Su Wanqing shook her head and turned slightly, looking toward the little dumpling who had already gone upstairs.
She couldn’t understand.
She really couldn’t.
How could there be parents like this?
Before, she had thought of them as nothing more than paper characters in a novel—but now she realized they were living, breathing people with emotions and blood running through them.
She didn’t know what her mission was in this “book world,” but she knew one thing clearly: she had to stop this chain of tragedy from happening.
At the very least, she couldn’t let that soft, adorable little dumpling end up with a suicidal fate.
“Madam, shall we serve dinner now?” the maid asked.
“Gu… uh, is the master not coming back?” Su Wanqing asked, turning her head.
“Ah, Madam, the master usually comes home quite late. The young master usually eats once he returns,” the maid replied.
In normal times, Gu Hengzhi often came home late due to business socializing, and Su Wanqing herself rarely stayed at home—she usually skipped dinner to maintain her figure.
So most of the time, only the little dumpling was left alone in that enormous villa.
Su Wanqing stood up from the sofa. “Then let’s eat now. I’ll go call Shimu.”
The maid looked slightly surprised, then quickly replied respectfully, “Yes, Madam.”
In the past, Su Wanqing never held back harsh words toward the little dumpling.
She had never given him a kind face.
The little boy, in turn, was not close to his mother by blood either.
If his emotional distance was inherited from his father’s genes, then at least sixty percent of it—perhaps more—came from the damage of his upbringing.
Upstairs, Su Wanqing hesitated for a moment.
Ever since he entered the house, the little dumpling had never properly looked at her. Clearly, he had already given up on her. And yet he was only four years old—he acted more like a little adult.
She sighed softly and knocked on the door.
After a moment—
Inside, a page was still open:
click
The door opened.
Seeing that it was Su Wanqing, the little dumpling looked slightly surprised.
Then his small brows furrowed tightly, and he averted his gaze.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Seeing his guarded expression, Su Wanqing softened her voice. “Are you hungry? I’ll take you downstairs to eat, okay?”
The little dumpling paused for a moment and looked back at her face.
His brows were still tightly knitted.
“I understand,” he said flatly.
..
At the dining table.
Su Wanqing served a bowl of soup and placed it in front of him. “Drink some soup first.”
The little dumpling looked slightly startled, then gently pushed the bowl aside.
His table manners were impeccable—too perfect. He ate only the dishes closest to him, like a carefully programmed little model, completely mechanical.
Su Wanqing picked up a chicken drumstick and placed it in his bowl. “Try this.”
The little dumpling pressed his lips together, then moved the drumstick into the side dish plate where he had already stacked his untouched bones.
Soon after, he put down his chopsticks.
“I’m full,” he said, without ever touching the soup.
Then he got down from the chair and went upstairs on his own.
One of the maids quietly exhaled in relief, afraid the mistress might suddenly lose her temper.
After all, this wealthy madam seemed different from other rich wives.
She didn’t flatter her husband to secure her position, and she treated the master’s only son harshly.
She never showed him a good face—calling him all kinds of ugly names like “little bastard” and “unwanted stray.”
Even outsiders like them felt uneasy hearing those words repeatedly.
Su Wanqing put down her chopsticks and sighed softly.
She wasn’t angry.
What she felt was more like… heartache.
He was only four years old, yet he lived like a machine—no emotions, no expression, no communication at all.
click.
A sharp sound echoed in the empty, vast room.
Su Wanqing snapped back to reality and looked toward the door.
It had opened.