The old madam looked at him and said slowly:
“Yanqin, all these years you haven’t had a single woman by your side. I even thought you truly were impotent.
But in fact, the old Chinese doctor’s words came true. You only react to her, only feel desire for her.”
Fu Yanqin’s expression finally showed a trace of change, his jawline tightening.
“You have Jingxi now, which proves that you succeeded with her that night.”
The old madam pushed the piece of paper forward again.
“The old Chinese doctor left one sentence that I never dared tell you. He said, if you touch her, from then on you can only touch her alone.
If you forcibly suppress it, it will harm your body and drain your vitality. Over time, it won’t be a matter of minor ailments.”
Fu Yanqin lowered his eyes to the paper and didn’t move for a long while.
He thought of that night.
He had drunk some alcohol, but not to the point of losing consciousness.
That woman had been pinned by him against the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling window, her back pressed to the glass, the lights of the capital city outside.
She had cried once, sobbing and choking, begging him to—be gentler.
He hadn’t responded.
He never knew her name from beginning to end.
Seeing him silent, Old Madam Fu continued:
“Yanqin, find this girl. Jingxi is only a month old—he should have his own mother.”
Fu Yanqin finally raised his eyes.
The lamplight fell into his deep eye sockets, and deep emotions surged within those pupils, but they were quickly suppressed again.
He said: “We’ll see.”
The old madam didn’t press him further, only added:
“One more thing—that new nanny, she looks somewhat familiar to me. Pay more attention. Don’t let her be someone planted by others.”
Fu Yanqin gave an “Mm” and rose to leave.
When he reached the doorway, he suddenly paused, and with his back to the old madam, asked:
“What’s her name?”
The old madam was startled for a moment. “Who?”
“The new one.”
“Oh, surname Xi, single name Tong. Said to be from the countryside of Suzhou, a young widow.”
A young widow.
Fu Yanqin said nothing more and stepped out.
The night lamp under the corridor stretched his shadow very long.
He stood on the steps and lit a cigarette, the crimson ember flickering in the darkness.
Xi Tong.
He had never heard this name.
But just now in the nursery, the way she held Jingxi and turned to the side to nurse him—for a moment it made him feel a sense of déjà vu.
Fu Yanqin returned to the study and casually loosened his collar.
He had always disliked crowds. He lived alone in a separate building, with only Uncle Fu attending to him.
Uncle Fu was nearly sixty, his hair combed meticulously, wearing a navy blue Chinese-style front-buttoned jacket.
He had been the steward of the Fu family for over thirty years, serving since the generation of Fu Yanqin’s grandfather. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to call him a trusted confidant.
Because he had watched Fu Yanqin grow up, he naturally had a bit more affection than others, and occasionally dared to say a few extra words in front of Fu Yanqin.
It was clear that the young master had taken the old madam’s words to heart. Uncle Fu hesitated for a moment, then carefully chose his words:
“Sir, if I may be so bold—the old madam has a point. This household should have a mistress.”
But that was all he said. Anyone who could stay in the Fu family for decades understood one principle well.
Know when to stop; going too far is as bad as not going far enough.
A master is ultimately a master, and a servant is ultimately a servant.
Especially since this matter struck Fu Yanqin’s most sensitive nerve—all these years, whoever brought it up got burned. Uncle Fu spoke with particular caution.
Fu Yanqin didn’t respond, only tapped his fingertips lightly on the desk twice, his brow furrowing half a degree deeper.
He suddenly thought of the wet nurse in his son’s bedroom earlier—the woman’s shirt, soaked through and clinging to her body, collar gaping wide, the faintly visible fairness and fullness.
A familiar heat crept silently up the back of his neck. Fu Yanqin narrowed his eyes slightly and suppressed the anomaly.
Wasn’t it supposed to be only that woman from that night who could affect him?
…
Tong Xi lived separately from the other servants. Tong Xi was responsible for breastfeeding, while the other servants assisted with other tasks.
The servants had privately heard that Tong Xi was a widow whose husband had died, with only a daughter left at home. They expressed sympathy for Tong Xi,
never letting her do any miscellaneous chores, and always sharing the good food with her.
These past few days, aside from breastfeeding and caring for the young master, Tong Xi spent her time thinking about her daughter.
Before she left, she had entrusted her daughter to her best friend Chang Nanjia to look after for a while. She didn’t know if her daughter had been crying or throwing tantrums.
