Volume One, Chapter Eight: Hit Me

So much had happened recently that Song Qingyu had barely had a good night's sleep. When she got up in the morning, she was still exhausted. The previous night, Chu Xingzhi had lost control and gripped her wrists too tightly; though she’d applied medicine, they were still swollen. Even the slightest exertion sent a jolt of pain through her.

After Pei Jingmo finished his morning exercises and showered, he passed by Song Qingyu’s room and saw her struggling to brush her hair, wincing in pain with every movement.

“Need some help?” he asked.

Song Qingyu was startled. Embarrassed that he’d witnessed her awkward struggle, she stammered, “No, I’m fine.”

Determined to prove herself, she tried to raise her hand again, but the pain forced her to lower it almost immediately. She simply couldn’t do it.

Pei Jingmo stepped inside. “I’m your husband. You can rely on me.”

He gently took the comb from her hand and softly massaged her wrist. The warmth of his fingertips sent a tingling sensation through her skin, making her body tense involuntarily.

Her long hair cascaded down like a waterfall, each strand gleaming in the morning light. As his fingers slid through her hair, the touch was smooth and a faint, pleasant scent filled the air.

It was the first time a man had ever brushed her hair, and Song Qingyu felt awkward and uneasy.

“All done,” he said.

Song Qingyu glanced at the mirror and saw that Pei Jingmo had braided her hair into two pigtails. When she was a child, her mother used to style her hair like this. After her mother left during high school, she’d never worn pigtails again.

She touched the two braids, her feelings a tangled mess.

“Don’t you like it?” he asked.

“It’s not that—I do. I just didn’t expect you to know how to do a girl’s hair, on top of being a great cook.”

A smile tugged at Pei Jingmo’s lips as he recalled something. “I have a younger sister. I used to help her with her hair all the time. Got good at it over the years.”

It was the first time Song Qingyu had heard him mention his family. Although they were married, she knew almost nothing about Pei Jingmo’s background. Still, their marriage would only last a year—there was no need to ask.

“You must be a good brother.”

Pei Jingmo couldn’t help but chuckle, thinking of Gu Chenxi angrily refusing to let him touch her hair. “Maybe.”

Suddenly, his phone rang. It was Yu Qianqian, one of the studio’s staff.

“Boss, something’s wrong! The Chu Group says our game doesn’t fit their vision. They’ve returned it and withdrawn their investment!”

Song Qingyu’s expression changed. “Don’t panic. I’ll head to Dreamweaver right away.”

Seeing how pale she was and how hurriedly she prepared to leave, Pei Jingmo caught her arm. “At least have breakfast first.”

“I can’t,” Song Qingyu replied. How could she possibly have any appetite now?

Pei Jingmo pressed a sandwich and a carton of milk into her hands. “Eat on the way, then. Don’t neglect your health.”

She looked at him for a moment, then finally took the breakfast. “Thank you.”

“If anything happens, call me.”

Song Qingyu nodded, lips pressed together. “I will.”

In the car, she stared at the sandwich in her hand.

Eat. Why not eat? You need strength to solve problems.

By the time Song Qingyu arrived at Dreamweaver, the staff were already in a panic. One by one, they gathered around her.

“Boss, what are we going to do?”

Besides Song Qingyu, there were three people in the studio: two women and a man—art designer Yu Qianqian, audio designer Xia Lu, and programmer Lu Yuan.

Lu Yuan had pulled an all-nighter monitoring data and now slumped over the table, barely awake.

Dreamweaver was the game studio Song Qingyu had founded in her sophomore year. Ever since high school, she’d wanted to develop an emotion-driven game—not just exploring love, but also family, friendship, and brotherhood.

“The Interpreter” was a project she’d spent seven years on, from research and design to analysis and planning.

She’d already secured a partnership with Chu Xingzhi, planning to launch the game on their wedding day. Now, not only was the wedding off, but the game had been rejected as well.

Yu Qianqian spoke up, “Manager Yang, our contact, said there’s still hope. The final decision rests with President Chu.”

Song Qingyu clenched her fists. Of course she understood—Chu Xingzhi was forcing her to beg him.

So this was his idea of love.

“Don’t worry, everyone. Get back to work. If the sky falls, I’ll hold it up for you.”

After reassuring her team, Song Qingyu left Dreamweaver.

Outside, black clouds gathered, and the air was heavy with the promise of a coming storm.

There were so many game companies out there—she refused to believe that only the Chu Group would want her game.

—

In the industrial district, a black Porsche sat parked at the factory entrance, a stark contrast to the dusty surroundings.

The window rolled down, letting in the sharp scent of cement and steel.

A man in a black suit bent respectfully toward the sunglasses-wearing figure inside.

“Master Chu, the person you’re looking for is definitely from here. According to the household registry, he’s alone—must be the last surviving member of his family.”

Chu Xingzhi’s face was dark as thunder. He’d never expected Song Qingyu to get married—much less to a filthy construction worker.

“A mere laborer dares to steal my woman? He must have a death wish.”

He shot a cold glance at the man. “I don’t want to see him again. You know what to do?”

“Yes, yes, sir. Anyone who offends you doesn’t deserve to live.”

Chu Xingzhi snorted, and the car sped off like an arrow. The exhaust and dust blew straight into the man’s face.

After work, Pei Jingmo walked toward the parking lot, phone pressed to his ear. Song Qingyu had left hastily after a call, and he couldn’t help but worry.

After listening to Fu Linhan’s report, Pei Jingmo sneered. “Utterly foolish.”

“You should be grateful for their stupidity. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have risen so quickly.”

Pei Jingmo was about to reply when he spotted a group of thugs with baseball bats swaggering toward him.

“I’ll call you back.”

“Huh?”

“It’s been a while since I stretched my muscles. I’m in a good mood today—time to teach some pests a lesson.”

He hung up, took out a cigarette, and lit it, his sharp gaze challenging the approaching thugs.

“You have the length of this cigarette.”

Seeing their target undaunted—and even provoking them—the thugs turned green with rage and surged forward.

The fight erupted in an instant.

Pei Jingmo moved like lightning. Even before joining the army, he’d been a formidable fighter—now, after his training, these thugs didn’t stand a chance.

He weaved through their ranks, each strike landing with surgical precision on their weakest points. His fists were hard as iron, each blow thudding dully. The thugs fell like leaves in a storm, cries of pain echoing through the lot.

The suited man who’d hired them trembled as he watched Pei Jingmo, untouched and still smoking, approach with a baseball bat.

He shrank back immediately. “Don’t—don’t hit me! It was Young Master Chu who sent me!”

Pei Jingmo despised cowards. He flicked his nearly burnt-out cigarette at the man’s face, and as the man howled in pain, handed him the bat. “Hit me.”