"Why aren't you wearing clothes properly? Do you want to catch a cold?"
His harsh words cut through the air, completely shattering the seductive atmosphere I've been working so hard to create. The playful, alluring scene I had crafted in my mind dissolves in an instant, leaving me standing there, feeling slightly ridiculous. I was just suppressing the urge to smirk and throw out something bold like, "Like what you see?"—the kind of flirty, shameless line the male leads in those smutty novels always use. But now, any internal satisfaction I was building up is dashed by his immediate disapproval, as if he's completely immune to my efforts.
Why is this man not focusing on the right things, ah?! A sexy, beautiful woman in nothing but an oversized shirt and panties is cooking for him at the crack of dawn, and he's worried about me catching a cold? I can't believe it. No wonder he ended up being the villain—he's utterly missing the point!
His frown deepens, completely oblivious to the intention behind my whole setup, and I can't help but feel a mixture of frustration and disbelief. How is this possible? Shouldn't he be at least a little flustered? Even the stone-cold villains in the novels back in my world would be moved by now.
But Wilde? He's more concerned about the temperature than me. Ridiculous!
...
"The pants were too loose on me," I say, flashing him a mischievous grin. Fine! If he doesn't want to appreciate my beautiful legs, then I'll show them to someone else. Internally, I roll my eyes, trying to swallow the disappointment, and turn back to the stove to add the finishing touch to the congee.
I reach for the green onions, the final garnish, when suddenly I feel his arms wrap around my waist. I freeze for a moment, completely caught off guard, before I'm lifted off the ground like a rag doll, his large hands gripping me as if I weigh nothing. My feet dangle uselessly in the air as he hauls me out of the kitchen.
The warmth of the kitchen fades as he carries me through the narrow hallway, his steady, unyielding stride thudding across the wooden floor. I catch a glimpse of the living room—the soft glow of morning light spilling through the windows—before I'm unceremoniously dumped onto the couch. My body bounces lightly against the cushions, a soft "oomph" escaping my lips as I land, the ridiculousness of the situation hitting me all at once.
Without giving me a chance to voice a single complaint, Wilde's command cuts through the room, sharp and absolute. "Stay." His tone is firm, leaving no room for argument or defiance. It's the kind of order that demands obedience, the weight of it settling over me before I can even think to respond.
He turns and strides out of the room, disappearing into his study. I hear the faint shuffle of papers and the soft thud of drawers opening. When he returns, he has a pair of drawstring pants and socks in his hand. Both are well-worn, the fabric slightly frayed at the edges, the kind of clothes that have seen better days. He tosses them onto my lap without a word, the silent message in his eyes clear as day: Put them on. Now.
I pick up the pants, holding them between my fingers. The material is soft, clearly used—probably clothes from a few years back, and the plain style makes me wrinkle my nose in distaste. "Do you want me to look ugly in these?" I ask, a grimace twisting my lips. The words come out petulant, even though I'm secretly thrilled to be wearing something of his. It feels intimate in a strange way, like a secret only the two of us share.
A part of me can't help but imagine what the suitors from my original world would say if they saw me now. After rejecting the advances of countless wealthy men, I'm here, feeling butterflies over the actions of a villain. If they knew, they'd be outraged! I almost laugh at the absurdity.
"Don't make me put them on you, Faye," Wilde warns, his voice low and commanding. The way he says Faye sends an involuntary shiver down my spine, but beneath that, it sparks a wave of jealousy and irritation. I am Fanyin, not Faye. The name feels like an erasure, a casual dismissal of who I truly am, and it grates on me more than I care to admit. But I refuse to let him see that.
His tone, though—frustratingly attractive, dripping with authority—makes it difficult to stay indifferent. Still, there's no way I'll let anyone boss me around, not in their own homes. Not anywhere.
"I was making you congee to make up for all the times I've bullied you," I say with a sarcastic smile, brushing off his command. My eyes flicker to the kitchen, where the congee is likely overcooked by now, but I couldn't care less. The congee was just an excuse—what matters is the principle. No one tells me what to do. "And now, it's probably ruined."
With a dramatic flip of my hair, I rise from the sofa, ignoring the pile of clothes on my lap. My movements are purposeful, fluid, as I walk back to his bedroom—the one I've practically taken over since last time. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don't look back. Once inside, I dig through the scattered clothes and pull out my uniform from yesterday. It's wrinkled, the fabric slightly stiff, and it feels wrong against my skin. I hate wearing dirty clothes. But I hate being out of control even more.
I glance at myself in the mirror, my lips twisting in irritation as I smooth down the creases of the skirt. These will have to do for now.
When I return to the living room, I find Wilde in the same spot, lounging on the sofa where we… well, where we shared a kiss last night. A kiss that was far from innocent. My heart stutters in my chest for just a moment as the memory flashes through my mind, but I quickly shake it off.
He's holding a spoonful of the congee, blowing on it to cool it down before taking a slow, deliberate bite. His expression is hard to read, his jaw working methodically as he chews. I have no idea whether he's suffering through the awful taste or trying to savor it. I didn't bother tasting it myself—it was my first attempt at cooking anything beyond instant ramen, so expectations were low to begin with.
I'm tempted to ask him if it's edible, but I quickly bury the thought. I've got a cold, detached demeanor to uphold, and I can't let my mask slip. I settle into the farthest corner of the room, watching him carefully from the corner of my eye.
There are moments—fleeting, subtle—where I think he can see through me, see the cracks in my icy facade. But then I remind myself I'm just overthinking it. No one in my original world could ever see through this act, the legendary mask I wear so well. Well, almost no one. Except for him.
But he's dead now, so I suppose it's no one again.
