When the first pale fingers of dawn slid across the room and teased the corners of Jiang Beihuai’s eyes, he jerked awake.
It was a habit born in the slums — whenever daylight broke, you got up and went to work. Even after the wealthy matriarch had brought him into the Jiang family, that muscle memory wouldn’t unlearn itself. The sight of morning meant you had to earn your keep.
Beside him, Bai Wenxi still slept. He’d worn her out the night before; even the final shower had required him to carry her to the bathroom. She looked impossibly beautiful in sleep, like an angel misplaced on earth: long lashes casting soft shadows, the tip of her nose catching the light, lips glistening in the sun.
Jiang Beihuai found himself oddly jealous of the sunlight for having the easy courtesy to kiss her face.
Last night she’d been stubborn, fought every touch. Each time he tried to kiss her, she’d resisted, and he’d had to be forceful. Why did she come close to him in the first place, call herself his girlfriend, and then turn away because of poverty? he thought, a bitter question lodged in his chest.
He traced the curve of her cheek. Bai Wenxi frowned and slowly opened her eyes. Their gazes met. She flinched, instantly turned away — too shy to hold her husband’s stare.
“Axi…” he murmured, his hand warm and heavy on her shoulder. There was tenderness in his look that made the nickname sound like a caress.
“I’m going to wash up. I’ll get up first.” Bai Wenxi scrambled out of bed in a flurry, lifting the duvet in a panic.
Her knees buckled and she collapsed to the floor; a sudden, strange pain shot through her body. She had been caught off-guard — and realized she was naked. Her cheeks flushed; she snatched the robe from the bedside and wrapped it around herself.
Jiang Beihuai moved to help. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice was small, evasive. She darted past him, robe brushing his outstretched hand. He closed his fingers on air, watching her hurried retreat with a flare of something like hurt.
So she hated me that much — so eager to avoid even my touch.
She emerged from the bathroom with damp hair, worry clouding her features. The hostility Jiang Beihuai had shown at the wedding had rattled her. In the new villa she was the only outsider — not a single familiar face. Even the butler, the gardener, and the driver had been handpicked from the old Jiang estate and sent over by the old matriarch.
“How am I supposed to get along with them?” she muttered to herself. Her father had always taught her to be humble and sincere. So that was what she would do: show goodwill first. At the very least, she couldn’t let the man she’d married keep targeting her day and night.
Decision made, Bai Wenxi set to work on blending in.
She dressed in a soft lilac suit, smoothed a light sweep of makeup over her brows, pinned her black hair up, and wore only a single strand of pearls. The kitchen was already buzzing; the hired help were preparing breakfast for the newlyweds.
They all startled when she walked in.
“Madam, you shouldn’t be here,” the head cook blurted, still handling eggs and afraid of smudging the expensive fabric. “Please go back.”
Bai Wenxi smiled gently, revealing a row of white teeth. “I’m here to make breakfast for Beihuai. Would me being here trouble anyone?”
This was the first time the staff had seen their mistress so approachable. She carried herself with quiet grace and yet treated everyone kindly.
A young maid named Hongfang, fresh to service and still unsure of mansion etiquette, couldn’t hide her curiosity. “You can cook?”
The head cook snatched at her mouth in warning. “How dare you speak to the Young Madam like that, girl.”
Bai Wenxi stopped the woman’s hand with a soft pat on Hongfang’s head. “Yes. I can cook. Pretty well, actually.” She tied on an apron and took to the knives and pans with unhurried ease. She asked the staff about Jiang Beihuai’s tastes as she worked. Her movements were fluid, almost dance-like; even her back stayed straight as she chopped.
In no time a colorful salad, crisp and fragrant, sat finished on the counter. The kitchen quieted; the staff watched, hypnotized by the simple, composed way she moved from task to task.
The housekeeper — severe, iron-faced — appeared suddenly at the door. “If you’re just going to stand and stare, leave. We don’t keep idlers here,” she snapped.
Behind her stood Jiang Beihuai. They’d waited in the doorway so long it was impossible to tell when they’d arrived. His eyes were shadowed and unreadable; his mood, clearly sour.
“Madam,” the housekeeper continued, tone sharp as a razor, “your duty is to attend the young master — see to his grooming and dressing. Not to be mucking about in here with pots and pans. Remember your place: you’re the wife of the company president, not the kitchen help.”
The words cut deep. Bai Wenxi’s heart thudded. Even the young man’s blank gaze could be enough to frighten her; the housekeeper’s rebuke made her cheeks burn. But she couldn’t keep silent. “I don’t think a kitchen is a ‘lowly place,’” she said. Her voice trembled but held. “Food lifts the spirit. The kitchen is the heart of a home.”
Jiang Beihuai’s attention never left her. She clenched her hands and blurted, “I’m making him a loving breakfast — it’s what a wife should do.”
Her voice shrank at the end; heat flooded her face.
The head cook, moved by the sight of the young madam’s vulnerability, hurriedly intervened. “She just wants the young master to have a meal made by her own hands this morning. That’s why she’s here.”
The housekeeper’s expression softened a fraction. “I see. Well, I appreciate the thought. But please don’t come in here so often; the smell of cooking might unsettle the young master.”
Bai Wenxi dutifully removed her apron and slipped past Jiang Beihuai. Better to avoid a fight she couldn’t win.
“Breakfast ready?” he asked, one eyebrow lifted, teasing as ever.
“Yes,” she answered, voice low. “Please eat quickly.”
She tried to sidestep him, to reclaim a little independence, but his hand closed on her arm. Her muscles were no match for his. He held her firmly.
“You’ll bring it out, one dish at a time,” he said, releasing her so coquettishly it made her stomach drop. “Serve me yourself.”
He looked like a cat with a mouse, pleased with the small cruelty of it — intent on watching her flush, on savoring the tiny mortifications he could make her feel.