RBNR Ch53: I’m learning

A soft knock sounded at the door, and the Beta secretary entered carrying a steaming cup of coffee.

Qin Bao had already downed a cup while waiting in the secretarial pool earlier. Feng Chengyu asked her, “His meals are usually irregular. Do we still have milk and pastries?”

“Yes, we do,” the secretary caught on instantly. “I’ll go swap it.”

Snapping out of his daze, Qin Bao said, “No need.”

The secretary smiled warmly: “It’s no trouble at all, don’t worry.”

With her polite exit, Qin Bao sat in his chair, belatedly realizing he shouldn’t have come here.

This place was solemn, rigorous, and dignified—not a setting where he could just barge in on a whim, disrupting workflows to air out his private grievances.

“Sorry. Looks like I disrupted your work.”

Pulling his emotions back under wraps, Qin Bao realized the words left unsaid moments ago were ill-suited to be continued here.

“When are you free next? I’ll find you then.”

That sudden vulnerability typical of an overwhelmed kid had lasted barely ten minutes before Feng Chengyu. Qin Bao had already straightened his posture, slipping right back into the young man who always appeared fiercely self-contained before the cameras, utterly unbothered by the outside world.

“You’re not disrupting anything. The Council President’s wife drops by frequently; those pastries are actually her courtesy,” Feng Chengyu said. “If you want to come, you’re welcome anytime.”

The Council President and his wife were famously devoted to each other, regularly making joint appearances at state functions—a well-known fact across the Empire.

Qin Bao hardly believed he and Feng Chengyu bore any resemblance to them: “…”

Returning to his desk, Feng Chengyu said to Qin Bao, “Sit for a bit longer. Let me finish up a few matters, and then we’ll leave together.”

Qin Bao was puzzled: “It’s not time to clock off yet, is it?”

The corner of Feng Chengyu’s mouth curved slightly: “I can leave early today.”

Having missed his regular meal window, Qin Bao was indeed feeling hungry. He ate the food in quiet compliance, then sat in the armchair browsing his phone.

Not having crossed paths for over half a month, Qin Bao’s hair had grown out again, the tips grazing his earlobes and faintly revealing a few silver earrings.

Tall with broad shoulders and long limbs, he lacked the soft, yielding grace common to most Omegas, perpetually radiating a defiant, unyielding grit that remained undeniably magnetic and impossible to overlook.

Feng Chengyu had told him to sit for a bit, but that stretch ended up lasting over an hour.

Exhausted from poor rest over the past few days, the steady shhh-shhh of Feng Chengyu’s fountain pen gliding across the paperwork proved remarkably hypnotic.

“Xiao Bao.”

Feng Chengyu finally woke him.

“Let’s go.”

Qin Bao stood up, and Feng Chengyu took his hand.

Instinctively moving to pull away, he felt Feng Chengyu tighten his clasp, murmuring, “It’s fine.”

“Councilor Feng.”

“Good evening, Councilor Feng.”

Every colleague they passed along the corridors offered deferential greetings to Feng Chengyu.

Qin Bao felt an acute wave of awkwardness. Though the shoes and socks he had changed into were brand-new, their cut made it glaringly obvious they were spare security guard uniform footwear—clashing horribly with his outfit, looking as absurd as could be.

Feng Chengyu seemed to notice. Right as the man’s lips curled upward, Qin Bao hissed a fierce warning under his breath: “Don’t you dare laugh!”

Feng Chengyu kept his eyes straight ahead, though his grip on Qin Bao’s hand remained firm and unyielding.

For the first time in his life, Qin Bao entertained the urge to chop off his feet and stuff them into his pockets.

Fortunately, out of respect and deference toward Feng Chengyu, the onlookers’ gazes barely lingered on him.

Word had undoubtedly spread that Feng Chengyu’s partner had arrived. Qin Bao roughly grasped Feng Chengyu’s situation—they were legally married, and going out of their way to avoid each other would only breed suspicion. Leaving openly together was far more practical.

Still, was holding hands really necessary?

Is he trying to maintain his upstanding married-man image internally too?

Qin Bao wondered.

