Chapter Six: The Impossible Relatives

A brilliant counterattack in the workplace had left Yu Ling feeling triumphant, with a spring in her step and a newfound sense of confidence. Although Zhang Wei still held the title of "Chief Planner," it was clear to anyone with an observant eye who the true mastermind was behind the final proposal—the one Director Chen had explicitly ordered must "fully incorporate Yu Ling’s supplementary suggestions."

Yu Ling’s name finally appeared, rightfully and prominently, in the role of deputy for the "Core Framework Design" (Director Chen’s compromise), and she was effectively in charge of the most critical execution phase. Her work was fulfilling and rewarding, and returning to the "home" that Zhao Chen managed with such warmth, comfort, and domestic charm always smoothed away the fatigue of her body and soul.

Life was as sweet as freshly melted honey—thick and delightful. Yu Ling even began to wonder if that one-year contract might be the most profitable "transaction" she had ever made. The subtle, indescribable feelings she harbored for Zhao Chen grew silently, much like the pothos plant on the windowsill that he tended with such care, becoming ever more lush and green. They blossomed in the silhouette of him wearing his little whale-print apron to fry eggs every morning, and beneath the quiet, companionable lamp light every late night.

On this Saturday evening, the air was filled with a lazy, sweet fragrance. In the open-plan kitchen, Zhao Chen was wearing his favorite deep-blue whale-print apron, focused on the ribeye steak sizzling in the pan. The rich aroma of olive oil, rosemary, and black pepper commandingly permeated the entire space. In the oven nearby, a creamy mushroom soup was baked to a golden, fragrant perfection. On the counter, a colorful array of washed and chopped fruits sat in a delicate glass bowl; the salad dressing, which Zhao Chen had mixed himself, was refreshing and appetizing.

Yu Ling sat cross-legged on the wool rug in the living room, leaning against the soft sofa with her laptop on her knees, handling a few non-urgent work emails.

From time to time, she looked up, her gaze drifting past the edge of the screen to the tall, busy figure in the kitchen. The warm, yellow light outlined his focused profile, and the stray locks of hair on his forehead were slightly dampened by the steam. His movements were calm and graceful—flipping the steak, drizzling the sauce—every step possessed a rhythmic quality that was a pleasure to watch.

Outside the window, the city lights flickered on one by one; inside, there was the aroma of fine food and a reassuring presence. A warm current surged in her heart, and the corners of Yu Ling’s mouth curled up involuntarily. The speed of her fingers tapping on the keyboard slowed.

"Wash your hands, dinner is ready," Zhao Chen’s voice came over with a smile. He turned off the stove and transferred the sizzling steak onto a preheated plate.

"Coming!" Yu Ling closed her laptop and jumped up excitedly, pouncing toward the dining room like a cat that had caught the scent of fish.

On the dining table, candles had been lit, their soft flames dancing. Two exquisitely plated steaks were served with perfectly roasted cherry tomatoes and asparagus. Beside them were bowls of creamy mushroom soup and the colorful fruit salad. In the long-stemmed glasses, the deep red liquid shimmered with an alluring luster under the candlelight—it was a dinner wine gifted by one of Zhao Chen’s "winery friends."

"Wow! Chef Zhao, it’s a total waste of talent that you don’t open a restaurant!" Yu Ling exclaimed sincerely. She picked up her knife and fork, unable to wait to slice a piece of steak and pop it into her mouth. Crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, the rich juices and the layers of spices and sauce exploded on her tongue, making her squint her eyes in bliss.

Watching her satisfied expression, the smile in Zhao Chen’s eyes deepened, his amber irises flowing with gentle warmth in the candlelight. He picked up the decanter and poured her a little more wine. "I'm glad you like it. Eat slowly, don't burn yourself," he said, his tone filled with undisguised indulgence.

The two ate and chatted, the conversation light and pleasant. Yu Ling enthusiastically shared the progress of her project and the interesting anecdotes she had encountered. Zhao Chen listened quietly, occasionally interjecting with precise comments or gentle encouragement that always seemed to brighten Yu Ling’s perspective. The atmosphere was warm and harmonious, the air seemingly floating with sweet frosting.

Just as the dinner reached its most relaxed and comfortable moment, a sharp, rude sound of the doorbell, like a rusty saw, violently tore through the tranquility.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong!

The doorbell was pressed rapidly and loudly, with a kind of unyielding arrogance.

Yu Ling and Zhao Chen stopped their movements simultaneously and looked at each other. A trace of confusion flashed in Yu Ling’s eyes—who would come uninvited at such an hour? Zhao Chen frowned almost imperceptibly, his eyes becoming calm and sharp in an instant, like an undercurrent passing beneath a still lake. He put down his knife and fork and wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. "I'll go see."

He rose and walked toward the entryway, and Yu Ling followed, curious.

Zhao Chen did not open the door immediately but first looked at the screen of the smart video doorbell. The screen displayed the face of a middle-aged woman with heavy makeup and a mean expression. The woman was wearing a flashy leopard-print tight top, her hair permed into large waves, and her bright red nail polish tapped impatiently against the doorbell button.

