Song Luan knew full well that her current behavior was completely unlike the original host of this body. But what choice did she have?! Was she supposed to keep digging her own grave in front of the male lead, knowing how the story ended? What, was she tired of living?

She could be arrogant and domineering, sure—but never in front of Zhao Nanyu. That was a death sentence.

Her “husband” came out effortlessly, smooth as silk, and the way she clung to him was just as seamless, fluid as a well-rehearsed performance. No cracks, no hesitation. Zhao Nanyu knew she was acting, but he didn’t call her out on it. Instead, he naturally took her wrist, pulling her closer with interest in his eyes.

“Heaven and earth can bear witness?” he asked, amusement laced in his tone.

Song Luan knew how flimsy her words were. Guilty as hell, she just tightened her grip on him, jaw locked, pretending she hadn’t heard a thing.

When her silence dragged on too long, Zhao Nanyu’s patience thinned. His voice turned cold.

“Speak.”

Song Luan’s face twisted into a grimace. Her emotions flickered, a storm behind her eyes. She sniffed, stumbling over her words.

“People… people change. I only just… just realized my own feelings. I—I…” She clenched her teeth, forcing the words out. “I wasn’t lying to you.”

Zhao Nanyu pondered for a moment before speaking. “Then tell me—what exactly are your feelings for me?”

She gave a sheepish smile. “Admiration. Pure admiration.”

And that wasn’t even a lie, she truly did respect Zhao Nanyu. He was patient, calculating, ruthless when necessary, and completely unshackled by trivial matters of the heart.

Song Luan tugged at his sleeve, tilting her face up to look at him. “Let’s go. Shige must be getting impatient.”

She was the one getting anxious to leave. Who knew what else Zhao Bo might say to slander her?

But Zhao Nanyu simply brushed his fingers lightly down her back, his expression calm as he glanced over at Zhao Bo and chuckled. “No rush. Let’s hear him out.”

Damn. Song Luan gave him a mental thumbs-up. His tolerance was truly something else.

Meanwhile, Zhao Bo droned on, circling back to the same bitter topic—Zhao Nanyu’s mother, mocking his lowly birth at every turn.

And that was when Song Luan noticed something terrifying.

Despite being openly ridiculed by his own brother, Zhao Nanyu’s face still carried the faintest hint of a smile. Not a flicker of anger, not a trace of emotion. It was impossible to tell what was going on in his head.

Once he had heard enough, Zhao Nanyu took Song Luan’s hand and walked away without so much as a glance back.

As they neared the main hall, he let go.

Song Luan watched his retreating figure, her brows tightly knit. She couldn’t hold back her curiosity any longer. Gathering her courage, she called out. “Zhao Nanyu.”

Standing in the sunlight, his pale skin almost translucent, the man turned his head. His pitch-black eyes locked onto her, unmoving, waiting for her to continue.

Song Luan hesitated for a moment before asking, “You’re really not angry?”

He must have known that Zhao Bo had spoken ill of him many times before. Yet, when they crossed paths today, he didn’t confront him or make a scene. Instead, he let it go with such ease and composure. Thinking about it now, it feels like a missed opportunity.

Zhao Nanyu’s pupils shimmered, layers of unreadable depths swirling beneath the surface. The sight sent an uneasy chill down her spine. Then, he smiled.

“No,” he said. “I’m not angry.”

A shiver ran through Song Luan. It wasn’t just cold—it was eerie. She had to admire his ability to lie with a straight face.

Who would believe that? Not her, that’s for sure.

Right now, that faint smile on his lips felt more terrifying than anything else.

That evening, she overheard some news—sometime in the afternoon, word of Zhao Bo’s insults had reached the old master. No one knew who snitched, but Zhao Bo had been beaten with a cane and was still kneeling in the ancestral hall, unable to leave.

Song Luan smirked to herself. If she had to guess, this was definitely Zhao Nanyu’s handiwork.

The man might preach indifference, but he wasn’t the type to swallow an insult without payback.

If he couldn’t retaliate openly, he’d do it from the shadows. And Zhao Bo? He never even saw it coming.

But as it turned out, Zhao Nanyu hadn’t gotten off easy either. No one knew exactly what he had done wrong, but the old master had punished him by making him copy the family rules—ten times.

Song Luan had seen the Zhao family’s rulebook once. It was a long, dense scroll. Copying it once was already torturous. Ten times? She almost felt sorry for Zhao Nanyu’s hands.

She had no particular opinion about Zhao Nanyu as a person. So, what if his methods weren’t exactly honorable? Given his circumstances—neglected by his father, unloved by his stepmother, and powerless for now—what other choice did he have but to rely on underhanded tactics?

What concerned her more was her own position. Sure, Zhao Nanyu was polite to her, and in bed, he treated her with intimacy. But let’s be real—there was probably no sincerity in it. It was all an act.

She couldn’t just sit around and wait for whatever fate had in store. If she wanted to survive, she had to take the initiative—bit by bit, she needed to earn Zhao Nanyu’s favor.

She still remembered how The Minister of Power spent pages upon pages detailing Zhao Nanyu’s deep regard for Zhao Shige. Despite being an exceptionally long romance novel, even as it neared its conclusion, the male and female leads remained youthful—and Zhao Nanyu was no exception.

By the time he reached thirty, he had already seized power, revealing his ruthless nature step by step. Yet, there was one exception—his son.

