Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"What happened to your voice?"

Ji Qingyu cleared his throat, but said nothing. He didn't know what to say anyway.

Fu Han had only asked casually, then added, "Too excited about getting married? Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?"

Ji Qingyu paused, then stiffly met Fu Han’s gaze. Fu Han’s face was impassive, his lips tightly pressed, his expression utterly cold.

Ji Qingyu didn’t understand how Fu Han had reached that conclusion. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but his thoughts were pulled back to the hospital bed—his gland began to throb dully again.

The photographer was already waiting downstairs, along with reporters. The two entered the elevator one after the other. In such a cramped, enclosed space, there was no escape. The air felt almost stagnant. Fu Han’s voice came from above him, "Straighten your back. Give us a nice smile."

"Oh…" Ji Qingyu mumbled in response.

As soon as they stepped out of the elevator, Fu Han’s arm was around his shoulders.

Ji Qingyu lowered his head, his hair obscuring his vision. He managed a weak, trembling smile, but the corners of his mouth refused to hold the expression. In the end, he simply gave up.

Ji Qingyu’s gaze drifted away again. He thought of Fu Han at eighteen—it seemed Fu Han was never short of admirers. Beautiful omegas fluttered around him like butterflies, coming and going, none staying for long.

In high school, the only thing Ji Qingyu had in common with Fu Han was a preference for secluded spots. Once, while taking a shortcut to the classroom, he saw Fu Han pressing an omega against the wall, figuring out where to bite. That confident, predatory stance sent a chill down Ji Qingyu’s spine.

The omega trembled all over, breathing in suppressed, lingering gasps. Ji Qingyu grew frightened—his teeth chattered involuntarily, his legs turned weak, and he could barely move.

He had intended to sneak away quietly, but before he could retreat, Fu Han’s gaze swept toward him, laced with irritation.

Ji Qingyu stood frozen in fear.

Fu Han stared at him, and after a few seconds, a wicked grin spread across his face. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly bit down on the omega’s neck.

Ji Qingyu’s own neck throbbed with pain. A slick, wet sound reached his ears. He stepped back, accidentally crushing a twig underfoot—the crisp snap echoed loudly. The omega gasped in alarm, "What was that sound?"

Ji Qingyu fled in terror.

That was the first time he had witnessed an alpha’s desire up close. Seeing that vulnerable omega pinned down, he seemed to catch a glimpse of his own fate.

The flash of a camera pulled him back to the present. A reporter broke through the security line and rushed toward him, shoving a microphone in his face.

Before the reporter could ask a question, Fu Han drew Ji Qingyu into his embrace. Fu Han’s hand pressed against the back of his head, his face buried against Fu Han’s half-unbuttoned shirt, close enough to hear the other’s heartbeat.

Warmth and vibration washed through him simultaneously, the buzzing sensation making Ji Qingyu’s cheeks flush.

As if worried Ji Qingyu was scared, Fu Han patted his head twice, then gently stroked his hair. To Ji Qingyu, it felt no different from petting a dog.

"Don’t be afraid," Fu Han reassured him.

Ji Qingyu wasn’t actually afraid—he just felt awkward, having to put on a show for everyone. Moreover, he didn’t want to be used as fuel for the rumors about Ji Ran and Fu Han’s relationship.

Camera flashes continued to go off.

The reporter then turned to Fu Han: "Is it true that you were introduced by Ji Ran? We heard you were closer to Ji Ran before?"

"My fiancé and I were high school classmates. We lost touch after graduation, but fate has brought us back together. I consider myself very lucky."

"So, did you have feelings for him back then?"

"...Yes, I liked him even then."

Fu Han’s hand moved from Ji Qingyu’s head to his waist, gripping with some force. He sidestepped the question about Ji Ran, blocking Ji Qingyu from the reporters as they made their way forward.

Ji Qingyu raised a hand to cover the bandage on his neck. He knew he should play his part alongside Fu Han—the devoted new partner—but he had never been a good actor.

As he was lost in thought, Fu Han’s hand covered his neck, pushing him into the car before the cameras could capture it. The warmth was fleeting, leaving behind a tingling sensation that made him uneasy.

Sure enough, after answering the reporters with such tenderness, Fu Han immediately pushed him away once they were in the car.

"You’re really quite timid," Fu Han leaned back in his seat and urged, "Let’s get this photoshoot over with quickly. I have other matters to attend to."

"Fu Han, can I ask you a question?" Ji Qingyu tried to steady his nerves, mustering the courage to speak.

Fu Han fell silent for a moment, frowning impatiently before looking down at him. "Ask."

"Why did you agree to marry me?" Ji Qingyu’s voice was still hoarse, gloomy and low—a tone that even annoyed himself.

Fu Han didn’t need time to think. He scoffed.

"It’s a marriage of convenience. As long as it brings benefits, what difference does it make whether it’s you or someone else? You’re not still dreaming some unrealistic fantasy, are you?" Fu Han looked at him with amusement. "Though I’m surprised you dared to marry me while carrying a permanent mark. You really haven’t changed—still unrepentant."

Repentant? He hadn’t done anything wrong back then. What was there to repent for?

Ji Qingyu tuned out Fu Han’s taunts. He usually tuned out things he didn’t want to hear. But Fu Han, in a harsh tone, grabbed Ji Qingyu’s chin, squeezing hard enough to make his eyes water. Fu Han’s voice turned even colder: "After all, wouldn’t you marry anyone anyway?"