They traversed the halls of the Council Building and stepped into the elevator. Held tightly in his clasp, the solid band on Feng Chengyu’s left ring finger pressed firmly against the base of Qin Bao’s fingers.

Ever since their wedding, it seemed Feng Chengyu had never taken his ring off.

Qin Bao suspected Feng Chengyu hadn’t fully grasped the point he had come here to make.

“I came to see you because of the Pheromone Rejection Disorder. If you don’t intend to continue our arrangement, it won’t count as a breach of contract on your end,” Qin Bao stated directly once they settled into the vehicle. “I’ll handle the fallout from here on out. I’ve already severed ties with my grandfather, so I’m not afraid of him meddling with my career anymore.”

Another unspoken reality was that he had no one else to confide in regarding this condition, leaving Feng Chengyu as his sole outlet.

Naturally, that was a fact he would take to his grave.

Lin Zi wasn’t in the car; the smart AI guided the vehicle along the route toward their marital home.

Feng Chengyu said, “I know.”

Qin Bao froze slightly: “…Oh.”

So that’s that?

Does that mean he wants to continue, or not?

Feng Chengyu turned to look at him: “I also find Grandpa’s handling of this matter entirely inappropriate. At the very least, we had a right to know. This time, we must make our stance clear to him.”

“Make our stance clear?”

Not bringing it up was fine, but hearing it mentioned reignited Qin Bao’s temper. He fired back, “Whether I’ve made my stance clear—shouldn’t you know that better than anyone? It’s utterly useless, because he has never cared about what my stance is.”

With that, Qin Bao turned his face toward the window, signaling his refusal to engage further.

Normally, Feng Chengyu would drop the conversation at this point.

This time, however, barely a moment passed before Feng Chengyu asked, “What have you been busy with these past few days?”

Sure enough, though Qin Bao projected an unapproachable front, he still answered: “Reading scripts. Shooting commercials.”

Feng Chengyu reached over, pulling the boy into his arms.

Caught completely off guard, Qin Bao gasped: “…What are you doing?!”

“Just reading scripts and shooting commercials—which means you still had free time,” Feng Chengyu held him in an iron grip, sounding as though his restraint had finally snapped. “Why didn’t you send me a single message? Why didn’t you give me a single call?”

Spacious as the back seat was, having two grown men tangled together made breathing tight.

Shoving against his chest, Qin Bao widened his eyes at the accusation: “Feng Chengyu, are you being reasonable right now? You were the one who stopped contacting me first—”

“There were operational reasons at the very start. But later on, I admit it was deliberate,” Feng Chengyu confessed outright.

Qin Bao: “?”

“Xiao Bao,” Feng Chengyu pressed, claiming the moral high ground to interrogate him, “is it true that as long as I don’t reach out to you first, you will never, ever take the initiative to contact me?”

Qin Bao retorted indignantly, “You never wrote that into the contract either!”

“Then can we change that?” Feng Chengyu asked. “Not everything needs to be codified in a contract.”

“Let go of me first, then we’ll talk.”

Qin Bao shoved Feng Chengyu’s shoulder again. When that failed to budge him, his nape was caught by the man’s palm instead.

Now he was forced flush against Feng Chengyu.

Their breaths brushed together. Qin Bao couldn’t smell the man’s pheromones, yet his scent gland throbbed anyway.

“Do you understand?” Feng Chengyu pressed with unyielding intensity. “Not everything is set in stone; some things can be changed.”

Unable to flee or dodge, Qin Bao gave ground first, noticing his heartbeat picking up speed: “Then tell me, what other things don’t need to be written into the contract?”

“Like coming to find me today,” Feng Chengyu said. “Two years, and this is your first time coming to see me. Have you ever considered that something forced on you with a price tag might also mean you hold total dominion over it?”

Those exact words had been uttered by Qin Bao two years ago.

He was lost: “…What are you getting at?”

“It means whenever you feel hurt or helpless, you can always come to me. I will help you unconditionally,” Feng Chengyu said.

“I have no desire to end this. Whether you have Pheromone Rejection Disorder or not doesn’t change my commitment to continuing with you. I looked it up earlier—resolving the symptoms of pheromone rejection is very simple. We only need to complete a permanent mark.”