Despite his disdain for the original host, Zhao Nanyu adored Zhao Shige.

He loved him so much that, even by the end of the novel, he had no other children.

That was why Song Luan decided to focus on building a good relationship with Shige first. Besides, she genuinely liked the kid.

Blood ties were strange like that—somehow, she felt as if she really had carried him for nine months.

As dusk settled, the sky in the distance was painted in brilliant shades of red, a striking contrast against the deepening night.

Song Luan stretched lazily, standing beneath the covered walkway. Offhandedly, she asked the maid beside her, “Where’s the kitchen?”

The maid froze, clearly puzzled about what this unpredictable mistress was up to now.

It took her a few seconds to snap out of it before she hurriedly answered, “By the west wing, near the side rooms.”

Song Luan nodded. “Take me there.”

As a long-time homebody who had lived alone for years, the one skill she could truly brag about was her cooking. Self-taught and well-practiced, she could handle anything—savory, spicy, sweet—you name it.

The maid led her to the kitchen with visible apprehension.

When Song Luan stepped inside, the kitchen staff nearly jumped out of their skins. The head chef, in particular, was not a fan of this Second Young Madam. Back when the original host first arrived, she had tormented the small kitchen staff endlessly, nitpicking every single dish.

Song Luan cleared her throat, trying to maintain a composed demeanor. She spoke slowly. “Is there an available stove? I need to use one.”

A sharp scoff cut through the air.

The old chef outright laughed. Her? This pampered, delicate young mistress, cooking? That was about as believable as pigs flying.

Song Luan didn’t get offended. She simply waited, patient as ever.

“Of course, there’s a stove, Young Madam,” the chef finally said.

Expression blank, he pointed to an unused one beside him. “Go ahead and use it as you please.”

The entire kitchen staff secretly breathed a sigh of relief.

Good thing they had just finished preparing dinner—otherwise, this unreasonable Second Young Madam would’ve thrown a tantrum, making their lives miserable yet again.

Song Luan rolled up her sleeves and ordered the ingredients to be prepared. Standing at the stove, she got to work.

Kids liked sweet, colorful treats, right? This time, she decided to make some osmanthus cakes for Shige.

Sugar, osmanthus flowers, flour—each ingredient was laid out neatly before her.

With practiced ease, she mixed the flour into a smooth dough, then cut it into small portions. Her fingers worked skillfully, shaping the dough into tiny flowers and little animals—adorably intricate, each one more charming than the last.

Her smooth, practiced movements caught everyone’s attention. Even the head chef, who had been skeptical at first, paused his work to watch her, eyes wide with disbelief.

Not only did she actually know how to cook, but she was good at it. The way she shaped the dough—it was clear she wasn’t some amateur just learning the ropes.

The whole kitchen staff was in shock, collectively thinking: What the hell? Did we just see a ghost in broad daylight?

Once the osmanthus cakes were steamed to perfection, Song Luan didn’t linger. She packed them up neatly, then turned to the staff with a polite nod. “You all carry on. I’ll be going now.”

With the food box in hand, she headed straight for the front courtyard, humming a lighthearted tune.

Poor Shige—he was often left alone with no one to play with, so he’d end up sitting in Zhao Nanyu’s study, absentmindedly toying with the same old playthings. But he was a well-behaved child. Even when bored, he never complained and his patience was remarkable—eerily similar to his father’s.

The study’s window lattice faced directly toward the large desk inside.

Zhao Nanyu stood at the desk, a brush in hand, meticulously copying the family rules. He had been at it the entire afternoon, yet showed no signs of fatigue, no intention of stopping.

Knock, knock, knock.

Before entering, Song Luan politely knocked on the door.

“Who is it?”

The single word came out cold, like a pebble wrapped in ice, hurled straight at her.

She hesitated, momentarily thrown off.

Zhao Nanyu is here?

She had assumed only Shige would be practicing his writing inside.

Had she known he was here, she might not have come at all.

“…It’s me.”

“Come in.” His tone was noticeably softer this time.

She pushed open the door, immediately greeted by a crisp, lingering fragrance. A small incense burner sat on the desk—so that’s where the scent was coming from.

Shige sat on a cushioned divan, a small wooden toy in his hands. His delicate, innocent face held a look of pure curiosity, his big dark eyes staring straight at her.

Every time Song Luan saw him, her heart practically melted.

“What brings you here?” Zhao Nanyu set down his brush and walked toward her, the last traces of sunlight casting a long shadow behind him.

Song Luan lifted the food box in her hands. “I made some pastries for Shige. Thought I’d bring them over.”

She looked downright eager—like a little fox seeking praise, her playful enthusiasm carrying just a hint of endearing foolishness.

Zhao Nanyu’s gaze darkened slightly, though amusement flickered at the corners of his eyes. He asked leisurely, “You made them yourself?”

“I don’t recall you knowing how to cook.”

“When did you learn?”

Zhao Nanyu wasn’t actually suspicious—he just assumed Song Luan had taken pastries made by someone else and was merely claiming credit to win favor.

But the sudden barrage of questions caught her completely off guard.

Faced with Zhao Nanyu’s deep, probing gaze, her legs suddenly felt a little weak.

She wanted to bolt.

=^_^=

Author has something to say:

Song Luan: Eat or don’t, whatever! Why do many damn questions??

A’yu: Sad.jpeg, betrayed.jpeg