Ji Qingyu blinked and fell silent.

There was nothing wrong with what Fu Han said. It made sense.

The car grew quiet. Fu Han propped his chin on his hand, gazing out the window, while Ji Qingyu buried his face deeper into his collar.

They had no feelings for each other. They were forced together solely for the benefit of their families.

It was agonizing. The air felt like it was freezing over. Ji Qingyu tugged at his clothes, shrinking into the corner of the car.

The photoshoot ended quickly and smoothly. The two of them moved like marionettes under the photographer’s direction. After it was over, Fu Han had the driver take Ji Qingyu home while he stayed behind, lighting a cigarette by the roadside.

Ji Qingyu watched Fu Han’s figure grow distant. Fu Han had changed back into his trench coat, looking like a model from a fashion poster—tall, with long legs, exuding a wild yet refined charm from head to toe.

Ji Qingyu returned home, collapsed onto his bed, and stared at the empty ceiling.

He held the wedding photos the photographer had sent. The makeup artist had made him look eighteen again. In the pictures, the two of them seemed like a perfect match.

After lying there for a while, he got up and placed the photo in an album.

The album was old, its plastic cover already worn and torn. He sat for a moment in his small, modest one-room apartment, then opened a drawer to fetch a fresh bandage. He disinfected the wound with iodine and changed the dressing.

Alone, he tended to his injury in front of the mirror, grimacing in pain.

The intensive etiquette lessons of the past few days had left his entire body sore. The wound showed no signs of healing, still oozing blood. He lay on the sofa watching TV and drifted into a hazy sleep.

In his dream, his eighteen-year-old self sat beside him. Ji Qingyu looked at him, and he looked back.

The young man was full of spirit, a faint dimple appearing when he smiled—gentle and soft. Leaning against the sofa, he asked, "How’s your songwriting going? Has anyone liked it? Has anyone loved you?"

"Huh?" Ji Qingyu replied drowsily, "Don’t worry, I’m still trying."

The eighteen-year-old Ji Qingyu stared at him, his gaze calm. "Why are you lying to me? Didn’t you see my throat was slit?"

Ji Qingyu stammered, "No, no. You’re fine—you’re perfectly fine. Your voice is okay. It’s not ruined."

He bolted upright, his back drenched in cold sweat.

The projection from outside the window fell on the bedsheet like a checkerboard of pale illusions. He stared at the moon by the window, stared blankly for what felt like ages—it was under this same moon that someone had once leaned by the window, listening to him sing.

He'd shattered the glass window, and a large amount of blood gushed from his hand. The pain cleared his head slightly. He climbed out of bed, stumbling as he clutched his injured hand, desperately searching for bandages to wrap the wound. Just then, the phone rang—the caller ID showed Ji Ran.

Right, of course it was him. Only he would call at any hour without regard for time. Even after shoving pills down his throat, he still loved playing this playing house as brothers.

Ji Qingyu usually played along, but today he wasn’t in the mood, so he pressed the end call button.

The phone kept ringing persistently. He flipped it over and leaned against the window, his eyes fixed on the moths circling in the sky until the sky began to lighten, and the ringing finally stopped.

The weather was bad that day—it had been drizzling since morning, and the light rain never let up. The doctor showed up first thing to inform him that Lin Ying’s condition was fluctuating and that visits would be prohibited for a while, urging Ji Qingyu to hurry over.

So Ji Qingyu slipped into a brown jacket, straightened his collar, had breakfast at a steamed bun shop downstairs, chugged two cups of instant coffee, and rushed over.

He bought two small bouquets of daisies at the subway station entrance. By the time he reached the hospital, he realized he was sweltering and took off his jacket, leaving only a short-sleeved shirt.

He looked at Lin Ying, the electrocardiogram monitor beeping beside her. He didn't have much to say, only asking the doctor to disinfect him so he could go in and hold his mother’s hand.

The doctor looked him over for a moment and sighed.

"Alright, three minutes. Just three minutes, and then you must come out immediately," the doctor stopped Ji Qingyu. "You can’t bring the flowers in. The patient’s immunity is low—bringing these in could risk shock."

Ji Qingyu nodded. The doctor sprayed a large amount of disinfectant on him, then pushed him inside before the door closed again.

Ji Qingyu walked over and held Lin Ying’s hand. He felt a little nervous and decided to talk about the happiest things he could think of—like the student he was teaching planning to stage a play with him, how he was writing songs again, and that he was getting married.

"Although that person has a bit of a temper, he’s not unreasonable. Well... he’s very wealthy, so we’ll be able to live in a big house soon. I feel like life is slowly getting better."

Ji Qingyu tried to imitate his eighteen-year-old self, putting on a brighter smile. He looked down at Lin Ying’s hand, noticing the many calluses left from years of working with fish.

He traced them one by one and said, "Mom, please wake up soon."

The thin, frail hand twitched faintly, as if in an illusion. Ji Qingyu froze.

The three minutes ended quickly. The doctor tapped on the glass, urging him to leave. Reluctantly, he stepped out and said to the doctor with a hint of astonishment, "Did you see that? Her hand moved just now."

The doctor seemed to pity him a little and smiled sympathetically in agreement. "Yes, Mr. Ji. If she pulls through this rough patch, she should start to improve."

"Mr. Ji, your wedding is tomorrow, right? Wishing you a happy marriage."