Zhou Yanzi’s wife was notoriously difficult to please.

This was common knowledge among Ficheng’s upper circles.

Everyone knew that Zhou Yanzi, the usually decisive and efficient CEO of Yun Tu Group, had transformed into a model husband after marriage, turning down most social engagements and returning home every night to cook.

Even during meetings, if his wife called, he would immediately suspend the meeting, answering the phone with tender concern, a patience and gentleness that astonished his vice presidents.

Despite this, his wife remained dissatisfied.

This wasn’t hearsay; there were three reliable sources.

First, Zhou Yanzi’s assistant said he’d overheard his boss say into the phone, “You don’t want me to come home?”

His tone was utterly despondent.

Second, Zhou Yanzi’s close friend, Lin Lusheng, said he’d seen Zhou Yanzi sitting alone in the courtyard late at night, lost in thought.

It was his wife’s birthday.

The final source was Zhou Yanzi’s wife herself, Wen Song, who repeatedly told her roommate, “Don’t envy me. I haven’t really married into wealth. I’ll divorce him eventually.”

Wen Song, 22, a level six Omega, was an unremarkable fourth-year computer science student at Ficheng University who married the CEO of Yun Tu Group in early January.

Before the marriage, everyone thought he was marrying up.

After the marriage, everyone knew he was difficult to please and deeply dissatisfied with Zhou Yanzi and the marriage.

Of course, he himself didn’t realize this.

Returning from school, he put his bag in his bedroom, changed into his house clothes, and quietly sat in the living room waiting for Zhou Yanzi to come home.

Even after almost two months of marriage, the half-hour wait still made him nervous.

He adjusted his hair, then his collar. The housekeeper turned on the TV, but he showed little interest. The moment he heard footsteps in the yard, he straightened up, turning towards the door.

The door opened, and Zhou Yanzi entered.

He’d attended a business event and was dressed formally: a crisp black suit, impeccably buttoned, his thin gold-rimmed glasses reflecting the overhead lights, giving him a refined and elegant air. He looked towards Wen Song.

Wen Song froze for a moment, unable to rise before the housekeeper greeted him, “Mr. Zhou, what are we having tonight?”

Missing the perfect opportunity, Wen Song sat back down, nervously picking at his knees.

He felt clumsy. Why did he retreat the moment the housekeeper spoke? He could have greeted Zhou Yanzi together. He could have been the first to speak. Just as he was berating himself, he heard Zhou Yanzi’s voice—

“Xiao Song, what do you want to eat tonight?”

Zhou Yanzi stood by the entrance, looking at him.

Wen Song, as if called upon, hastily stood, his hands clasped behind his back, answering indirectly, “Sir, you’re back.”

“What do you want to eat tonight?”

Wen Song hesitated, “Whatever you decide, sir.”

Zhou Yanzi wasn’t surprised. This conversation played out daily. He asked every day; Wen Song always demurred. They’d developed a subtle understanding; the conversation ended there.

He smiled slightly at Wen Song, then pulled out the nutritionist’s menu, selecting three dishes.

Shrimp and tofu, stir-fried okra, and braised fish maw in sour soup.

“Is that alright?” he asked Wen Song’s opinion.

Wen Song thought about yesterday and softly said, “It doesn’t need to be so extravagant, sir. We won’t finish it all.”

“We can just make smaller portions.”

Wen Song watched Zhou Yanzi remove his suit jacket, handing it to the housekeeper, then strode towards the kitchen. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, washed his hands, and checked the white radish and beef soup the housekeeper had been simmering since the afternoon. Lifting the lid, a rich aroma filled the kitchen.

Wen Song instinctively sniffed it.

Zhou Yanzi added some salt to the pot, noticing Wen Song’s action, and asked, “Xiao Song, would you like to try it?”

Wen Song shyly shook his head.

“It’s fine, taste it to check the seasoning,” Zhou Yanzi said again.

His voice was low, emotionless, but his gaze was gentle, not cold. Wen Song didn’t dare refuse, quickly walking over, stopping at the island counter, keeping a distance.

Zhou Yanzi ladled a small bowl for him, stirring it, waiting for the steam to subside before handing it over.

Wen Song took it, taking only one sip before saying, “Delicious, thank you, sir!”

“It’s the housekeeper’s work, I can’t take the credit.”

As soon as Wen Song got close to Zhou Yanzi, he felt dizzy, his brain short-circuiting. He gazed at Zhou Yanzi and said, “Tha-thank you, housekeeper.”

Zhou Yanzi chuckled softly.

Wen Song belatedly realized his mistake, his face flushing crimson. He quickly turned to the housekeeper, who was cleaning, saying, “Housekeeper, the beef soup is delicious, you’re amazing.”

The housekeeper waved her hand, “Mr. Zhou bought high-quality beef, and the recipe is excellent. I just put it in the pot and turned on the heat.”

Wen Song turned back, feeling like a spinning top, holding his small bowl, gazing longingly at Zhou Yanzi. When Zhou Yanzi noticed his gaze, he lowered his head, silently finishing the soup.

What should he say now?

He always faltered, unable to be natural.

Zhou Yanzi took his bowl, advising him like an elder, “A small bowl to warm your stomach. Too much will spoil your appetite. Go rest in the living room.”

“I’ll help you prepare the vegetables,” Wen Song didn’t leave.

Before Zhou Yanzi could refuse, he rolled up his sweatshirt sleeves, washed his hands, and prepared himself.

But Zhou Yanzi only gave him a palm-sized piece of tofu and a dull ceramic knife.

Wen Song remembered how, when the orphanage director’s granddaughter cried, the director would give her a piece of paper to play with.

This tofu served the same purpose.

Wen Song felt sad. Zhou Yanzi must be annoyed by his attempts to help, finding him clumsy, thus dismissing him so easily. He glumly cut the tofu, placing it on a plate beside Zhou Yanzi.

Zhou Yanzi said, “Thank you, Xiao Song.”

Wen Song mumbled, “You’re welcome.”

Having completed his sole task, he still wouldn’t leave, wiping here, arranging there, pretending to be busy, just to be near Zhou Yanzi, watching his back from a respectful distance.

Zhou Yanzi’s movements were always skillful and meticulous, unhurried, as if the kitchen utensils, like Yun Tu’s assets, were entirely under his control, allowing no room for error.

Wen Song’s gaze drifted from Zhou Yanzi’s hands to his shoulders. As a top-tier Alpha, Zhou Yanzi not only possessed a rare pheromone level but also a physique more robust than the average alpha. His back was broad; his arm muscles flexed as he held the pot handle, his well-defined back muscles subtly visible beneath his shirt.

Wen Song’s face flushed.

His thoughts wandered back to the absurd night two months prior.

The turning point in his relationship with Zhou Yanzi.

January 18th, the day before the winter break. A biting cold wind blew. After his last class, Wen Song suddenly felt weak, collapsing in the dorm. His roommates rushed him to the hospital, where he was diagnosed with a rare pheromone disorder.

The doctor explained: with this condition, ordinary suppressants wouldn’t be enough to get him through his heat cycle, and his pheromones could easily leak, inducing an alpha’s heat and endangering his safety.

He anxiously asked, “What can I do?”

“Complete marking, or removal of the glands.”

The doctor’s tone was calm and indifferent, but to Wen Song, it was like a bolt from the blue. The thick stack of test results rustled in his hands. He couldn’t understand: orphaned at a young age was one thing, but to not even have a healthy body? What terrible karma had he accumulated in a past life? It was utterly devastating.