“How dare you lay a hand on someone?”
Even now, Song Yuhua still sounded incredulous.
Jiang Yuan curled her lips and leaned closer. “I hit her, not you. Are you feeling I’m being unfair?”
Jiang Yuan had spent years doing heavy farm work in the countryside; her strength was far greater than Song Yuhua realized. That single blow she’d dealt to Aunt Liu earlier—Song Yuhua could tell she hadn’t even used half her might.
Song Yuhua was no pampered heiress; she’d done her share of work in years past, but only household chores. And with Aunt Liu tending to everything these past years, she hadn’t so much as touched a speck of dust.
She knew full well she stood no chance in a fight.
Terrified, Song Yuhua backed away trembling, until her back pressed against the wall. “Let me tell you—if you dare lay a finger on me, you’ll never marry Lu Ze!”
Jiang Yuan feigned a thoughtful expression for a moment. “Am I to understand… that if I wish to marry Lu Ze, I must not strike you?”
“Precisely…” Song Yuhua said. “What kind of future daughter-in-law hits her future mother-in-law before she’s even walked through the door?”
“You do have a point,” Jiang Yuan said. “But I have no desire to marry Lu Ze. So that means I can hit you with complete peace of mind.”
No sooner had the words left her mouth than Jiang Yuan raised a wooden bucket and brought it down squarely upon Song Yuhua’s face.
Afterward, she inspected the bucket’s surface. “Good heavens—how many pounds of powder have you plastered all over your face? Look at this mess stuck to the bucket! Anyone would think this thing was used for kneading dough!”
Far from satisfied, she added, “No wonder our flour supply disappears so quickly—it’s been smeared across your face all this time! But honestly… this old face of yours is hopeless. Even after caking it on by the pound, you’re still frightfully ugly.”
Jiang Yuan pretended to study her with genuine confusion, then let out a knowing “Ah!” “It’s because your heart is so hideously ugly and corrupt—every bit of it has written itself across your face!”
Aunt Liu, who had recovered enough to breathe, caught Jiang Yuan glancing her way. Terrified of receiving the next blow, she spoke up quickly.
“Commander Lu is short one quilt. We don’t have any spares in the house… so I gave yours to him.”
Jiang Yuan was utterly speechless.
There was nothing she could do. After all, this was their home—they were the masters here.
She was merely a guest. How could she possibly fight the owners of the house over household goods?
She might not be able to fight them… but she certainly could make them regret it.
Meanwhile…
Jiang Yuan had gone downstairs. Upstairs, Lu Qinian had originally had no intention of coming home that night—until Xu Qianjin reported a most peculiar matter.
“Song Yuhua is looking for those three men you sent to work on the reservoir project?”
“Indeed,” Xu Qianjin replied. “She claims it’s through an old comrade-in-arms of Lu Bingcheng’s, and the request eventually reached my desk.”
Lu Bingcheng was Lu Ze’s biological father.
Lu Ze had been eight years old when his father died on duty. Out of respect for his final wishes, Lu Qinian had taken the boy in as his adopted son.
“Song Yuhua…” Lu Qinian repeated the name slowly, chewing it over. Something felt deeply wrong.
He had been barely twenty when he took Lu Ze in—hardly more than a boy himself, with no idea how to raise a child. That was why he’d arranged for Song Yuhua to move in. And to make life easier for the two of them, he’d also hired Aunt Liu to help around the house.
Back then, his duties with the military were heavy; he was rarely home. And when he was, he’d only ask after Lu Ze’s studies—he’d barely spoken to Song Yuhua.
Lu Bingcheng had been his squad leader, and Lu Qinian knew every one of his old comrades. Yet Song Yuhua had always come to him whenever she needed help—never once had she reached out to any of Bingcheng’s old friends, not even when he was alive.
“I agree—this is highly irregular,” Xu Qianjin said. “I’ve also sent people to make inquiries at her hometown. Nothing out of the ordinary has turned up.”
“Can you find out why she’s looking for those three men?”
“I’m still investigating that,” Xu Qianjin replied. “I suggest you return home and speak with her—see what you can draw out of her. We’ll work this from both ends.”
