37: Chapter 37 Living together before the divorce? His ex-wife is too charming in the kitchen wearing a pink dress.

Hilton Hotel, Presidential Suite.

In front of the massive floor-to-ceiling window, Wang Hao stood in his bathrobe, swirling a glass of red wine as he looked playfully at the girl standing in the center of the carpet.

Qian Li felt a bit uneasy. She looked at the living room, which was ten times larger than her dormitory, at the unopened Chanel Gabrielle bag on the leather sofa, and at the thick stack of pink bills tucked under the bag.

That was twenty thousand yuan in cash.

"Have you made your choice?" Wang Hao took a sip of wine, his tone contemptuous as if he were picking out a piece of merchandise. "Take the things and come over, or turn around and get out right now. But let me remind you, once you miss this chance, your poor boyfriend could hand out flyers for a lifetime and still never afford these for you."

Qian Li bit her lip, her palms drenched in sweat.

The image of Su Muyang's face as he handed out flyers under the scorching sun flashed through her mind, along with the way he only ate steamed buns to save money.

But in the next second, her gaze was captivated by that black Double C logo.

That was the bag she had dreamed of. As long as she wore it back to school, Li Jing and the others would look at her with envy and jealousy; she would be the center of attention, a person above others.

"Young Master Wang..." Qian Li's voice was weak.

She took a step forward, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for the bag.

Wang Hao laughed. He set his wine glass down on the table and pulled Qian Li by the waist, roughly pressing her into his arms.

"That's more like it. How much is a conscience worth? As a woman, you have to learn to be a little better to yourself."

Qian Li did not resist. She closed her eyes, smelling the expensive cologne on Wang Hao, as the last bit of guilt in her heart was completely drowned by vanity.

Su Muyang, don't blame me. If you must blame someone, blame yourself for being too poor.

...

At the same time, by a night market stall.

"Ouch... it hurts..."

Chen Fan sat on a wobbly plastic stool, clutching the side of his face that was swollen high, wailing more pitifully than a slaughtered pig.

"Can you stop faking it?" Su Wanqing was tidying up the pots and pans, feeling distracted and annoyed by the noise. "You could glare at Qiang Zi just a moment ago, but now you're dying?"

"That was a final burst of energy." Chen Fan leaned over, pressing most of his body weight onto Su Wanqing's narrow back. "I'm really not doing well, wifey. I'm dizzy and nauseous—these are signs of a concussion. That kid played dirty; he must have injured my cerebellum. I'm seeing three streetlights right now."

Su Wanqing stumbled under his weight. She wanted to push him away but was afraid of hitting his wound.

"Then go to the hospital! There's a clinic just around the left turn ahead!"

"I'm not going." Chen Fan shook his head like a rattle. "The smell of disinfectant there is too strong; it makes me want to vomit. Besides, I didn't bring my ID, so I can't register."

"Then go back to your grand manor! You have a driver, bodyguards, and that butler or whatever—let them wait on you!" Su Wanqing shouted crossly.

"I can't go back." Chen Fan had a look of a scoundrel on his face. "To get rid of your silly brother just now, I told the driver to leave. Now I'm all alone. If you don't look after me, I'll have to sleep on the curb."

As he spoke, he actually slid toward the ground, looking as if he were about to make a bed on the oil-stained concrete.

"You..." Su Wanqing's chest ached with anger.

How was this a billionaire? This was clearly a rogue!

He was like this nineteen years ago, and even now that he was rich, he was still the same.

"Get up!" Su Wanqing slammed the rag onto the table and pulled at him fiercely. "Chen Fan, have you no shame? So many people are watching!"

"I don't want shame." Chen Fan played along, grabbing Su Wanqing's waist. "If I want shame, I won't have a wife."

Su Wanqing's face turned red all the way to her ears. Several nearby stall owners who were packing up were snickering. She had no choice but to give in.