Other than that, ever since she saw Fu Yanqin that day, Tong Xi had been hiding in her room after feeding her son these past few days. She found that she was even more afraid of him than she had imagined.
Afraid of what exactly? She couldn’t really explain it herself—she just wanted to stay far, far away, the farther the better.
…
Night spilled across the corridor. Tong Xi had just finished burping Fu Jingxi after feeding and placed the little young master back in his crib.
The little one slept quietly with his fists clenched, his small mouth slightly pouting. She couldn’t resist leaning down to kiss her son’s forehead.
Suddenly, several footsteps came from the hallway outside, voices speaking in hushed tones—not the usual soft, careful steps.
Tong Xi straightened up. The door was lightly tapped twice, and Sister Zhou pushed it open, leaning half her body in, her expression somewhat tense:
“Miss Xi, is the young master asleep?”
“Asleep. Sleeping very soundly.”
“That’s good.” Sister Zhou lowered her voice. “Tonight, aside from feeding the young master, just stay in your own room. Don’t wander around. There’s something going on with the master.”
Tong Xi’s heart tightened. She nodded, not daring to ask more.
Sister Zhou glanced at her again, then turned and closed the door behind her.
The footsteps in the corridor gradually faded into the distance.
Tong Xi returned to her small room and sat on the edge of the bed without turning on the light. Moonlight outside the window spread a small patch of cold white across the wooden floor.
She held her phone and pulled up the photo of her daughter that Chang Nanjia had sent—the little girl sprawled in her best friend’s arms, sleeping soundly.
She zoomed in and out on the photo, looking at it over and over again, her eyes stinging slightly.
From the direction of the master bedroom next door, the faint sound of water came—splashing and sloshing, intermittent, lasting a long time.
Tong Xi didn’t know that behind that door, Fu Yanqin was leaning against the edge of the bathtub, cold water up to his chest.
The Love Gu had flared up.
A whole tub of ice water, the chill seeping into his bones, yet that burning heat deep in his waist and abdomen was still surging, searing until his temple throbbed with pain.
The old Chinese doctor’s words rolled back and forth in his mind.
This lifetime, there could only be that one woman. Once he’d had her, he could never quit her. Forcing it down would only damage his body and drain his vitality.
He closed his eyes, thinking of that night, thinking of that woman.
Then thinking of that wet nurse from the other day…
With a splash, Fu Yanqin sat up from the water.
…
At the same time, Fu Jingxi suddenly started crying. Tong Xi heard it from next door and, forgetting Sister Zhou’s instructions, ran to Jingxi’s room.
She found her son had diarrhea. Together with another servant, she changed his diaper.
When she stood up, her vision went dark for a moment. After pausing to recover—it was a bit of low blood sugar—she planned to go to the tea room to pour herself a cup of honey water.
The tea room on this floor was at the end of the hallway, its door slightly ajar. The warm yellow motion-sensor light was on, illuminating the marble countertop and the neat rows of bottles and jars.
The water in the kettle had just come to a boil, and the steam made the lid bounce gently.
Tong Xi was twisting off a cap to pour honey into a cup when her wrist suddenly slipped, and scalding hot water splashed onto the back of her hand.
She hissed in pain, and the cup flew from her grip and slammed onto the counter. The honey water spilled everywhere, running down along the edge.
She hurriedly pulled out a tissue to wipe it up, lowering her head to blow on the back of her hand.
She didn’t notice the glass door behind her being pushed open.
When she looked up again, Fu Yanqin was standing just two steps away.
He was wearing a dark gray bathrobe. He had probably already showered—his hair wasn’t completely dry, the ends still damp, with a few stray strands falling across his forehead.
The tea room’s lighting had a warm tone, and falling on him, it brought out a soft texture in the bathrobe, making even the lines of his jaw look less sharp.
Tong Xi certainly knew that Fu Yanqin was good-looking.
She had seen him countless times on the news.
That night’s events crashed into her mind again…
She had been pressed by Fu Yanqin against the armrest of the sofa.
She had been dazed and muddled in the midst of it.
Tong Xi’s cheeks had only been slightly warm at first, but now, because of the scene she was picturing in her own head, a red flush spread across her entire small face.
But… she had applied very thick makeup, so nothing could be seen at all.