MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!

Fu Lianhua’s heart missed a beat. Her shoulders stiffened before she could help it. Almost instinctively, her eyes darted upstairs—toward the room where Dr. Chen and his entourage had gone minutes earlier.

Composing herself quickly, she forced a soft smile and stepped forward, her tone smooth and warm.

"Your father is resting upstairs," she said. "The doctor just went in to check on him. Do you... want to see him?"

The moment the word doctor left her lips, Fu Jingrong’s expression shifted. The calm veil cracked, revealing something sharper beneath—an edge of urgency.

Without another word, he strode toward the staircase, his long legs eating the distance in brisk steps. The suddenness of his movement sent a ripple of unease through Fu Lianhua.

Sensing something was wrong, she quickly followed, the sharp clicks of her high heels chasing after him.

"Jingrong—what is it? What’s the matter?" she asked breathlessly.

But he didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed ahead as he climbed the stairs two steps at a time.

The door to the master’s bedroom was ajar, and without pausing, Fu Jingrong pushed it open and strode inside.

He arrived just in time to see Dr. Chen leaning over the bed, a syringe in his hand as he injected something into Fu Sheng’s frail arm.

The sharp sound of the door hitting the wall startled Dr. Chen so badly that the syringe slipped from his trembling fingers and clattered onto the floor.

The doctor’s head snapped up, and when his eyes landed on the man standing in the doorway, he froze.

Fu Jingrong’s presence filled the room like a cold storm. His eyes—dark, deep, unreadable—seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unsaid words. A heavy, oppressive air radiated from him, pressing down on everyone present.

Dr. Chen’s hands shook uncontrollably as he instinctively lowered his gaze, unable to meet the younger man’s piercing eyes.

Fu Jingrong’s footsteps were slow but heavy as he moved closer to the bed. He hadn’t seen his father in over a year.

The sight before him made something in his chest tighten.

Fu Sheng lay pale against the pillows, his skin almost the same color as the sheets covering him. His breathing was shallow, his eyes closed, his once-imposing figure reduced to fragile bones beneath the thin blanket.

The man who had once been a towering presence in his life now looked as if a strong gust of wind could scatter him like ash.

"Father..." Fu Jingrong’s voice came out low, hoarse, but steadier than he felt inside.

He turned his gaze back to the trembling doctor.

"What," he asked, his tone deep and icy, "were you just injecting into him?"

The question wasn’t loud, yet it carried a weight that made Dr. Chen’s knees almost buckle.

"I–It’s just his medicine... the prescription... from before," the doctor stammered, his voice breaking slightly.

"Is that so?" Fu Jingrong’s eyes narrowed, the oppressive air around him thickening as if the temperature in the room had dropped.

Behind him, Fu Lianhua appeared in the doorway, her face still wearing that gentle, concerned smile, though her eyes flickered briefly with something darker before she lowered them.

"Jingrong, you’re overreacting," she said softly. "Dr. Chen has been taking care of your father all this time. You’ve been away for so long—you don’t understand the situation."

Fu Jingrong’s eyes flicked toward her briefly—cold, sharp, almost dismissive—before settling back on Dr. Chen.

"Then he won’t mind if I have the contents of that syringe tested," he said, his tone calm yet carrying a lethal undercurrent.

Dr. Chen’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his face paling as he stammered, "O–of course not... Young Master Fu..."

Dr. Chen’s eyes darted toward Fu Lianhua. The color had drained from her face, her knuckles white as her fingers clutched the edge of her sleeve.

Inside, a single thought pounded in her head:

No... it’s impossible. There’s no way Fu Jingrong has caught on. It’s too soon... it can’t be...

Yet when her gaze flickered back to the man standing there, she felt her heart squeeze painfully.

Fu Jingrong’s expression was carved in ice. His eyes, deep and fathomless, showed no ripples of emotion—only a bone-chilling ferocity that seemed to seep into the very air of the room. The sheer murderous intent radiating from him made the air feel heavier, colder.