"Get on! If you dare to vomit on my little electric scooter, I'll bruise the other side of your face too!"

...

Ten minutes later, in the dilapidated rental house.

As soon as Chen Fan entered the door, he smelled a familiar scent.

It was the scent of laundry detergent mixed with sunlight, with a hint of damp mustiness. The sixty-square-meter house was packed with things, but it was organized neatly.

On the wall were the award certificates of Su Nianyao and Su Muyang, spanning from elementary school all the way to university.

Chen Fan looked at those yellowing papers, his heart aching. He had been absent for all of these honors.

"Why are you just standing there? Sit down and don't move."

Su Wanqing pointed to the only fabric sofa and turned toward the bedroom. "I'm going to take a shower; I'm covered in the smell of cooking fumes. If you dare to rummage through things, I'll chop your hands off."

Soon, the sound of splashing water came from the bathroom.

Chen Fan sat on the sofa, not daring to move. He looked at the long-used glass on the coffee table and the clothes drying on the balcony.

This was her life.

No luxury villas, no servants—only the daily grind of mundane chores and careful budgeting.

Twenty minutes later, the bathroom door opened.

Chen Fan instinctively looked up and then froze.

Su Wanqing's wet hair was draped over her shoulders. She wore no makeup, and her face had a faint pink glow from the steam.

Most crucially, she had changed into a pink cotton dress.

It was a very old style, and the cuffs were even a bit pilled, but the color actually didn't look out of place on her at all. Instead, it brought out all the gentleness she had hidden under the heavy pressure of life.

Just like nineteen years ago, when she waited for him at the village entrance filled with wildflowers.

"What are you looking at? Haven't you seen an old woman in a dress before?" Su Wanqing felt unnerved by his intense gaze and tugged at her hem, looking a bit uncomfortable.

"You look like..." Chen Fan murmured to himself.

"Like what?"

"Like a fairy descending to earth." Chen Fan grinned. Even though moving his facial muscles made him gasp in pain, he had to deliver the flattery perfectly. "Wanqing, you haven't aged at all, really. You're much better looking than those celebrities."

"Smooth talker!" Su Wanqing rolled her eyes at him, but the smile she couldn't hide betrayed her. "Are you hungry? I'll boil some ginger soup for you to ward off the cold and help with the swelling."

She turned and entered the tiny kitchen, which was barely big enough to turn around in.

Chen Fan looked at her back as she put on an apron, and the fire in his heart burned brighter and brighter.

To hell with the hundreds of billions in assets, to hell with the business empire.

At this moment, even if he were offered the whole world in exchange, he wouldn't take it.

Chen Fan stood up, lightened his footsteps, and walked silently to the kitchen door like a large cat.

Su Wanqing was facing away from him, slicing ginger. Her knife skills were practiced, and the rhythmic "thud thud thud" sound was steady.

Suddenly, a pair of warm, large hands wrapped around her waist from behind.

Then, a heavy head rested on her shoulder, his breath hitting her neck, itchy and tingling.

Su Wanqing's body stiffened abruptly, and the knife in her hand almost cut her finger.

"Chen Fan! What are you doing? Let go!" she cried out in panic, yet she didn't truly struggle with force.

Chen Fan didn't let go; instead, he held her even tighter. He buried his face in the crook of Su Wanqing's neck, greedily inhaling the pleasant scent of her body wash.

That kind of scent could make one feel at peace, but it could also drive one mad.

"Don't move."

Chen Fan's voice was very low, with a hint of raspiness and fatigue, as if he had shed all his disguises.

"Wifey, let me recharge for a bit."

"Just five minutes."

Su Wanqing's hand holding the knife slowly lowered.

She felt the heartbeat of the man behind her—steady and powerful, transmitting through the thin fabric and colliding with her own heartbeat.

In the kitchen, the water for the ginger soup began to boil, bubbling with steam.

A layer of white mist blurred the glass window, completely isolating the noisy and indifferent world outside.

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