Marry by Relying on Favor: Chapter 91 - Shen Fu is a One-of-a-Kind Bastard

December 23, 2025 Oyen 0 Comments

Happy Reading~

Chapter 91: Shen Fu is a One-of-a-Kind Bastard

 

Taking advantage of the car’s headlights, the man in the driver’s seat was illuminated. He leaned lazily against the backrest, his black shirt unbuttoned three buttons, revealing everything below his collarbones. The fabric was slightly rumpled, and looking further down, the belt of his suit trousers was loosened.

 

Qu Bixin stared blankly at the scene before her, her mind completely unable to catch up.

 

She instinctively shifted her sitting position, and her high heel stepped on the suit jacket lying beneath her. Lowering her lashes, she looked down.

 

It was the suit Shen Fu had worn tonight.

 

Qu Bixin had no time to deal with He Qingchi now and hung up the call.

 

She shifted her gaze back to Shen Fu, staring at his loosened belt for a full minute.

 

It seemed he noticed how direct her gaze was. Shen Fu lifted his eyelids and looked over at her, his expression utterly calm, without the slightest hint of guilt—as if no matter what bad thing he had done, he would never feel even a little uneasy.

 

After a second or two, Qu Bixin met his eyes, and her heart tightened sharply. It was as if she finally processed what was happening. She lowered her head and began checking herself, starting from her collarbone and moving downward.

 

When she lifted her skirt slightly, she inadvertently spotted two or three crumpled tissues beside her high heels—wrinkled, recently used.

 

In an instant, Qu Bixin’s anger flared. She snapped her head up, glaring at the man in the driver’s seat with dark, blazing eyes.

 

She had already guessed what had happened while she was unconscious.

 

Shen Fu hadn’t intended to hide anything. His long fingers slowly fastened the belt on his suit pants, and his tone—spoken through thin lips—held an unfathomable calm: “I slept with you for half an hour. You can call the police.”

 

Qu Bixin’s black high-waisted short dress was still neatly in place, not taken off, but the situation beneath the hem was a complete mess. If she went to the police now, all the evidence was right there—convenient and undeniable.

 

Shen Fu spoke with blatant disregard, his blurred profile reflected in the dark car window, his posture lazy—as if he didn’t care in the slightest how he would be dealt with afterward.

 

Qu Bixin was so furious her head went light. She clenched her teeth and snapped at him, “There are plenty of bastards in this world, but you really are one of a kind.”

 

Shen Fu’s cold gaze carried a hint of amusement, unreadable. “Flattered.”

 

Qu Bixin tried to steady her breathing and calm down. What filled her mind wasn’t calling the police—it was worrying whether Shen Fu had copied what she once did: taking advantage of someone’s lack of awareness to secretly take those kinds of photos.

 

And he could say “go ahead and call the police” without the slightest fear—did that mean he had some leverage in his hands?

 

Qu Bixin’s mind spun once, then she finally extended her fair hand toward him. “Give me your phone.”

 

Shen Fu cast her a faint glance, then lowered the car window and lit a cigarette. “By your feet.”

 

She was still stepping on his suit jacket—the phone was inside it.

 

If he could hand over his phone without changing expression, maybe he really hadn’t taken any photos.

 

Still, for her own peace of mind, Qu Bixin bent down, tugged the suit jacket out from under her heel, and reached in to find his phone.

 

She knew the password, and she wasn’t worried that Shen Fu had changed it.

 

Qu Bixin swiped the screen and quickly opened the photo album, only to find it completely empty.

 

Not a single secret snapshot, not a single explicit video.

 

She felt slightly relieved and, from the corner of her eye, quietly glanced at the man smoking beside her.

 

Shen Fu wasn’t looking at her; his side profile was still and unreadable as he gazed out the window.

 

With no psychological burden whatsoever, Qu Bixin opened his text messages.

 

Her eyes skimmed through them at high speed, practically sweeping through all his messages from the past few days.

 

Suddenly, she let out a confused sound and—boldly peeking through someone else’s messages—asked openly, “What kind of recipes are you sending Wen Shuchen every day?”