Dr. Chen’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. His entire body trembled, the weight of Fu Jingrong’s gaze pressing down on him like a mountain.

He knew very well that lying to this man would bring nothing but disaster. If Fu Jingrong ever found out what had truly been injected into Fu Sheng’s veins, there would be no place in the world where they could hide.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the subtle yet sharp look from Fu Lianhua—a warning, a desperate plea telling him to keep his mouth shut. One wrong word, and everything they had plotted for years would crumble to dust.

Fu Jingrong let out a sudden laugh.

It wasn’t warm.

It wasn’t amused.

It was cold, sharp, and terrifying—the kind of laugh that made the blood in one’s veins run colder.

He moved forward, step by slow step, each measured footfall loud in the silence.

"Is that so?" His voice was smooth, almost casual, but each word was like the edge of a blade sliding against bare skin.

Dr. Chen’s legs wobbled. He didn’t know whether to keep shaking like a leaf or to blurt out the truth in the hope of mercy. Either choice felt like stepping closer to death.

Fu Lianhua’s fingers twitched. Her chest felt tight, but she forced herself to move. With all the gentleness she could muster, she stepped toward Fu Jingrong, trying to appear composed.

"Jingrong," she said softly, almost pleading, "you’ve just returned after being away for a whole year. You haven’t even seen your father all this time. Do you really think it’s necessary to behave like this the moment you come back?"

Fu Jingrong turned his head slightly toward her. His expression didn’t change, but his voice lowered—soft, almost velvety, yet carrying an edge that made her spine stiffen.

"Scared?"

The single word sliced through the air like a knife.

Fu Lianhua’s breath caught. Her lips parted, but for a moment, no sound came out. She looked at him, but his dark eyes gave away nothing—not a flicker of thought, not a trace of warmth.

Her face grew even paler, as if the blood had been drained from it.

"W–What should I be scared about?" she stammered, forcing a smile that felt brittle on her lips.

Fu Jingrong’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, then his lips curved upward. The smile that appeared was faint, almost beautiful, but it held no warmth—only a sense of impending doom.

"You should be scared," he said softly. "You should be scared of everything."

Fu Lianhua’s fingers clenched tighter, nails biting into her palm beneath the folds of her sleeve. For the first time in years, she felt as though she were standing on the edge of a cliff, with only a single step separating her from the abyss.

Fu Jingrong turned away from her, his attention shifting to the man lying weakly on the bed. The flicker of emotion that crossed his eyes was brief—too fleeting to catch.

With a simple wave of his hand, his voice came out low, commanding.

"Get everyone out."

The command was quiet, but it carried an authority that could not be questioned.

Wei Ling immediately stepped forward, his expression cold as he grasped Dr. Chen by the arm. Deng Mi moved in as well, ensuring that the physician had no chance to resist.

"Come with us," Wei Ling said curtly.

"Jingrong—!" Fu Lianhua exclaimed, taking a step forward. Her protest was sharp, tinged with fear.

But Fu Jingrong didn’t even look at her.

Whatever he said was law, and no one in that house dared to defy it—not even the lady of the household.

As Dr. Chen was escorted out by Wei Ling and Deng Mi, the room seemed to grow quieter, heavier. The door closed with a dull thud, cutting off Fu Lianhua’s last attempt at protest.

Now, only two people remained in the room.

Fu Jingrong stood beside the bed, his tall figure casting a long shadow across the pale sheets. His eyes, dark and steady, lingered on the man lying there—his father.

It had been a whole year since he had last seen him.

Fu Sheng, once strong and dignified, now lay frail and motionless. His face, so similar to Fu Jingrong’s own, was haggard and thin. His breathing was faint, his life force barely clinging on.

For the first time in a long while, Fu Jingrong’s expression softened—not enough for anyone to notice, but just enough for a trace of something human to pass through his eyes.

His father had come on the day he woke up. The man had been sick yet he still showed up the moment he had that his son had woken up.

A sting, Fu Jingrong felt, jabbing straight to his heart.