My Bloodthirty Husband Is So Gentle

Cigarettes for women were way too mild. After smoking two sticks, Jiang Jiusheng returned to the dressing room next door to change out of her punk costume and remove her makeup. Wearing a black trench coat, she rested lazily on the sofa, lifting her scrubbed face upward and chewing on the stub of the cigarette that had just been smoked. Her attire of a T-shirt and shorts showed off a slim and fair midriff while her long legs dangled over the armrest of the sofa—the picture of a seductive little temptress. Born beautiful, Jiang Jiusheng couldn’t work up any energy unless she had her cigarette fix.

Twirling the car keys in her hand, Mo Bing said, “I will drive you back.”

Rising to her feet and securing her trench coat, Jiang Jiusheng asked, ” All sorted?”

“The Jian Group wants to withdraw its investment.”

“Mmm.” Expressionless, Jiang Jiusheng took the cigarette stub between her fingers, aimed it at the ashtray, and scored a beautiful shot.

Smiling, Mo Bing chided, “You and your temper!” This was the second time in a month that she hadn’t given “face” to an investor.

“So, do I need to change?” she retorted.

Speechless, Mo Bing simply raised her eyebrows.

Truth be told, change wasn’t necessary. Since her debut, the number of people who had wanted a piece of Jiang Jiusheng could form a ring around Tian Yu. In the end, however, all these “rich masters” eventually disappeared into thin air. Yet she had thrived and succeeded, carving a niche for herself as a doyenne of the Mandarin music scene within a span of three years.

Slowing down to walk alongside Jiang Jiusheng, Mo Bing said, “Sheng Sheng, be honest with me. Who’s the master investor who has been protecting and guiding you all this time?”

Although she was a smart cookie, Mo Bing had tried in vain for three years to gain a clear view of Jiang Jiusheng’s affairs.

Jiang Jiusheng sneezed lazily. “I want the answer to that, too.”

Again, that perpetual look of nonchalance, as if she was just an outsider looking in.

Mo Bing stopped smiling and recalled an incident that confirmed the consistency of Jiang Jiusheng’s natural bluntness and tendency to take no prisoners. Not long after she’d debuted, a music producer at Tian Yu had been attracted to her exceptional looks and intriguing personality and had behaved inappropriately toward her. Jiang Jiusheng had bashed him badly with an ashtray, leaving Mo Bing to expect her newly minted artiste to be grounded even before she could take flight. In the end, Jiang Jiusheng had emerged unscathed while the music producer had disappeared into thin air. Rumor had it that he had spent more than six months in the ICU.

Then there was that investor who, under the pretense of being drunk, had tried unsuccessfully to grope her, only to end up with a fractured arm and two broken ribs. Then there was…

And the list went on, incident after incident, giving birth to whispers in the industry about rock star Jiang Jiusheng being a jinx. Anyone who tried to take advantage of her or frame her, or had any ulterior intentions regarding her, wouldn’t have a happy ending.

Of course, there were still many who defied the odds and tried to break that curse, like Master Jian.

Mo Bing had reason to suspect that either Jiang Jiusheng had exceptionally strong backing or that there had been divine intervention, resulting in a series of tragic incidents.

They boarded the designated car to be chauffeured by assistant Xiao Qiao.

“Hi, Sis Sheng.”

Xiao Qiao’s full name was Chen Yiqiao, newly graduated from university. Younger than Jiang Jiusheng by about two years, she had pretty, goody-two-shoes looks and a sense of reticence about her, like a cute little sister who lived next door.

Although physical appearance wasn’t a deciding factor when hiring an artist’s assistant, Mo Bing had decided to hire Xiao Qiao because she came across as responsible and unassuming, fulfilling the tasks assigned to her without complaint. Mo Bing had been proven right over the past six months; Xiao Qiao had, indeed, not made any mistakes.

Jiang Jiusheng nodded by way of greeting and stepped into the back of the car, massaging her brows wearily.

“What is it?” Mo Bing asked.

“Just been hit by bad menstrual pain.”

She wasn’t fussy about food—hot, cold, or spicy—and, lacking a healthy constitution, tended to suffer at least once a month.

Looking a tad stern, Mo Bing said, “Your condition is getting serious. I will register you for a checkup one day.”

With a bemused look in her half-closed eyes, she refused, saying, “I don’t want to make the headlines for having menstrual pains.”

“Not everyone gets to make headlines.”

