water to boil the noodles. Thin, white dried noodles tumbled in the rolling water; she timed it precisely, scooped them out, shocked them in cold water to keep them chewy, drained them thoroughly, and transferred them to a bowl.
She skimmed the foam off the chicken broth, ladled it over the noodles, tossed in a few goji berries and two blanched green vegetables, and topped the center with a neat pinch of finely chopped scallions—looking like a tiny, exquisite seal stamped right in the middle.
At precisely 7:00 AM, Wen Ting’an came downstairs.
He was wearing a black shirt with the cuffs unbuttoned and casually rolled up to his mid-forearms. His hair was freshly washed, still carrying a damp crispness, with a few stray strands falling across his brow bone instead of being slicked back.
He walked along, scrolling through his phone, until his peripheral vision caught sight of a figure moving in the kitchen as he reached the landing.
His footsteps faltered.
Inside the kitchen, Ban Ban was standing on her tiptoes, reaching into the disinfectant cabinet for a bowl. Dressed in loungewear, her hair pinned up into a bun, she revealed a slender, milk-white nape.
Unable to reach the bowl, she stretched a little higher, her entire body tensing into a straight, delicate line.
Wen Ting’an stood frozen for three seconds, pocketed his phone, and walked toward the dining table.
Ban Ban emerged carrying a white porcelain bowl just as he sat down. Her eyes lit up when she saw him. “You’re awake? I made breakfast for you.”
Wen Ting’an took his seat. “Sister Jiang can handle breakfast.”
“It’s no trouble.” Ban Ban placed the bowl in front of him and sat across from him. “Try it. It’s a specialty breakfast from Jiang City.”
The bowl wasn’t large, the white porcelain reflecting the pale gold broth. The noodles were neatly arranged, garnished with greens and goji berries, with the scallions sitting dead center like a tiny stamp. It looked delicate.
It gave off a clean, light aroma of chicken broth, entirely different from the heavy, oil-and-soy-sauce breakfasts of the North.
Wen Ting’an picked up his chopsticks, twirled a mouthful of noodles, and brought them to his mouth.
The noodles were springy and chewy, the broth fresh and clear with no excess seasoning—just the pure, clean taste of chicken, ginger, and scallions.
He chewed twice, swallowed, took a sip of the broth, and finally looked up at the person across from him.
Ban Ban rested her chin in her hands, blinking unblinkingly as she waited for his verdict.
“Not bad,” he said. “Didn’t take you for a cook.”
The corners of Ban Ban’s mouth curved upward beyond her control. Lifting her chin from her palms, she straightened her back with an expression of pure, unadulterated pride. “Of course! I used to cook for Dad and Sister all the time at home, and they always said it was delicious.”
She leaned forward, planting her elbows on the table and tilting her whole upper body toward him. “I know how to make so many kinds of noodles—chicken shred noodles, shiitake mushroom noodles, plain noodles, and even crab roe noodles. They take a bit of work, but they’re amazing. Should I make you crab roe noodles tomorrow?”
Wen Ting’an took another bite of noodles without looking up, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Not tired of the trouble?”
“Not at all.” Ban Ban shook her head. “I love cooking.”
He finished the last bite of noodles, leaving the bottom of the bowl clean, having drunk most of the soup as well. Setting his chopsticks down, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up.
“As long as you enjoy it.”
Ban Ban remained seated, tilting her head back to look up at him. Rolling up his cuffs, he strode toward the entryway, tall and straight-backed.
She called out to his back, “Are you coming home for dinner tonight?”
Wen Ting’an paused at the hallway turn. “No.”
“Oh.” Ban Ban’s voice dropped, the final syllable trailing off slightly. “Alright then.”
A month passed with Ban Ban living in the villa, and for that entire month, Wen Ting’an hadn’t once returned home for dinner.
Ban Ban grew accustomed to getting up every morning to make him noodles. She made the crab roe noodles twice, laboriously extracting the meat and roe from several crabs, a process that took nearly two hours each time.
Wen Ting’an would finish them, say “delicious,” and head off to work, vanishing for the rest of the night.
Ban Ban never asked where he went, nor did she press him. Instead, she would always set out a small vase of flowers on the dining table—sometimes lisianthus, sometimes pink roses, and occasionally just a handful of daisies plucked straight from the yard.
In the mornings, Wen Ting’an would give them an extra glance before leaving, though he never said a word.
One evening midway through the month, Wen Henian paid a surprise visit. He sat in the living room sipping tea while Ban Ban kept him company, refilling his cup three times over.
“Ban Ban,” Wen Henian looked at her. “Are you getting used to things here?”
“I am, Dad. Sister Jiang cooks well, and the house is big.”
“Has Ting’an… given you any trouble?”
Ban Ban shook her head. “No.”
Looking into those clear, untroubled eyes, and then glancing around the living room dotted with vases of flowers, Wen Henian fell silent for a long moment.