I sit there, scrolling through my phone, aimlessly browsing through the webnovels of this world while he silently finishes his meal. Why am I waiting? Well, I don't have a ride out of here, obviously.
When I finally glance up, I catch him finishing the last spoonful of congee, leaving not even a single grain behind. He stands, moving toward the kitchen with a quiet grace, his back straight as he carries the empty bowl to the sink. The soft clink of the dishes echoes through the space as he rinses them under the water. The sunlight streams through the window, casting a warm glow across the kitchen, illuminating his tall figure. The golden rays seem to catch in his dark hair, giving him an almost ethereal halo—a striking contrast to his usual cold demeanor. What an angel, I think, before snorting internally. Yeah, right. More like a devil in disguise.
I hop off the couch and trail behind him like a tail, unable to resist taunting him a little. "Was it good?" I ask with a smirk, knowing full well it probably didn't taste that great. There's no way my first attempt at making congee came out delicious.
He gives a noncommittal grunt, a quiet "Mhmm," as he continues washing the dishes, his focus seemingly on the task at hand.
"You even ate my portion," I add with mock innocence, my tone teasing. I wasn't planning to eat it anyway—there's no way I'd trust my own cooking. I grin cheekily at him as the sun bathes the kitchen in a soft, golden light. The morning light bounces off the gleaming countertops, illuminating his profile. There's something almost statuesque about him—like a marble sculpture, all sharp lines and cold beauty, standing detached from the rest of the world. "It must've been really tasty," I add, enjoying the banter.
He pauses for a moment to look at me—probably to check if I'm as crazy as my words suggest. His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he refocuses on the dishes. His hands move under the running water, methodically scrubbing the bowl, his voice low and calm as he finally says, "Not bad."
His tone is so casual, so indifferent, that it almost feels like a backhanded compliment. My eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. Not that bad? I think to myself, fighting the urge to laugh. Coming from him, that's practically high praise.
I lean in closer, still grinning. "I'll take that as a glowing review, then," I say, my voice laced with sarcasm. "Maybe I'll make it for you every day from now on."
He pauses for a moment, his hands still under the stream of water. I expect a snarky remark or some sharp retort, but instead, he nods—slowly, almost thoughtfully. The gesture catches me off guard. It's subtle, but there's something in his expression, a flicker of something softer, almost as if he's feeling... cared for?
I blink, momentarily thrown by the shift in his demeanor. For a second, he looks less like the aloof, untouchable figure I'm used to and more like someone who's not accustomed to receiving simple acts of care. The idea makes my heart stutter, but I quickly shake it off.
"Don't get used to it," I quip, trying to regain control of the moment, masking any hint of vulnerability. "I'm not a five-star chef, you know."
He finishes rinsing the dishes, setting them carefully in the drying rack. His shoulders relax a fraction, but he doesn't say anything in response. It's like he's lost in thought, and for once, the tension that usually clings to him seems to ease.
I lean against the counter, watching him, feeling the strange weight of the silence between us. It's not uncomfortable, but it's... different. And that difference makes me wonder—just for a moment—if maybe, beneath all the walls he puts up, Wilde Seede might need something as simple as a poorly made bowl of congee.
His back is straight, broad shoulders relaxed yet somehow tense, like he's used to carrying the weight of the world on them. And maybe he is. But right now, it's just me and him in this quiet kitchen, exchanging jabs and half-hearted insults as if we're two normal people, living normal lives.
Too bad we're anything but that.
Drying his hands with slow, deliberate motions, Wilde walks toward his study, likely to get ready for school. He still doesn't know I have no intention of accompanying him today. I plan to drop that little bombshell on the way. For now, I trail behind him casually, my steps light.
He glances back at me, his brow furrowing in silent question, but I just flash him an innocent smile. Maybe he'll assume I can't stay away from him for even a moment? That thought amuses me, but my real reason for following him is far less playful. I just need a quick glance at his study, maybe find something—anything—that could give me an edge. Not that I expect to find his mastermind plans pinned to a bulletin board like in the movies, but still, it doesn't hurt to look.
He seems to have accepted my constant presence, making no attempt to send me away. As he opens the door to his study, I discreetly scan the room, my eyes quickly darting over every surface. Bookshelves filled with thick business volumes, some scattered papers—nothing unusual. Certainly no ominous research on a zombie virus or any trace of a secret plot. I sigh inwardly. Of course, he's too smart to leave clues lying around.
Then, without a second thought, Wilde walks over to a wardrobe, completely at ease in front of me, and begins to unbutton his shirt. I freeze, watching in stunned silence for a second longer than I should.
Is he seriously this casual about undressing in front of me?
He probably assumed I would have moved away the moment he started undressing, but when he glances over and sees me still standing there after he's already halfway out of his shirt, his eyes narrow in surprise. His broad, bare chest is fully exposed now, muscles flexing slightly as he shrugs the fabric off his shoulders. The cool, detached mask he usually wears cracks just a little, replaced by a brief flicker of uncertainty, as if he's wondering why I haven't turned around or left the room.
I hold his gaze, feigning innocence as I remain perfectly still. My lips curl into a slow, teasing smile, making it clear that I have no intention of looking away. Why should I? It's not like he warned me, and besides, I've seen worse—though, I'll admit, his physique is... impressive.
For a moment, he seems at a loss for what to do, as if this casual undressing routine didn't go quite as planned. He pauses mid-motion, shirt in hand, and I can't help but wonder if he regrets his earlier assumption that I'd look away.
"Well?" I say, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one undressing in front of me. Don't stop on my account."
His eyes darken ever so slightly, and with a faint, resigned sigh, he finishes pulling the shirt off and tosses it into the wardrobe without another word.