Qin Bao’s heart thumped so violently it threatened to shatter his eardrums.

Simple?

To any Alpha or Omega, a permanent mark was of paramount gravity, carrying weight far beyond the institution of marriage itself.

Qin Bao wasn’t a ruthless user: “Do… do you have any idea what you’re saying?”

He pressed Feng Chengyu: “Doing that means you can never mark another Omega again. Even if you don’t want to end things right now, what are you going to do when our five-year contract expires?”

Feng Chengyu said, “We will cross that bridge when we get there. Getting you back to work normally takes priority.”

Qin Bao was plunged into a dizzying spiral of conflict.

His survival instincts flared, warning him with acute urgency that he seemed on the verge of being cornered into another involuntary trap.

Then he heard Feng Chengyu ask, “Is your heat cycle due next month?”

He nodded: “Yes.”

Feng Chengyu gave him room to maneuver: “Then we still have time. Xiao Bao, think it over before giving me an answer. You make the decision yourself.”

Along the way, Feng Chengyu suggested catching a movie together. Qin Bao shot back, “On such short notice? Are you itching to be hounded by paparazzi, or do you think I am?” Then Feng Chengyu asked if he wanted to stroll by the lake near their home, but Qin Bao showed little enthusiasm for that either.

Knowing Feng Chengyu had left work early specifically to help him clear his head, Qin Bao felt somewhat apologetic: “I’m exhausted. I just want to sleep.”

Feng Chengyu pressed a kiss to his forehead: “I’ll join you.”

Qin Bao’s ears flushed red instantly: “Wait, hold on…”

Feng Chengyu glanced at him: “Sleeping in the literal sense.”

“You said it yourself, so don’t try messing around later,” Qin Bao replied with strict gravity. “I can’t smell your scent today, so I won’t be seduced by you.”

Feng Chengyu: “…”

He bore half the blame for letting things reach this state.

The moment they arrived home, Qin Bao headed upstairs in an absent-minded haze. With far too many revelations to process, burying his head beneath the covers to sleep sounded like the only sensible course.

Feng Chengyu kept him company for two hours. By the time he woke, night had fully descended.

Leaving him to sleep, Feng Chengyu headed downstairs alone.

After half a month away, the house remained largely unchanged, though the housekeeper clearly hadn’t visited in a while; the bouquet sitting in the vase—the one he had sent Qin Bao last time—had mostly withered without being thrown out.

His phone vibrated for the third time, displaying the caller ID “Grandfather,” yet Feng Chengyu still let it ring out.

He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the porch steps, lighting a cigarette.

Snow blanketed the landscape; the surroundings were dead quiet.

Stars peppered the night sky, illuminated by the residential streetlights. Not a single car passed along the internal roads over the span of half an hour. The two-story residence stood quietly on the gentle slope, the driveway bare. Sometimes, stepping out of the car upon arriving home, he would catch sight of Qin Bao’s silhouette framed against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Is this how Qin Bao lives when he’s home alone?

Feng Chengyu felt an unexpected wave of quiet loneliness wash over him without warning.

It was elusive, difficult to pin down.

It didn’t merely dwell within this house; it trailed elsewhere too—on the runways, across commercial spreads, and in the candid paparazzi shots capturing his retreating figure speeding down the highways on his bike.

It belonged to Qin Bao, radiating outward from him.

They met too rarely, and every encounter was far too rushed.

How could someone so chronically fiery and bristling with sharp edges ever be associated with loneliness?

Yet it wasn’t until he saw Qin Bao standing in his office in such utter disarray, not until this very moment, that Feng Chengyu faintly grasped it.

Shu Helan had sent a Dingxun message two hours earlier, and now called through.

“What is it?” Feng Chengyu answered.

“Heard your wife dropped by your office today,” Shu Helan said. “What’s the play? Aren’t you supposed to be keeping up the act of living apart?”

Feng Chengyu said, “A minor unexpected development.”

“A minor unexpected development? You seemed thrilled enough, trotting right after him,” Shu Helan remarked. “Still, let me offer some advice: enduring a moment of hardship secures a lifetime of peace. You swallowed such a massive compromise back then; don’t ruin the whole board now just because you couldn’t resist missing your wife.”