 

Weren’t those two already on bad terms?

 

Qu Bixin saw that the latest message, from noon, was Shen Fu sending Wen Shuchen a recipe for an Italian dish.

 

Scrolling upward, it was all cooking instructions for different dishes.

 

Shen Fu took the phone back from her hands without offering any explanation.

 

Right in front of her, he deleted every single message between him and Wen Shuchen.

 

Qu Bixin let out a small scoff — who cared about recipes anyway?

 

Since he hadn’t taken advantage of her unconscious state to secretly take photos, her courage swelled. Old grudges and new resentment all surged up at once, and her lipstick-perfect lips curved into a sly little smile: “I heard that before I returned to the country, you were so bankrupt you were selling off your house and car. Do you even have a place to live now? If you beg me, I could reluctantly give you a place to shelter from the wind and rain…”

 

“But…” She deliberately stretched the word out, staring provocatively at Shen Fu’s annoyingly handsome face as she slowly finished the rest of her sentence: “A second-hand man like you isn’t worth much anymore. But keeping you around as a little pet to raise could still be fun.”

 

Shen Fu had never bothered responding to her childish provocations; after four years together, he knew her too well—Qu Bixin liked to posture and compete, and ignoring her usually made her calm down on her own.

 

But at this moment, watching her smug, flamboyant expression, Shen Fu crushed his half-finished cigarette and flicked it out the window. His indifferent tone was enough to infuriate anyone: “True, I don’t have a place to stay. So I can only mess with you in the car.”

 

“……”

 

Seeing Qu Bixin’s face instantly freeze over, the man even reached into his pocket, took out a few bills, and lightly tossed them onto her skirt. “If you’re not calling the police, I can at least afford this much.”

 

It took Qu Bixin a few seconds to fully process what he meant—every word, every implication.

 

If she didn’t report him, he’d just pay her off? Settle things cleanly with cash—like he’d just hired her?

 

That was exactly what Shen Fu meant. He slowly started the car, seemingly driving toward her place.

 

After Qu Bixin finally processed everything, she wanted to grab the money and smack it against his head—but seeing he was driving, she could only swallow the fury burning in her chest.

 

The two of them stayed silent the entire way. It was already deep in the early hours of the morning when they arrived at the villa.

 

Shen Fu turned off the engine and parked. Before Qu Bixin could unleash the anger she’d been holding in for so long, he got out first. With long strides, he moved around the front of the car, opened the passenger-side door, and reached in with strong arms to lift her out.

 

But first—he took out a few more hundred-yuan bills from his pocket and stuffed them under her skirt.

 

“I’m covering you for tonight…”

 

Qu Bixin: “……”

 

You bankrupt mutt—waving a few hundred yuan around like you’re somebody?

 

Across the street, in the villa diagonally opposite, the lights on the second floor were still on.

 

Wen Shuchen’s silhouette swept down the stairs like wind. He wasn’t even wearing his dark-grey house slippers; barefoot on the cold floorboards, his deep-blue robe hung loose, belt undone, exposing a stretch of pale, firm chest—proof of how hurriedly he had come out of the master bedroom.

 

He went to the kitchen to boil water and get medicine. In the latter half of the night, He Qingchi had developed a low fever again in her sleep.

 

Half-conscious, she pressed her forehead against his tattooed arm and murmured that she felt terrible.

 

Wen Shuchen figured it must have been the fight with Wen Yue earlier that frightened her.

 

He boiled some water, patiently cooled it, and brought the medicine back to the bedroom.

 

He Qingchi was lying quietly on her side, wrapped up to her shoulders in the blanket. Her long black hair spilled over the pillow, revealing half her face — looking fragile and pitiful.

 

Wen Shuchen reached out to gently brush her forehead, testing her temperature. Then he lifted her, blanket and all, into his arms.

 

His voice was low, soft, and soothing as he coaxed her to take the medicine.

 

He Qingchi frowned slightly. Her long lashes trembled; from the fever, her eyes were bloodshot and hazy. 

But she obediently took the medicine — when it came to this kind of thing, her instinct for self-preservation was strong.