Yu Ling leaned over to look, and her face sank instantly, her brows furrowing tightly. "It’s her? How did she find this place?"

"Who?" Zhao Chen asked in a low voice, his eyes still locked on the screen.

"My aunt, Wang Meifeng," Yu Ling said, her voice laced with obvious annoyance and a trace of hard-to-detect nervousness. "She’s a notorious snob and a troublemaker. She never visits without a hidden agenda—it’s definitely nothing good!"

Zhao Chen nodded in understanding, a flicker of insight passing through his eyes. He reached out and calmly pressed the door-open button. At the same time, he seemed to inadvertently touch Yu Ling’s hand, which was curled slightly at her side due to tension, his warm touch providing silent comfort.

The door opened.

A strong, pungent smell of cheap perfume mixed with cooking fumes instantly rushed into the entryway, which had previously been filled with the scent of steak and red wine.

"Oh my! Lingling! You finally opened the door! You’ve kept your aunt waiting!" Wang Meifeng’s high-pitched, shrill voice was like a loudspeaker; before she had even fully entered, the sound made Yu Ling’s eardrums buzz. She swept in like a gust of wind, carrying an air of mercenary shrewdness. Her eyes scanned the entryway and living room like searchlights before finally landing on the candlelit, exquisitely set dining table.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk!" Wang Meifeng clicked her tongue exaggeratedly, her bright red lips curling into a mean arc. "I say, Lingling, you’re living quite the life, aren't you! Candlelight dinner? Red wine and steak? How much did all this cost?" Her gaze hooked onto Yu Ling’s comfortable loungewear (an expensive cashmere sweater that Zhao Chen had bought, the tag of which she had removed) and the seemingly simple but impeccably tailored gray sweater Zhao Chen was wearing, trying to weigh their value.

Yu Ling suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and stood at the entrance to the dining room, her tone cold. "Aunt, why are you here? Is something wrong?" She didn't want this woman to step into the cozy space she and Zhao Chen had carefully cultivated.

"Oh, look at you! Can’t your aunt come to see you if there’s nothing wrong?" As she spoke, Wang Meifeng nimbly sidestepped the blocking Yu Ling and walked into the living room, plopping herself down on the expensive off-white fabric sofa. She bounced on it a couple of times, as if testing its elasticity. "Oh my, this sofa is so soft! Must have cost thousands, right?"

Her eyes swept over the simple yet high-quality furnishings in the living room—the floor lamp in the corner, the mirror-like floor, the brilliant city night view outside the huge floor-to-ceiling windows... The jealousy and greed in her eyes were almost overflowing.

"Lingling, is this... your flash-married husband?" Wang Meifeng finally turned her gaze to Zhao Chen, who had been standing silently in the shadows of the entryway. She looked him up and down critically, her tone filled with condescending scrutiny. "The young man looks decent enough, but he seems... hmm, quite ordinary, doesn't he? What do you do for a living? How much do you earn a month? Is the house rented or bought? How big is it?"

A series of blunt questions, measured by the standard of money, pelted them like hail, not hiding her snobbery at all.

Yu Ling was so angry her face turned pale, and she was about to lash out, but Zhao Chen stepped forward, unobtrusively shielding Yu Ling behind him. He wore the familiar, gentle, harmless, and even slightly shy smile that Yu Ling knew, as if he hadn't heard the malice in Wang Meifeng’s words at all.

"Hello, Aunt, I’m Zhao Chen." His tone was gentle and polite, and he bowed slightly. "I’m just an ordinary company employee, working nine to five, earning a steady salary. The house is rented—a small two-bedroom apartment, just enough to live in." He answered flawlessly, keeping a low profile, the picture of a standard "economically practical man."

"An ordinary employee? Rented house?" Wang Meifeng’s pitch rose sharply, filled with undisguised disappointment and disdain. "Oh, Lingling! It’s not that I want to lecture you! It’s a good thing your mother urged you to get married, but your taste is just too poor! Finding someone like this? No money, no house! Look at your cousin Xiaoli—her boyfriend’s family owns a factory! He just bought her a BMW! And look at you! What a waste of such a pretty face! I told you to listen to me back then—you should have married the son of Director Li at our office! He’s a civil servant! An iron rice bowl! You were just too stubborn..."

Wang Meifeng went on and on, spitting as she spoke, criticizing Yu Ling from head to toe as if marrying Zhao Chen was a grave mistake that had shamed the entire family. Her sharp, mean words were like poison-tipped needles, pricking Yu Ling’s heart. She was trembling with anger, her fingernails digging deep into her palms, her eyes turning red. Yet, out of respect for family ties, she didn't know how to fight back.

Zhao Chen’s gentle smile did not change in the slightest, but his eyes gradually quieted, becoming as still as a deep pool. He listened quietly to Wang Meifeng’s rant without interrupting. Just as the mean mouth paused to catch its breath, he very naturally, as if suddenly remembering something, gave a soft "Ah," his tone filled with just the right amount of surprise and concern:

"By the way, Aunt, you seemed quite hurried when you came in, and your complexion doesn’t look too good. Have you encountered any troubling matters lately?" He changed the subject, appearing incredibly considerate.