In the kitchen, though there were two men, only one was truly cooking. Han Qian nibbled on a cucumber, watching his father at work. The dishes had all been prepared in advance, brought along by his parents and stored in the freezer—ready to be reheated and served.
Han Qian's culinary skills were all learned from the old man—he was more apprentice than chef.
As he watched the dumplings, folded as neatly as wheatsheaves, placed on the steamer tray, Han Qian pinched his chin and quipped, "So much favoritism. When I ask for dumplings, you slap together skins that need two hands just to hold, slap in some filling and call it a day. But when Wen Nuan wants dumplings, you craft them into perfect wheatsheaves? I'm your son—she's just your daughter-in-law!"
The old man shot him a glare, giving a backward kick in his direction. "And you've got the gall to complain? Wen Nuan always said that when she went to her father's house, they treated her like their own. So what if your mother and I treat her like a daughter? Anyway, your mother always wanted a daughter, back then."
"Don't tell me there's also sticky rice dumplings? And fish, pork knuckle too?" Han Qian teased.
"Not for you," the old man retorted. "I've been saving a little money, and you go brag to your mother about it? You're a little whelp. Don't even think you'll ever get another cent out of me. Your mother didn't see your bruised face—figure that out yourself. What happened to your back?"
"Got in a fight. Had to put on a show—almost lost my life in the process. But it turned out okay."
"Hmph. I'll carve you a coffin when I get home—don't get fat in the meantime."
"Keep it for yourself," Han Qian shot back with a grin, darting out of reach as the old man laughed but didn't bother to chase him.
This was the way father and son spoke to each other—no real warmth, but no real malice either. As a boy, Han Qian had grown up under strict discipline; now, he wasn't afraid of the old man's temper. It had become a sort of routine—father with no fatherly airs, son with no filial deference.
Han Qian's family life was so different from Wen Nuan's. Only now did he truly understand how she must have felt whenever she went home. He wandered around his mother, turning circles, but she didn't notice his injuries at all. In the end, it was Wen Nuan who told him to go change clothes.
He had just slipped out of his pajamas and revealed the bandages around his torso when Wen Nuan walked in as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She calmly stepped forward to unwrap the bandages, while Han Qian, staring at their reflection in the window, murmured with a faint smile, "We're starting to look like an old married couple. I can't even remember when I started feeling differently about you. When did you start caring about me?"
Wen Nuan, without a word, pressed a fingertip gently against the wound, making Han Qian suck in a sharp breath. She spoke coolly, "Don't flatter yourself. I don't care about you at all. I was raised in a merchant family—I only care about money. Now, lie down."
Her retort made Han Qian chuckle and shake his head. She was too proud to ever admit to caring for him; getting her to say she liked him would be as hard as plucking the moon from the sky. And wasn't he just the same?
He obediently lay face-down on the tatami mat. Wen Nuan fetched the small medicine box, not sure if the white medicated spray would help, not sure if this was a blunt force injury or something worse. It was deep—when he lay down, he felt the mat give under the thick layers of blankets.
Wen Nuan knelt beside him, barefoot. The wound on his back had bled, and Han Qian himself wasn't sure if it was from a stick or the back of a blade—though a stick seemed more likely. As she applied the medicine, she murmured, "There aren't any bandages at home. Put on a vest later. I told Mom you hurt your back when I closed the car door on you. I think Dad's seen through it, though."
With his chin propped on a pillow, Han Qian let out a long sigh. "Nothing escapes that old man's eyes. By the way, do you know Qian Ling?"
Wen Nuan frowned, puzzled. "The absentee boss at Rongyao? I've heard of her, never met her. What, are you making her your next target? Getting a little too ambitious, aren't you?"
"No choice. Are you not going in to work tomorrow? Everything okay at the company?"
"I'm not going. Mom says she'll go back the day after tomorrow, and I'm staying with her. You shouldn't go either—come with us to the hospital, let's get your back checked. If you've cracked something, that could be serious. Whatever else you're up to outside, that's your problem. But here at home, you listen to me."
"You're starting to sound like a nagging wife," Han Qian teased.
"Shut up," she retorted coolly. "I just don't want my four million to fly away."
"You sent money to Mom?" he asked in surprise.
"What's it to you how I spend my money? We're divorced!" she snapped.
But as she stomped away from the tatami mat, she couldn't help but feel even more irritated. He was the one who'd divorced her! Spinning around, she swatted him twice on the backside. Han Qian barely flinched, but she felt the sting in her hand. When she reached for a slipper, he scrambled back indignantly. "I need to change pants!"
Instead of being shy, Wen Nuan sat right back down on the tatami, watching him with amused eyes. Han Qian, flushed with embarrassment, glared at her. "Pervert! Get out!"
Dinner was a feast: two platters of dumplings—pork and pickled cabbage, donkey meat—red-braised fish, a plate of braised pork knuckle, egg drop soup, and a dish of spinach with peanuts. Han Qian was a decent cook, but he had no knack for cold dishes; he could never get the sauce quite right, even following the old man's instructions.
His mother and Wen Nuan sat side by side. His mother doted on Wen Nuan, placing morsels of fish into her little dish. Watching her pour vinegar into her bowl, she laughed, "You're already eating sour dumplings—why add more vinegar?"
Wen Nuan, mouth full, mumbled, "Han Qian started it—he doesn't eat chili sauce. If you hadn't said it, I would've forgotten—he says I'm a picky eater."
His mother smiled and added another piece of fish to her plate. "Can't help you there, dear. Eat up—look at you, so thin."
"Yeah, no chest at all," Han Qian added mischievously.
Whack! A pair of chopsticks rapped his forehead, and he scowled at his father. Wen Nuan, emboldened, kept up the banter, chewing on a dumpling. "Dad, Han Qian's got a bite mark on his forehead. I asked him if he's got a woman outside—he wouldn't answer, just threatened not to cook for me anymore. Said he'd starve me. And you wouldn't let Mom starve, would you, Dad?"
Han Qian, face pale, bolted three steps back, clutching his bowl. His parents' faces turned grave. His mother's expression was stern, while the old man sat silently for a few seconds, then calmly picked up another dumpling. Han Qian breathed a sigh of relief, but as he was about to return to the table, his father spoke.
"Wait until after dinner."
Doom.
He'd touched the old man's deepest nerve.
Han Qian didn't know how to explain—because yes, that bite mark really had come from Yan Qingqing!