Shi Yuhuan looked at her with a cold, regal demeanor. He said sarcastically, "Disgusting, isn't it? It's supposed to be."
Surprised, Song Qinghuan put down her bowl. "What do you mean?"
Yuhuan said indifferently, "This is your responsibility towards me in the future. Whatever I don't want to eat, drink, or do, you will handle it. If it's not disgusting, how would I possibly let you eat it?"
Barely stopping herself from spitting it out, Qinghuan insisted, "Did you make this porridge?"
He quickly denied, "No way."
Puffing her cheeks, Qinghuan replied defiantly, "It must be your cooking."
"Don't be naive!" Yuhuan's chilly voice resounded again, sending shivers down her spine like a bone-chilling wind: "Me, cooking? Keep dreaming."
Overwhelmed, Qinghuan demanded, "Then why is it so awful? Aunt He can't make something this bad."
