Volume One, Chapter 28: Does It Hurt?

He held Fu Yuting’s wrist in his grasp, the pressure gentle. For some reason, Fu Yuting felt that his hand was scaldingly hot, almost frightening.

The Cullinan glided through the dusk; the subtle scent of cedar from the car’s fragrance was now tainted by the tartness of red wine. Fu Yuting curled up in the passenger seat, and from the corner of her eye, she could see Bo Xingzhou’s right hand, its joints sharply defined as it gripped the steering wheel, while his left arm rested loosely on the window frame.

The drenched cuff of his shirt was rolled up to the elbow, exposing a patch of skin so red it was almost glaring, the edges slightly swollen, and in the dim light, a few tiny blisters could just be made out.

The silence in the car thickened, his low-pressure aura enveloping her, so heavy she could barely breathe.

Was it the pain from the scald? Or was it because of Xie Yunzhou?

The cabin was deathly still, save only for the rough, tangled breathing of the two, intertwining in the confined space.

Her gaze landed again on his reddened forearm. When that boiling sauce splashed over, he had instinctively shielded her, without the slightest hesitation.

“Does it hurt?” she finally couldn’t help asking, her voice breaking the hush, so soft it carried a tenderness she herself didn’t notice.

Bo Xingzhou’s fingers, resting on the window, curled almost imperceptibly, his eyes still fixed ahead on the river of car lights, the lines of his profile harsh in the shifting light and shadow.

After a moment, his low voice sounded, flat and unperturbed: “It’s nothing.”

Two words, spoken lightly.

Yet Fu Yuting’s heart felt as if those words had branded her.

How could it be nothing?

She drew a deep breath, suppressing the strange ache and flutter in her chest, her voice softer yet somehow unyielding: “When we get back, put on some burn ointment. I’ll help you.”

“Alright.” This time he answered quickly, just a single syllable, his emotion unreadable.

Silence settled again, but something had quietly shifted. The air was no longer suffocating, but now held a subtle, inexpressible tension between them.

At the hillside villa,

Fu Yuting hurried to change her shoes, then strode to the TV cabinet. She expertly retrieved the burn ointment and sterilized cotton swabs, and walked to the sofa.

Bo Xingzhou was already leaning back on the wide sofa, eyes closed, brow faintly furrowed.

He had undone two shirt buttons, the collar loose, the soaked shirt clinging to his chest, accentuating the rise and fall of muscle, and exposing that patch of angry red swelling and blisters on his left arm.

Fu Yuting’s heart clenched as if in an invisible fist.

Why did he shield her, only to take such a severe injury himself?

“Give me your hand.”

She tried to keep her voice steady.

She dipped a cotton swab into the disinfectant with care. The moment the cool liquid touched the edge of the swelling, she felt the muscles in his arm tense reflexively, but he uttered not a sound, not even his breathing faltered.

“It’ll sting a little. Bear with it,” she murmured, her tone unconsciously gentle.

The air was so still their quiet breaths were audible, along with the faint sticky sound of ointment spreading on skin.

At last, Fu Yuting finished, quickly withdrawing her hand, her fingertips still slick with ointment and burning with the heat of his skin.

She dared not look at him, lowering her head to tidy away the kit. “All done. Don’t get it wet for a few days, be careful in the shower, and reapply the ointment three times a day.”

“Mm.” Bo Xingzhou responded, his gaze lingering instead on the blush at the tip of her ear.

Fu Yuting put the kit away, her heart still pounding. She got to her feet, a little flustered. “Then… I’ll go upstairs now.”

But as she turned, a dry, warm hand gently caught her wrist.

Fu Yuting’s body went rigid as she turned back in surprise.

Bo Xingzhou had risen at some point, now standing just a step behind her. He was much taller, his shadow nearly enveloping her. He lowered his eyes to look at her, something surging in their depths before settling into a complexity she could not decipher.

“Thank you.” His voice was huskier than usual.

Fu Yuting stiffened all the more, replying automatically, “It’s nothing.”

Then she hurried upstairs at almost a run.

Bo Xingzhou watched her retreating figure, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

So adorable?

Meanwhile,

Xu Qian’s apartment.

A burning cigarette glowed between Xu Qian’s fingers.

She leaned back against the sofa, the ghostly light of her phone illuminating a twisted face, utterly different from her usual self. On the screen, the headline from a financial news alert blazed:

[Xie Yunzhou and the Lu Group Reach Strategic Cooperation; Signing Ceremony Tomorrow at 9 AM in Lu Group Mall!]

“Heh…” Xu Qian let out a cold snort from her throat, crushing the cigarette between her fingers, heedless of the scorching ash on her skin.

Jingyan had been dissatisfied with her work lately.

She’d used every connection she had, devised countless plans to secure Xie Yunzhou as a top resource—yet in the end? She’d been cut off by that wretched Fu Yuting, who came out of nowhere!

Why does she always oppose me? Why her? Who does Fu Yuting think she is?!

Her phone vibrated—it was Lu Jingyan calling.

Xu Qian drew a deep breath, swallowing the metallic taste in her throat, and answered in her usual sweet, professional tone. “Jingyan.”