Feng Chengyu: “I won’t. I know what I’m doing.”

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke into the night air.

“It’s nearly wrapped up anyway. My father-in-law secured the maritime clearance permits yesterday; maritime routes will face far stricter scrutiny from here on out, meaning illicit cargo won’t slip out across the water.”

“A tall tree catches the wind. With Fuxing taking a beating this time, the cabinet faction won’t let you off lightly,” Shu Helan said. “…Whatever, you’ve always been meticulous. After this, you won’t give them an opening to exploit anyway. Besides, bad weeds grow tall—I trust a menace of your caliber won’t get caught out so easily.”

Feng Chengyu chuckled softly: “Mm.”

Pivoting back to the earlier topic, Shu Helan asked, “Going radio silent for just a few days actually brought Xiao Bao knocking on your door on his own—you must be over the moon.”

The cigarette burned down to the filter. Feng Chengyu stubbed it out.

A few seconds passed before he said, “He came because of something else. And his purpose wasn’t missing me—he came to ask to end things.”

Shu Helan: “…That kid’s heart truly is made of stone.”

Two years in and he still couldn’t warm him up; the moment an obstacle hit, he jumped straight to calling it quits—who could stomach that?

Shu Helan asked, “What do you plan to do?”

Feng Chengyu said, “I’m actually regretting it.”

“Regretting freezing him out these past few days?” Shu Helan offered a classic scoundrel take. “Let me tell you, you can’t catch the wolf without sacrificing the bait. My strategy was solid. A type like the Qin family’s Xiao Bao, raised wrapped in honey—if you don’t keep him at arm’s length, he’ll never see his own feelings clearly. It wasn’t like you were giving him the silent treatment for real, just nudging him a bit. What’s there to regret?”

“Because I seem to have used the wrong approach,” Feng Chengyu said. “Not just this time. I was wrong two years ago.”

Shu Helan: “What do you mean?”

Feng Chengyu said, “I’ve been wondering: if I had chosen a different path back then—if I hadn’t joined the elders in forcing him into this marriage, but had stood on his side instead—would things have turned out better?”

Living nearly thirty years, whenever Feng Chengyu set his sights on something—be it academics, career, or influential networks—he had long grown accustomed to securing whatever he desired.

Born into illustrious prestige, armed with peerless capability, he had long grown used to being revered at the center of the crowd, looking down on the world below.

When he spotted that person glowing with equal brilliance, witnessing his vibrant, dazzling vitality, arrogant greed had taken root, compelling him to claim him for himself.

Shu Helan: “That’s how you see it now, because you’re in far deeper. Let me ask you: back then, when the kid would rather die than marry you, could the you of two years ago have brought yourself to court him?”

Feng Chengyu was brutally honest: “Impossible.”

He had no intention of whitewashing his past self.

“Proud as you are, of course it was impossible,” Shu Helan said. “Look at you—even now, two years in, you still refuse to bow your head first.”

“I have to bow it,” Feng Chengyu said. “I’m learning.”

“If you want to keep playing the game, switch tactics. You’ve still got three years,” Shu Helan laughed. “Courting your own wife isn’t shameful. Look at me.”

Shu Helan and An Qingyan had upgraded from casual partners to boyfriends, managing a long-distance relationship where they met once every two months, currently thick as thieves.

Shu Helan concluded, “Respecting him is one thing, but if you feel you pushed it too far this time and can’t bear to see him suffer, just dial it back and don’t do it again. Either way, I paid a massive red envelope for your wedding—don’t you dare pull that ‘letting go out of love’ nonsense on me.”

Feng Chengyu: “I won’t.”

In the past, he had assumed marriage was like his parents’—quiet, content, a slow and steady stream where they had a lifetime to gradually find their rhythm.

He simply hadn’t realized that the person before him was someone he couldn’t grasp.

He didn’t deny his own possessiveness.

He even felt he leaned somewhat perverse.

Upon hearing Qin Bao declare he had Pheromone Rejection Disorder, fated to accept only his scent and his alone—the very first reaction that had surged up from the depths of his chest was a flare of mad, unadulterated triumph.