The next morning.
Zhang Wei's eyes snapped open at exactly 5 a.m., same as every other morning. No alarm needed. His body was programmed like a machine after years of the same routine. He lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, then threw off the covers and headed straight to his personal gym.
Thirty minutes. That's all he ever needed. Push-ups, weights, some cardio, nothing fancy, just enough to keep his body sharp and his mind clear. By the time he was done, sweat was dripping down his face, and he felt that familiar burn in his muscles. Good. That's how mornings were supposed to start.
He grabbed a towel, wiped his face, and walked to the kitchen area in his suite. Black coffee, two slices of toast. Simple, Efficient. He'd been eating the same breakfast for the past five years, maybe longer. Why change what works?
But then, halfway through pouring his coffee, he stopped.
His wife. His pregnant wife.
The thought hit him like someone had just walked into the room and smacked him on the shoulder. She couldn't just eat whatever anymore, could she? Morning sickness, nausea, cravings, all that stuff he'd heard about but never really paid attention to. Hell, he didn't even know what pregnant women were supposed to eat.
Wei set the coffee pot down and pulled out his phone. He opened the browser and started typing. What do pregnant women crave? What helps with nausea in first trimester? Safe foods for pregnancy.
Article after article popped up. Some of it made sense, some of it sounded ridiculous. Pickles and ice cream? Really? He scrolled past that. He wasn't about to walk in there with something weird. He needed something simple, something that actually helped.
Then he found it. Congee with ginger. Plain, warm, easy on the stomach. Ginger was supposed to help with nausea. Perfect. He could do that. Probably.
Wei looked at the time. He still had a little over an hour before he had to leave for the office. If he moved fast, he could make this work.
He stood up, rolling his shoulders back, and walked out of his room. The main kitchen was downstairs, and he rarely went there. Actually, he couldn't remember the last time he'd stepped foot in that kitchen. That was the chef's territory, the maids' domain. But today, he was going in.
When he pushed open the kitchen door, the chef nearly dropped the pan she was holding.
She froze, eyes wide, staring at him like he'd just appeared out of thin air. Wei didn't blame her. He never came down here, especially not at this hour.
"Good morning, Master Wei," she stammered, quickly bowing her head.
"Good morning," he replied, his tone casual.
She hesitated, clearly wanting to ask but not sure if she should. Finally, she couldn't help herself. "If I may ask… what brings the young master to the kitchen this early?"
Wei walked further into the room, glancing around at the counters, the stove, the neatly organized ingredients. "You can handle the other things. I need to prepare breakfast for my wife."
The chef blinked, Once, Twice, Her mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. She just stood there, completely stunned, like he'd just told her he was going to fly to the moon.
"I…yes, of course, Master Wei," she finally managed, stepping aside quickly.
Wei walked over to the counter and started rolling up his sleeves. He grabbed an apron from the hook on the wall and tied it around his waist. The chef watched him the entire time, her eyes following every movement. He looked… well, he looked like he belonged in some kind of commercial. Sleeves rolled up, apron on, jaw set with determination. It was almost unfair how good he made something so mundane look.
The chef caught herself staring and quickly looked away, clearing her throat, Focus, Be professional.
Wei pulled out his phone again and glanced at the recipe he'd saved. Congee with ginger. Rice, water, ginger, a little salt. How hard could it be?
He opened one of the cabinets, scanning the shelves. Rice. Where was the rice? He opened another cabinet. Nothing. Then another.
"Uh…" He glanced over at the chef. "Where's the rice?"
She stepped forward immediately, pointing to a large container on the bottom shelf. "Right there, Master Wei."
"Right." He pulled it out, setting it on the counter. Okay, Rice, Check. Now what?
He looked at his phone again. Rinse the rice thoroughly. He poured some into a bowl and turned on the faucet, letting the water run over it. The rice started spilling over the sides of the bowl, scattering across the counter.
"Ah, damn it…"
"Master Wei!" The chef rushed over, her hands hovering like she wanted to help but didn't dare touch anything without permission. "You need a strainer, and less water!"
He looked at her, then at the mess he'd made. "Right. Strainer."
She grabbed one from the rack and handed it to him, then gently guided his hands. "Like this. Just rinse it a few times until the water runs clear."
He followed her instructions, and after a few tries, the rice actually looked… clean. Good enough.
"Now what?" he asked, looking at his phone again.
"Now you need to boil water," the chef said, stepping a little closer. She was trying to stay out of the way, but it was clear he needed help. "The ratio is about one part rice to six parts water for congee."
Wei measured out the water, well, he tried to. He eyeballed it mostly, which made the chef wince a little, but she didn't say anything. He poured everything into a pot and set it on the stove, turning the heat up high.
"Not too high!" the chef said quickly. "It'll burn. You want it to simmer slowly."
He turned the heat down. "Simmer. Got it."
While the pot started to bubble, he grabbed a piece of ginger from the basket on the counter. He held it up, staring at it like it was some kind of alien object.
"Do I just… throw this in?"
The chef bit her lip, trying not to smile. "You need to peel it first, Master Wei. And then slice it thinly."
"Peel it. Right."
She handed him a small knife and a peeler, then watched as he awkwardly tried to scrape the skin off the ginger. He was gripping it way too hard, and the peeler kept slipping.
"Here, let me…" She reached out carefully, her hands guiding his. "Gently. Like this."
He let her show him, and after a moment, he got the hang of it. Sort of. The ginger slices were uneven and chunky, but they were slices.
"Good enough," he muttered, tossing them into the pot.
The chef smiled a little. He was trying. That's what mattered.
They stood there in silence for a few minutes, watching the congee bubble and thicken. Wei stirred it occasionally, his face serious, like he was handling some kind of million dollar deal instead of a pot of rice porridge.
Finally, it started to look like actual congee. Thick, creamy, with little bits of ginger floating around. It wasn't perfect, definitely not as smooth as what the chef would've made, but it was edible. Probably.
"I think it's done," he said, turning off the heat.
The chef nodded. "It looks good, Master Wei. I'm sure the young Madam will appreciate it."
He ladled the congee into a bowl, set it on a tray along with a glass of water and a small plate of sliced fruit the chef had quickly prepared. He stepped back, looking at it. It wasn't fancy, but it was something. He'd made it himself. That had to count for something, right?
He picked up the tray, ready to head upstairs.
"Master Wei," the chef said gently, "the maids can take it up for you. You're already running late, and you haven't even showered yet."
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Damn. She was right. He was definitely behind schedule now. But he shook his head.
"I'll take it, I made it, I'm bringing it to her."
The chef smiled softly and nodded. "Of course, Master Wei."
He walked out of the kitchen, carefully balancing the tray. His shirt sleeves were still rolled up, and there was a small spot of congee on his apron, but he didn't care. He'd done something for her. Something small, maybe, but real.
As he made his way down the hallway toward the staircase, he passed two maids standing near the corner. They were whispering, heads close together, voices low. He wouldn't have paid attention normally, servants gossiped all the time, but something about their tone made him slow his steps.
"Are you sure of what you're talking about?" one of them hissed.
The other one nodded, her expression serious. "Yes. I'm sure. The baby isn't Master Wei's baby. I'm sure of it."