“Qianqian, what happened with Xie Yunzhou? Why did Fu Yuting get him? Didn’t you say it was a sure thing?” Lu Jingyan, who always spoke to her gently, now sounded tinged with anger.

“Jingyan, it was unexpected.” Xu Qian’s nails dug into her palm, but her voice remained steady and syrupy. “I don’t know what tricks Fu Yuting used, but she clearly has an unusual relationship with Xie Yunzhou.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, then his tone shifted. “Are you certain?”

“I saw it with my own eyes.” A flash of malice crossed Xu Qian’s eyes. “Their relationship… is definitely not simple. This time, it truly wasn’t an issue with our proposal. It was the other party…” She paused just long enough.

“Enough!” Lu Jingyan cut her off, his voice grim. “I get it.”

The moment the call ended, the sweet mask on Xu Qian’s face shattered, leaving only raw, snarling jealousy.

Was Lu Jingyan still hung up on that woman?

“Fu Yuting, you want to play both sides? Have Xie Yunzhou and string along Lu Jingyan too?” Xu Qian spat into the ashtray, her voice venomous. “Tomorrow, I’ll make sure you can’t count on either of them!”

Lu Group Mall, 8:30 a.m.

Fu Yuting surveyed the orderly setup before her, but a faint unease, like a pebble tossed into a lake, sent ripples through her heart.

Xu Qian’s last venomous, unwilling glance was like a thorn in her mind.

That woman would never let things go.

Fu Yuting’s pupils contracted sharply.

She immediately picked up her phone and called Zhou Lin, her voice calm and quick: “Zhou Lin, it’s me. Raise the security level to the highest for today’s signing ceremony. Also, track all of Xu Qian’s movements since she left the office, especially her contacts with media and paparazzi. Make it fast.”

On the other end, Zhou Lin clearly sensed the tension too. “Understood, Miss Fu! I’m on it!”

She exhaled, her gaze regaining its sharp, resolute edge.

Whatever awaited her today, she would meet it head-on.

Lu Group Mall, signing hall.

The crystal chandeliers scattered a cold light. At the signing table draped in red carpet, Zhou Lin calmly shook hands with Xie Yunzhou for the cameras.

Below the stage, flashes flickered like a sea of stars, the press’s lenses trained on this dazzling alliance of business and entertainment.

“Director Zhou, what are your expectations for this cooperation?” a reporter called out.

Zhou Lin lifted the microphone, smiling politely. “Mr. Xie’s passion for traditional art aligns perfectly with Lu Group’s vision—”

Before he could finish, the heavy doors of the signing hall crashed open! A jarring uproar flooded in like a tide.

“Xie Yunzhou, plagiarist, get out of the traditional art scene!”

“Defend originality! Boycott plagiarists!”

“Studios leading the way in copying newcomers! Shameless!”

A dozen or so young men and women, waving bold red banners, broke through the security lines, shouting with fervor. The banners screamed in black and white: “Xie Yunzhou Studio plagiarized new designer Lin Wan,” “Boycott habitual plagiarists.”

In the chaos, someone flung a stack of printed papers into the air—they fluttered down like snow. On them were comparison images: on the left, Xie Yunzhou’s new album cover design; on the right, works by an unfamiliar artist. The composition, color palette, and core elements were over 90% identical!

“What’s happening?!” Xie Yunzhou’s manager, Wang Lei, went pale, trying to shield him.

The reporters below exploded like sharks scenting blood, their cameras now ravenously aimed at the tumult and at the suddenly ashen Xie Yunzhou, Fu Yuting, and Zhou Lin on stage.

“Mr. Xie, how do you respond to allegations of plagiarism?”

“Did Lu Group know about this in advance?”

“There’s evidence Xie Yunzhou’s studio had similar incidents three years ago! Is Lu Group negligent in vetting partners?!”

Barbed questions came down like ice picks.

Fu Yuting’s fingers tightened, her knuckles whitening.

She swiftly scanned the fluttering comparison sheets, her gaze razor-sharp— the compositional details were far too similar, almost deliberately so! Especially the core totem motif accused of being plagiarized: even the subtlest strokes and turns were identical. This wasn’t “inspiration”—this was outright copying!

“Sis Fu!” Zhou Lin, sweating, squeezed to her side, voice urgent and low. “Just got an emergency call from the CEO! Signing is suspended immediately! All cooperation is on indefinite hold until the plagiarism claims are investigated!”

Fu Yuting’s heart plunged as if gripped by an icy hand.

Su Yu or Xu Qian?

How could there be a breach with heightened security?

She looked up at Xie Yunzhou. The perennial leader of the traditional aesthetic scene, usually so poised and elegant, now stood frozen, his face drained of color, his eyes filled with shock and fury.

He truly didn’t look like a plagiarist.

A plagiarist always leaves some slip.

The protesters’ shouts and the press’s questioning crashed in waves.

He stared at those blinding banners, lips pressed thin, jaw clenched until it seemed it might snap.

Suddenly—

Fu Yuting’s pearl earring snapped, crushed underfoot.

She seized Zhou Lin’s microphone.

“Quiet! Everyone, please be quiet.”