Before leaving, he sought out Sister Jiang in the kitchen and lowered his voice to ask how things were going.
When Sister Jiang informed him that the Young Master had been sleeping in the guest room, Wen Henian’s brow furrowed into a tight knot.
“That unfilial brat.” He smoked a cigarette out in the yard before leaving, pausing to tell Ban Ban, “Ban Ban, you came all the way up here to East City alone. If you ever miss home, feel free to pack a bag and go back for a visit anytime.”
Standing at the doorway to wave him off, Ban Ban smiled. “Mhm. Thanks, Dad.”
After sending Wen Henian away, Ban Ban went to take a shower. As the hot water poured down, she felt a sudden rush of heat in her nasal passages. Looking down, she saw her palm stained bright red.
She rinsed it off, looked up in the mirror, and watched another stream trickle from her nose.
Stuffing a piece of tissue up her nostril, she tilted her head back to wait it out, thinking, Is it just too hot lately?
For several days running, whenever she washed up morning and night, there would be blood streaks in her nose.
Not thinking much of it, she assumed it was just a reaction to the change in climate. She didn’t even mention it to Sister Jiang, terrified of seeming overly precious or dramatic.
Until that one particular morning.
Half-asleep, Ban Ban rolled over and felt something wet on her face.
Opening her eyes, she saw a dark red stain smeared across her pillow. She reached up to touch her nose—her hand came away covered in blood. The bleeding hadn’t stopped; it was streaming down her philtrum and dripping onto the blanket, blooming tiny red flower patterns across the fabric.
She sat frozen on the bed for several seconds.
Then, terror washed over her from head to toe like a bucket of ice water.
What’s wrong with me? Am I sick? What kind of illness? Leukemia?
Her mind raced to television dramas where heroines started with nosebleeds before discovering they had leukemia—losing all their hair, wasting away to skin and bones, and dying miserably.
Without even bothering to slip on her slippers, Ban Ban threw off the covers, bolted out of the room, and sprinted barefoot across the hallway carpet straight to the guest room door.
Flinging the door open, she rushed to the bedside and shook Wen Ting’an’s arm, calling his name through choked, tearful sobs: “Wen Ting’an! Wen Ting’an, wake up!”
Wen Ting’an snapped his eyes open. Seeing her standing by the bed with blood smeared all over her lower face, his pupils constricted sharply.
He rolled over into a sitting position and grabbed her shoulders. “What is it?”
Ban Ban hurled herself straight into his arms, burying her face against his chest as her muffled sobs spilled out. “I’m sick… I have a terrible disease.”
Wen Ting’an’s body stiffened for a fraction of a second. Morning light filtered through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the downy fuzz on the back of her neck, letting him feel her trembling frame and realize—with a sudden pause in his thoughts—that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
He raised a hand to rest on her back, patting her gently while keeping his voice much steadier than he felt. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’ve been getting nosebleeds for days, and this morning was the worst,” Ban Ban sobbed. “I’ve never had nosebleeds before. Am I getting leukemia?”
Wen Ting’an’s hand stopped on her back. He closed his eyes.
So that’s what she’s imagining.
Exhaling a breath, he gave her back another couple of soothing pats. “It’s fine. The air is probably just too dry. I’ll take you to the hospital to get checked out.”
Lifting her head from his chest, Ban Ban stared at him, her face a mess of dried blood and tears, her nose flushed pink, and her eyes swollen like walnuts. “Is it really just dryness?”
“Let’s go find out.” He released her, swung his legs out of bed, and spoke in an unarguable tone. “Go change your clothes.”
Ban Ban nodded, sniffing back her tears as she scurried back to her room.
When they headed out, Sister Jiang poked her head out from the kitchen. “Are Young Master and Madam skipping breakfast?”
Wen Ting’an was changing his shoes in the foyer. “Ban Ban isn’t feeling well. I’m taking her to the hospital.”
Sister Jiang’s expression instantly tightened. “What’s wrong with Madam?”
“Nothing, just getting a checkup.”
In the car, Ban Ban sat in the passenger seat, gripping her seatbelt with both hands, staring straight ahead with her lips pressed into a tight white line. Two blocks into the drive, she suddenly spoke up.
“Wen Ting’an.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m still so young,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “We just got married. What if I’m really sick? Will my hair fall out?”
Wen Ting’an cast her a sideways glance. She sat in profile to him, her cheeks of baby fat rounded in the morning light, her lips pale from sheer nervousness.
Terrified out of her mind, she was still desperately fighting back fresh tears.
“Nothing’s going to happen,” he said, turning his eyes back to the road. “Stop scaring yourself over nothing.”
Ban Ban fell silent. But her knuckles gripping the seatbelt turned white, and the sorrow in her eyes was agonizingly clear.