“Agreed.”
Back at the Residence
It was already deep into the night.
By this hour, both women should have been fast asleep. It seemed he would have to wait until morning to question her.
Downstairs, the lamp burned as always.
Hearing footsteps ascending the stairs, Aunt Liu opened the door just a crack. Confirming that Lu Qinian had entered his room, she closed it with the utmost care.
“Comrade Song… are you certain this is wise?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Song Yuhua replied. “That little hussy Jiang Yuan is already in his bed. And Qinian—he’s a cold, reserved man. Unless something directly concerns him, he won’t interfere.”
“But…” Aunt Liu hesitated. “That Jiang Yuan… she has a face that men find hard to resist. What if something truly happens between them?”
“So what if it does?” Song Yuhua said with assurance. “Qinian has taught me this: if you want something big, you must be willing to take risks. He’s a man. He stands to lose nothing.”
You cannot catch a wolf without sacrificing a lamb.
“That’s not what I meant…”
“I know exactly what you’re worried about,” Song Yuhua said, her tone unshakably confident. “But let me tell you—would you ever use a toothbrush that’s been used to scrub a toilet? Even if you slipped up and used it by accident… it is the toothbrush that would suffer, not you.”
And if that happened? With Lu Qinian’s temperament… Jiang Yuan would be destroyed. The man was ruthless; his vengeance would be far crueler than anything Song Yuhua could devise.
Upstairs
Lu Qinian entered his room, switched on the light, and fetched his toiletries. He went to the bathroom, finished washing up, and returned to his room to undress for the night.
He lifted the edge of his quilt—only to discover someone lying in his bed.
Instinct took over; a soldier’s reflexes. In one fluid motion, he climbed onto the bed, pinned the person beneath the covers in place, and found their throat with his hand—pressing firmly.
Jiang Yuan had been fast asleep. Suddenly seized and unable to breathe, she thrashed and kicked, fighting to show she meant no harm.
Only once he ascertained the person was unarmed and posed no threat did he loosen his grip. Jiang Yuan threw the covers back, gasping for air, her face flushed bright red—at which point Lu Qinian realized exactly who it was.
He sprang off the bed, fury in his eyes. “Why are you in my bed?”
Jiang Yuan coughed repeatedly, taking in great gulps of fresh air. It took her some time before she could speak. “Because there is nowhere else in this entire house to sleep but your bed.”
She looked up at him then, her gaze dancing with mischief as it swept over him, finally resting upon his dark, stormy face. “We are husband and wife—bound together by a marriage certificate. Is there anything more natural than a wife sleeping in her husband’s bed?”
Lu Qinian’s demeanor shifted instantly. Gone was the half-amused tolerance he had shown her before. His voice rang out sharp and commanding, every word vibrating with cold fury: “Get out. Now.”
Downstairs
Song Yuhua had been standing by the door, ear pressed to the wood. She had been waiting for exactly this reaction. The moment she heard his voice, she knew her moment had come. She threw on a coat and hurried upstairs.
In the Bedroom
Jiang Yuan knew better than to push her luck. Teasing and banter were all well and good—but not when Lu Qinian looked as though he might actually snap. He was nothing like Song Yuhua or Aunt Liu—paper tigers, both. Anger him, and with her slender frame, she doubted he would hesitate to break her in two.
“Fine! I’m leaving!”
Jiang Yuan spoke as she pulled the covers aside. She was fully clothed in long sleeves and high collars; not an inch of skin was exposed that ought not be seen.
It was autumn, and the air was dry. Static clung her clothing to her figure, outlining every curve with sharp, unflattering clarity. Lu Qinian turned his head away, irritation sharpening his features.
The capital turned cold quickly in autumn. And it was deep into the night. As she threw the covers open, the warmth trapped within swept past him—carrying with it the faint, unique scent that belonged only to Jiang Yuan.
His fury flared hotter than ever, burning straight to the crown of his head.
There was no way in hell he could sleep in there now.
With a sharp, angry sweep of his sleeves, Lu Qinian stormed out of the room.
SLAM!
The door to the study next door slammed shut.