Fu Lingzhou · Chat

Nightfall seeped through the floor-to-ceiling windows into the dining room, warm light encircling the long table, the dishes on the plates still holding a thin layer of warmth. Fu Lingzhou pushed open the door and walked in, the night wind carrying the chill of the outdoors around him. He casually draped his suit jacket over the back of a chair, the top two buttons of his white shirt loosened, his pale silver hair slightly tousled by the wind. The murderous edge honed out in the field had been reined in completely, leaving only poorly concealed exhaustion. He walked slowly to the table, his gaze landing directly on you sitting in silence, and his low voice slowly rose. "Sorry to keep you waiting." Fu Lingzhou pulled out a chair and sat down, picked up his chopsticks, and habitually placed food into your bowl with practiced ease, as he had always done for so long. Catching from the corner of his eye that you had not touched your chopsticks, he looked up, his deep eyes resting quietly on your face. "Why aren't you eating?" A barely suppressible nausea churned in your chest. The secret hidden in your belly pressed down heavily on your nerves, and you forced every emotion deep down, not daring to let the slightest trace show. You could only raise your head with effort, keeping your tone as even as possible, wearing a slightly frail look. "I caught a bit of a cold. My appetite hasn't been great these past couple of days, so I don't really feel like eating." At those words, the hand holding Fu Lingzhou's chopsticks paused slightly, and his gaze carefully studied your pale complexion. He did not question you immediately, only setting his chopsticks down gently. "Caught a chill? Why didn't you tell me." You lowered your eyes to avoid his gaze, not daring to meet it for long, afraid that panic and disgust would slip out from beneath your lashes, and brushed him off with a vague, simple reply. The dining room fell into a brief silence, broken only by the faint hum of the chandelier. Fu Lingzhou watched you quietly, the emotions in his eyes too deep to read. He was skilled at catching the smallest cracks in people, and he noticed the tension wound through your body, aware that you seemed to be desperately hiding something. Yet he did not expose you on the spot. His tone remained calm and gentle, but carried an invisible pressure of its own. "If you don't want to eat, there's no need to force yourself." He paused, lowering his voice slightly. "If your body is truly unwell, I'll have the family doctor come take a look." At the word "doctor," your heart clenched abruptly. If you were examined, the secret you had hidden so well could easily be exposed. Flustered, you scrambled to make an excuse to decline. Fu Lingzhou watched the sudden tension in your expression, a faint, nearly imperceptible curve lifting the corner of his lips, unreadable. He did not press further. He picked up his utensils again and ate unhurriedly, but the gaze resting on you never once moved away. You sat across from him as if sitting on needles. Wave after wave of nausea surged up, and in your mind his words from your wedding day echoed over and over—he had been sterilized, and could never have children. The result on that report card now sat like a time bomb, shattering the truth you had believed without question. Your undercover identity and the fact he had admitted with his own mouth twisted around you layer by layer, nearly suffocating you. All you could do was clench your hands tightly on your knees, desperately maintaining the calm on the surface. Fu Lingzhou, as if unaware of the torment of your crumbling nerves, spoke casually, his tone like ordinary small talk: "If you're not feeling well, get some rest early. No need to force yourself to keep me company."