Arriving at the hospital, Wen Ting’an took her straight to the VIP consultation room.
Blood draws, comprehensive panels—while Ban Ban sat in a chair waiting for the results, she curled herself into a tiny ball, her fingers continuously wringing the hem of her dress.
Sitting right beside her, Wen Ting’an glanced at her repeatedly, only to find her locked in the exact same posture every time, resembling a sparrow caught in the rain cowering under an eaves.
The results came back quickly. The doctor pushed open the door holding a lab sheet. “Mrs. Wen’s indicators are all well within the normal range. There’s nothing wrong with her health. The nosebleeds are a classic symptom of dryness; coupled with the fact that she previously lived in the South and suddenly transitioned to the northern climate, her nasal mucosa hasn’t adapted yet, making the capillaries prone to rupture. Just go home, drink plenty of water, and run a humidifier in your room.”
Ban Ban blinked, stunned for two seconds. “Really?”
“Really,” the doctor smiled, handing her the report. “Rest assured, she’s perfectly healthy.”
Ban Ban took the sheet and read it over and over. She couldn’t understand the numbers, but she recognized the word normal.
A massive weight suddenly lifted off her chest, leaving her feeling so limp she could barely hold herself up. She turned her head to look at Wen Ting’an.
“I’m okay.” She smiled, her eyes still rimmed in red.
Wen Ting’an nodded, reaching out to pull her up from the chair. “Let’s go.”
They walked side by side toward the hospital exit. With her mood lifted, Ban Ban walked with a lighter step, clutching the lab sheet and flipping through it over and over with a rising curve at the corners of her mouth.
Just as they reached the doors, a man in a casual suit heading the opposite way spotted Wen Ting’an and lit up.
“Young Master Wen?” Zhou Lin hurried over, giving him a once-over before turning his gaze to Ban Ban. His eyes lingered on her face for two seconds—round face, fair skin, tear tracks still visible in her eyes, looking at most twenty years old.
Zhou Lin broke into a grin. “Bringing a woman to the hospital first thing in the morning, Wen? What, did you knock someone up?”
The smile vanished from Ban Ban’s face in an instant.
The phrase knock someone up echoed through her mind.
She looked at Zhou Lin’s roguish face, then turned her gaze to Wen Ting’an.
Does he frequently knock people up? How many women from his gossip columns have been brought to this exact hospital?
A heavy, suffocating pressure settled in her chest.
Frowning, Wen Ting’an snapped, “Cut the nonsense. Get lost.”
He reached out to take Ban Ban’s hand.
Ban Ban jerked her hand back, dodging him.
Taking half a step back with her head lowered, she spoke in a small voice: “I’ll walk by myself.”
Wen Ting’an’s hand hung frozen in mid-air. He looked down at the top of her head—her topknot was slightly askew, with a few stray strands plastered against her temple. His brow twitched.
“Don’t listen to his nonsense.”
Ban Ban didn’t answer. She walked ahead on her own, pulled open the passenger door, and climbed inside.
The door clicked shut. It wasn’t slammed, but it carried noticeably more force than usual.
Standing outside the car, Wen Ting’an watched through the window as she sat inside with her head down, hands clasped together in her lap, completely motionless.
Withdrawing his gaze, he shot a glacial glare at Zhou Lin standing nearby.
Zhou Lin shrank back defensively. “…Did I say something wrong?”
Without a word, Wen Ting’an walked around to the driver’s side and got in.
As Wen Ting’an climbed aboard, Zhou Lin called out, “Where’d you even pick up that chick? Short enough is one thing, but what a sour attitude.”
Hearing that, Ban Ban rolled down her window and glared at Zhou Lin. “You’re short! Your whole family is short! And even if you’re short, you’re still ugly!”
With that, she rolled the window back up.
The engine rumbled to life, and the car pulled out of the hospital gates into a quiet silence.
Ban Ban turned her face to the window, offering him nothing but the back of her head.
One hand on the steering wheel, Wen Ting’an glanced at her profile. As a husband, he figured he owed her an explanation.
“Ban Ban.”
She didn’t turn back.
“His name is Zhou Lin. A friend of mine.”
Still no turn.
“He just doesn’t have a filter, loves to joke around. He didn’t mean anything by it.”
Ban Ban finally moved. Turning her head, she gave him a single look before turning away again.
There was no anger in that look—just a heavy, unnamable sense of disappointment.
Wen Ting’an tapped his fingers twice against the steering wheel and remained silent.
The car kept moving, the sycamore trees along the street drifting backward frame by frame. Sunlight poured through the windshield, illuminating the floating dust motes dancing inside the cabin.
Ban Ban whispered something under her breath.
Not catching it, Wen Ting’an asked, “What?”
Ban Ban shook her head. “Nothing.”
What Ban Ban had actually muttered was: And to think I woke up early to make you breakfast.