Chapter 14: Applying Medicine

Fu Wenzhou sat properly, waiting for Song Qingyou to apply the medicine to his wound. She told him not to move, and so he remained absolutely still.

Her fingers pressed gently against his skin, spreading the ointment over his injury. Those delicate, fair hands seemed to hook at his heart, swaying something deep within him, until even the cool balm felt warmed upon his body.

Fu Wenzhou lowered his gaze, forcing down the turbulent emotions that welled up inside him. On one side, desire surged; on the other, reason restrained him. He dared not let his little goddess see the longing in his eyes, so he could only endure, restrain himself, and wear the mask of a gentleman.

At last, with her quiet "All done," the torment of having her tend his wound was over.

Fu Wenzhou’s slender fingers toyed carelessly with his shirt buttons, his hair falling naturally over his brow, half-veiling those deep, narrow eyes. His lashes were thick, the outer corners of his eyes lifting ever so slightly. He’d been given a pair of eyes both cold and full of longing, and for more than ten years, he had loved only Song Qingyou.

In the reflection of his pupils, Song Qingyou saw herself.

Throughout this long, silent period, there seemed to have been no one else beside him. Those eyes had held only her.

Song Qingyou’s thoughts drifted. Sometimes she wondered, could the fluttering affection of youth truly drive someone to pursue another for so many years? Was what Fu Wenzhou felt for her truly love—or just the bitter refusal to accept what he could not have?

If she had not married Fu Tingshen, if they had not become aunt and nephew by marriage, if she had not fallen ill and could have lived a little longer, perhaps she would have been willing to give Fu Wenzhou a chance.

But there are no ifs in this world.

Fu Wenzhou’s voice was hoarse and low, almost lazy. "I’ll leave Porridge with you for now. I have some matters to attend to in the next couple of days."

Song Qingyou was taken aback and asked without thinking, "What business could you possibly have?"

Fu Wenzhou’s gaze grew deep and somber. "Qingyou, I suppose I should clarify for you—your future husband is not an idle, good-for-nothing second-generation heir."

Embarrassment flushed her cheeks as she realized her own reflexive assumption, not even catching his reference to himself as her "future husband." "Sorry, it’s just that you do always seem rather free."

After all, it was hard to imagine someone who dropped by to see her every other day could really be that busy.

Fu Wenzhou paused for a few seconds, lips curling into a cold, wry smile before he left.

Song Qingyou stood stunned for two minutes, unable to fathom what on earth had made him angry this time.

Porridge seized the moment to squeeze through the doorway, scampering to her side and rubbing against her legs.

Bending down, she scooped the little cat into her arms, gently kneading its tiny head as a soft smile bloomed in her eyes. "Why is your master always so quick to anger?"

"Meow~"

Two days later, news of the charity gala hosted by the Ruan family was known throughout the capital.

On the night of the event, a crowd of reporters gathered at the Ruan family’s gates. The charity auction was drawing particular attention, for the highlight of the evening was rumored to be a cheongsam hand-stitched by Lin Qingshan, a master whose work had not been seen in years. Crafted using the traditional Suzhou embroidery, a form of intangible cultural heritage, the gown’s intricate handiwork rendered every stitch priceless.

It was the first piece the old master had produced in years, luring many of high society to attend.

Song Chang got out of the car first, circled around, and opened the door for her. Song Qingyou stepped down, her shapely, fair legs drawing every eye. Today she wore a simple, pale cheongsam with a matching shawl, her skin as luminous as snow.

The delicate mandarin collar framed her slender swan neck. Her long, glossy hair was swept up with just a single wooden hairpin. Her gaze was soft as springtime, her figure graceful and poised. Though she wore not a single piece of jewelry, her beauty was enough to steal the breath of all who saw her.

Not only those at the entrance, but even the ranks of reporters were momentarily transfixed. It was only when she drifted out of sight that they realized she was the youngest daughter of the Song family, recently divorced.

The journalists instantly regretted missing such a headline moment. They’d thought that, even if they couldn’t get images from inside the gala, they might at least catch a glimpse of the much-discussed Song-Fu divorce. Instead, entranced by her beauty, they’d forgotten even to raise their cameras.

Just as they were berating themselves, a commotion arose in the distance.

Fu Tingshen and Lin Miaomiao were approaching arm in arm.

Not daring to miss tomorrow’s front-page news, the reporters surged forward.

Lin Miaomiao clung affectionately to Fu Tingshen’s arm, smiling with smug delight. When questioned by reporters, she glanced at him shyly, replying, "Yes, our wedding is set for the third of next month. Tingshen has taken care of all the arrangements. Now that I’m expecting, he won’t let me tire myself with such things."

Fu Tingshen’s expression darkened. He raised a hand to fend off the reporters. "We’re going in. Please make way."

Lin Miaomiao, not yet finished flaunting her happiness, pulled him close, showing off their affection once more before following him inside.

Once clear of the crowd, Fu Tingshen’s brows drew together. "Don’t go around announcing our wedding everywhere."

He had only just divorced Song Qingyou and was already marrying Lin Miaomiao. The rumors swirling outside had yet to abate, and Lin Miaomiao’s constant flaunting had left him frustrated by the endless media attention.

Lin Miaomiao looked momentarily wounded. "I’m sorry. I’m just so happy, Tingshen. I’ve waited so many years for this day. I thought you’d be as happy as I am. I must have been mistaken."

Fu Tingshen took a deep breath. "Miaomiao, our relationship doesn’t need to be witnessed by anyone else. After all these years, you should know how I feel about you."

She was well aware of how far she could push him. At his words, she nodded obediently. "I understand, Tingshen."

"That’s my good girl." He pressed a kiss to her lips.

Unlike the tranquil courtyard, the hall beyond the gallery was alive with voices.

Fu Tingshen’s gaze swept the crowd and instantly found Song Qingyou, conversing with others across the room.

She wore an understated white cheongsam, her eyes lowered, her expression serene. Suddenly, a gentle smile curved her lips—like a spring breeze stirring the heart.

Fu Tingshen’s black eyes were unfathomable, betraying nothing.

Lin Miaomiao followed his gaze, and jealousy flared within her. Her face, however, was forced into a stiff smile. "Tingshen, what are you looking at?"

He withdrew his gaze as if it had never lingered. "Nothing. Let’s go."