Although the number of Jiang Jiusheng fans was considered high in the entertainment circle, they were extremely clued in and resourceful. If indeed she was photographed, then the very personal news about a woman’s bane would be widely publicized as “Rock Star Jiang Jiusheng’s Menstrual Woes.” However, Jiang Jiusheng was lazy and too laid-back to want to make the headlines.

Changing tactics, Mo Bing latched onto a subject of interest: “There’s this doctor at Tian Bei First Hospital. I took my cousin there for a consultation and chanced upon this doctor with the most mesmerizing hands that I have ever seen.”

Her interest provoked, she asked, “Gynaecologist?”

With a knowing smile, Mo Bing replied, “Surgeon.”

“He who wields a scalpel.” Jiang Jiusheng turned to look out of the window at the passing neon lights bouncing off her eyes in reflection. “Even more charming.”

She had an obsession with hands. Whenever she saw a pair of beautiful hands, she would want to touch them and keep them in her possession. If this obsession with hands was an illness, then she would be diagnosed at the light to moderate level of severity. While the root cause of the illness wasn’t known, she openly acknowledged her condition and never sought to keep it a secret.

It was only a 20-minute car ride from the stadium where the concert had been held to Jiang Jiusheng’s apartment. Mo Bing roused her from her power nap.

“Should I come upstairs with you?”

“No need. Security in this neighborhood is good.” She lived in a wealthy locale with the best monitoring and security infrastructure.

Not convinced, Mo Bing replied, “Wasn’t there an overenthusiastic fan who managed to sneak onto the premises?” These fans, especially the wealthy ones, were more frightening than terrorists.

Jiang Jiusheng responded with her usual indifference. “They still ended up being beaten to a pulp by me.”

Mo Bing was speechless. Her artiste had trained in free-form fighting and, perhaps due to her good coordination, reflexes, and capability to pick up any new skill, had managed to beat her class senior within nine months of training. According to hearsay, even with his strong credentials as a seven-year practitioner and a descendant of one of the nation’s founding members, he had succumbed to her artiste’s fists.

Having thought about it, Mo Bing felt assured and said, “Then I will go home first and pick you up later.”

“Okay.”

Jiang Jiusheng lived in Block 7, which was closest to the alley. Under the orange hue of the streetlamp, she cast a stretched, curvy shadow as she walked slowly, her excruciating abdominal pains weakening her stride. In the quiet of the night, amidst the rustle of the leaves in the wind, she heard footsteps a few meters behind her, following her into Block 7.

Reaching the elevator, Jiang Jiusheng turned and asked, “You want an autograph?”

The person who had followed her into the building was a very tall and good-looking man dressed in a shirt and tailored pants—the finely chiseled contours of his face reminiscent of a medieval portrait even though his profile was partly blurred in the dim orange lighting.

She gasped, wondering why this face seemed so very familiar, like a surreal image from a dream, touching her deeply and making her heart race.

Raising his head, he replied politely but vaguely, “No.”

At this point, Jiang Jiusheng had a clear view of his features. A fine-looking gentleman with striking eyes like the expanse of night seen from a high-rise, emanating brilliance from hidden depths. With looks like these, he couldn’t be an overenthusiastic fan, so why follow her?

The man started to explain in a gentle tone like a soothing breeze brushing past her ear. “I live here. Block 7, unit 703.”

Oh, a new neighbor. Suppressing her racing heart, Jiang Jiusheng smiled politely.

When the elevator opened, he stepped inside, stepped to the right, and pressed the digit 7, his finger hovering expectantly as he looked at Jiang Jiusheng.

Composing herself, she responded, “I’m also on the seventh floor.”

As though by reflex, he pressed the digit 7 with the tip of his manicured and slender finger with well-proportioned joints. A fine specimen of excellent bone structure, right down to the hands.

Mesmerized, Jiang Jiusheng muttered with utmost sincerity, “You have such beautiful hands.”

He gave a slight nod. “Thank you.”

Obviously, this man had the upbringing and the demeanor of a nobleman who hadn’t been contaminated by the ravages of the mortal world. Unlike that filthy rich Master Jian from the central stadium earlier that day—who, although he was dressed to the nines, had no class—this man oozed nobility and grace with his every move.

Subconsciously clearing her throat, a little hoarse after four hours of singing, Jiang Jiusheng asked, “May I…?” A slight pause before she threw courtesy to the wind. “May I touch?”