The Pampered Little Wife of the Crazy, Disabled Big Shot (2)
Song Chubai was busy in the garden, fertilizing, watering, and shoveling out completely withered, dead flowers to bury them as plant fertilizer.
He worked busily for an entire afternoon, yet he only managed to clear a small corner of the garden.
The garden was simply too massive. Though he had handled a lot, compared to the entire expanse, it was less than one-fifth.
Song Chubai took a deep breath, and before he could even straighten his back, his stomach began to rumble with hunger.
Seeing the sunset casting its warm glow across the sky, Song Chubai suddenly realized that it was already evening.
He tidied up briefly and walked over to the doorway where the flat-topped man had brought him earlier.
The door remained tightly shut, as if it had never been opened.
Song Chubai thought for a moment, raised his hand to knock on the door, and spoke up, “Hello, I am Song Chubai. Is there anything to eat, please?”
He was really, truly hungry.
No one answered him. The surroundings were frighteningly quiet. In such a huge manor, it felt as though not a single person was around.
Song Chubai wasn’t discouraged. He continued, “I won’t go in. Perhaps you could just give me a piece of bread?”
Pausing for a second, he added, “And maybe a carton of milk?”
Milk paired with bread, perfection!
A low chuckle seemed to float out from behind the door.
A few seconds later, the door swung open from the inside, revealing an empty, vacant space with not a soul in sight.
Song Chubai blinked and asked tentatively, “Is anyone there?”
Nobody answered him.
“Then I’m coming in.”
Still no answer.
He tentatively stepped forward, planting his foot inside the dimly lit foyer.
The lights instantly flickered on, and vaguely, a man could be seen sitting over by the sofa.
The man possessed an extremely striking face. Beneath a straight bridge of a nose were a pair of tightly pressed lips, and above that rested deep, pitch-black eyes.
At this moment, those dark eyes glanced lazily over, swept past him, and then lowered.
“Mr. Duan, hello.” Song Chubai took the initiative to greet him, though he didn’t walk any closer.
“Perhaps I could have a piece of bread and some milk?” he asked tentatively once again.
The man, who was none other than the master of this manor and also Song Chubai’s mission target, Duan Yimo, raised his gaze once more. His eyes fell upon Song Chubai as he replied indifferently, “No.”
Rejected, Song Chubai felt just a tiny bit disappointed.
Without even bread and milk, was he going to be forced to eat chaff and coarse vegetables?
Song Chubai was someone incapable of masking his feelings; whatever he thought in his heart was clearly reflected on his face.
Duan Yimo took in every expression on Song Chubai’s face, and a dark gleam seemed to flash within his ink-black pupils.
“Can you cook?” he asked indifferently.
Song Chubai’s eyes lit up, and he practically guessed what Duan Yimo was going to say next.
He nodded eagerly and said, “Yes, I can.”
If there was no bread and milk, cooking for himself would work just fine.
Duan Yimo gave a light hum of acknowledgment and gestured toward a direction. “The kitchen is over there.”
With that, he operated his wheelchair and headed toward the elevator.
Because his legs were impaired, this two-story small villa had no stairs, only an elevator.
This made moving up and down much more convenient for him.
Song Chubai glanced in the direction of the elevator, looking thoughtful.
After Duan Yimo left, Song Chubai headed to the kitchen according to the direction he had pointed out.
The kitchen was massive, fully equipped with all sorts of utensils, and even featured two super-sized double-door refrigerators.
Opening the fridge to take a look, various ingredients were neatly arranged inside, clearly organized by someone on a regular basis.
Without rummaging around too much, Song Chubai simply grabbed two eggs, some tomatoes, and a portion of noodles, planning to whip up a simple tomato and egg noodle soup.
Turning on the stove to boil water, steam began to spread, bringing a tiny hint of warmth to a manor whose air otherwise felt chilled and congealed.
Watching this scene unfold from the surveillance footage, Duan Yimo tapped his fingers lightly against the armrest of his wheelchair, his eyes dark and heavy as he pondered.
The appetizing aroma drifted from the first floor all the way up to the second, filling the air with the faint scent of home-cooked food.
This was a scent that had never once appeared in the manor before.
Duan Yimo’s fingertips paused slightly. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and he felt an indescribable sense of hunger.
Darkening his gaze, he maneuvered his wheelchair toward the elevator.
By the time Duan Yimo reached downstairs, Song Chubai was eating with immense relish.
The noodles were firm and chewy, paired with tangy and sweet tomatoes, plus eggs fried to absolute tenderness, bursting with rich flavors inside his mouth.
Having starved all day, Song Chubai felt that this bowl of noodles right in front of him was so precious that he wouldn’t trade it even for ten thousand yuan.
“Is there any left?”
An abrupt voice sounded right beside his ear, startling Song Chubai so much that his hand jerked and his chopsticks almost dropped onto the table.
Following the voice, he looked over and saw Duan Yimo sitting in his wheelchair not far away, with the light casting a shadow over his silhouette.
That silent yet somewhat hopeful expression made Song Chubai feel as though he was looking at Lu Chenhan from the previous world.
He froze for a moment, and a sentence slipped out of his mouth completely bypassing his brain.
“There’s still some in my bowl. Do you want to eat it?”
Duan Yimo raised an eyebrow, seemingly caught off guard by Song Chubai’s words.
This little wife of his was far more enthusiastic than he had imagined.
Having rarely had his appetite stimulated, Duan Yimo naturally wouldn’t refuse Song Chubai’s offer.
He maneuvered his wheelchair over to the dining table.
Naturally taking the chopsticks from Song Chubai’s hand while pulling the bowl slightly closer to himself, he began to eat.
Song Chubai sighed.
His noodles!
Since he was living under someone else’s roof, Song Chubai could only quietly swallow his grievances, comforting himself with the thought of checking what else was left in the fridge to eat later.
After Duan Yimo finished the noodles, even drinking the soup down to the very last drop, a rare smile finally surfaced on his previously gloomy face.
“The taste is not bad,” he praised unusually.
“Tonight, you are allowed to sleep on the first floor.”
Song Chubai looked at him in utter surprise and couldn’t help asking, “Were you not planning to let me sleep indoors before?”
Duan Yimo raised an eyebrow, a lingering smile at the corners of his lips as he retorted, “What do you think?”
Song Chubai had already found his answer within that counter-question.
He suddenly felt that this bowl of noodles had proven its worth.
He let out an oh, paused for two seconds to gaze at the empty bowl, and then silently withdrew his gaze.
My noodles, you died a meaningful death! I will pray for your soul!
Duan Yimo put down his chopsticks, elegantly wiped his mouth with a napkin, and then gracefully tossed the paper into the trash can beside him.
Only after finishing all of this did, he calmly speak up, “What is your name?”
“Song Chubai,” he replied honestly.
Anyway, this kind of thing couldn’t be hidden anyway.
And he had no reason to hide it either.
Duan Yimo gave a hum of acknowledgment, sounding as if he were just asking casually without really caring much.
His gaze landed on Song Chubai’s face, the corners of his lips curving slightly. “The Song family was certainly willing to send you over.”
This face and figure were vastly superior to certain others.
He was actually quite curious about how the Song family came up with the idea of sending Song Chubai over to be his little wife.