 

She didn’t fuss.

 

Every twenty minutes, Wen Shuchen fed her warm water, wiped away her sweat, and helped her change clothes.

 

Nearly five in the morning.

 

He Qingchi’s feverish haze began to fade. When she opened her eyes, she saw Wen Shuchen sitting beside the bed, resting with his eyes closed. He looked calm, but his handsome face showed signs of exhaustion — faint stubble shadowed his jaw from staying up all night.

 

The longer they spent together, the more she saw his true self — the private, unguarded version. 

 

Normally, Wen Shuchen was always perfectly put together: clean, composed, elegant. Now, he wasn’t even wearing shoes; one pant leg was rolled higher than the other, his robe hung loose, showing the pale, firm skin of his chest.

 

He Qingchi rested her cheek against the white pillow and stared at him for several minutes, her eyes stinging.

 

She had a nightmare last night, but now the details were already fading.

 

Seeing Wen Shuchen there, she suddenly felt her fear lift — even the dull ache in her chest quietly disappeared.

 

Maybe the exhaustion and fever had burned out the fear; she felt lighter, almost reborn.

 

She quietly got up, slipped into her slippers, and took a thin blanket to drape over him.

 

He didn’t wake. Seeing how uncomfortable he looked sitting up, she bent down to help him lie on the bed — but the moment her fingers brushed his arm, her wrist was suddenly caught in his tight grip.

 

The strength of it almost hurt.

 

Startled, she looked up at him as his eyes slowly opened.

 

Perhaps still half-asleep, he reacted sluggishly.

 

“Shuchen…”

 

She whispered softly. Only then did he come fully awake, instantly loosening his hand.

 

Seeing the slim woman before him, his gaze softened. His low, husky voice asked, “Are you feeling better?”

 

Her wrist still ached, but she didn’t mention it. Pretending nothing happened, she said calmly, “The fever’s gone. You should lie down for a bit.”

 

It was just past five. The sky outside was still pale and dim — 

 

Hours before he needed to go to work.

 

Wen Shuchen, still worried, pulled her closer and pressed his palm to her forehead.

 

She wasn’t as sick as the time in Japan — just tired, but otherwise fine.

 

He Qingchi pushed him toward the bed to make him rest. Kneeling lightly on the edge, she bent down to pull the blanket over him.

 

But Wen Shuchen, out of habit, didn’t go back to sleep. He stayed lying there for a moment, then drew her down into his arms, wrapping her tightly against him.

 

He Qingchi slid one slender hand inside his robe, tracing the inked patterns on his tattooed arm.

 

Half-asleep, she murmured faintly, “Last night I dreamed of a tall figure swinging an axe, chasing me…”

 

She ran, always toward a blinding light ahead.

 

Then she tripped on a rock — and just as the axe came down.

 

A shadowy figure stepped in front of her. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but a drop of his blood splashed onto her, and she woke in terror.

 

Now, recalling it, the image still lingered vividly.

 

She told him quietly, the only fragment she could remember.

 

Wen Shuchen’s arms tightened around her until she almost couldn’t breathe.

 

“It’s all right now,” he murmured against her ear, voice low and steady. “You’re awake. It’s over.”

 

He Qingchi nodded faintly, nestling against his chest, sleep creeping back over her.

 

The bedroom fell silent again.

 

In the days leading up to the Spring Festival.

 

He Qingchi didn’t attend any more film promotions, claiming illness as her excuse. She had already made one public appearance, so Director Guo couldn’t really object — not when the film’s investor was Wen Shuchen himself.

 

She stayed home, preparing to return to the He family’s house for the New Year.

 

The Wen household, on the other hand, had no holiday spirit at all. Wen Jingchun was still in the hospital, his health unstable, and Qiu Jin was too worried to plan any celebration.

 

Meanwhile, Wen Yue and Shen Tingji — the so-called engaged couple — were busy fighting Wen Shuchen for control of the company.

 

So He Qingchi made up her mind: she’d spend the New Year with her own family.

 

As for the Wen family’s relatives and social obligations — those, she left entirely to Wen Shuchen to handle.

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