Realizing the Mistake, Admitting the Mistake, but Not Correcting It—Has the Young Lady Seemingly Crashed

In the Shen family mansion, inside the young mistress's room.

The young mistress lay on the bed, her usual cold expression replaced by flushed cheeks as she nestled under the covers. Ye Cheng, holding a bowl of "herbal medicine," played the part of a concerned caretaker, carefully feeding her.

In front of them sat Ye Cheng's phone, its camera set on a timer. A few seconds later, a soft click echoed through the room.

And just like that, a photo of their "liability waiver" was captured.

Ye Cheng grinned triumphantly, while Shen Qinghan opened her eyes, her gaze a mix of embarrassment and indignation, her teeth clenched.

"Is this enough now?" Shen Qinghan spoke deliberately, her tone as flat as ever, yet carrying an inexplicable nuance—far from icy, but not quite warm either.

Just as she tried to sit up, Ye Cheng gently pushed her back down.

"Young Mistress, this is just the first pose. We still have plenty more to go!" Ye Cheng said earnestly, cradling the bowl filled with—of all things—leftover iced tea.

That’s right. Ye Cheng couldn’t even be bothered to pretend properly. The "medicine" he was feeding her was nothing more than the half-finished iced tea from the table.

Shen Qinghan had fantasized countless times about throttling the idiot in front of her, but she held back. After all, she had agreed to this beforehand, and she wasn’t one to break her word—no matter how much it made her grit her teeth.

Shen Qinghan despised dishonesty and liars, yet Ye Cheng seemed to be the exception.

Because his lies were so blatant that anyone with half a brain could see through them. It was as if he was outright telling her, I’m lying right now. In Shen Qinghan’s book, this didn’t quite qualify as "deception" or "dishonesty."

If anything, Ye Cheng was oddly transparent. Like earlier, when he had buried his face in the short-haired woman’s blanket, taking a deep, dramatic whiff—undoubtedly imagining it was hers.

Unlike the Student Council President, who saw through things but kept quiet, leaving room for ambiguity, Shen Qinghan was the type to call things out—and then throw hands.

Which was exactly why Ye Cheng had long since dubbed her the "Black-Hearted Young Mistress"—a title so legendary, so exclusive, that many coveted it but none dared claim it.

What’s that? Did someone suggest letting the young mistress know about this nickname?

Pfft. What nickname? Who’s calling her that? I would never. Our kind, charming, gentle, and approachable Young Mistress Shen? The "Black-Hearted Young Mistress"? Never heard of her. Not my business.

Shen Qinghan took a deep breath. "How many more poses? You’d better hurry, or else—"

"Relax, Young Mistress, I’m super fast—ahem, I mean, efficient. If you could just cooperate a teeny bit more, we might even—"

Ye Cheng blinked his big, doe-like eyes, shamelessly hinting at her.

Truth be told, as Ye Cheng had pointed out, if Shen Qinghan weren’t so stiff from embarrassment, they’d have finished much sooner. But with her pride on the line, any overly direct suggestion would likely result in an immediate strike.

So Ye Cheng had to coax her along, all in service of his nefarious—ahem, his legitimate mission of fabricating evidence!

Shen Qinghan let out a quiet huff, her small fists tightening beneath the blanket. "Fine. Stop nagging..."

Her tone was still firm, but it was a forced firmness—one she herself hadn’t even noticed had softened slightly.

Shen Qinghan might not have caught it, but the "evil" photographer beside her certainly had.

Ah, the young mistress was truly a soft, sweet little cake—just with a slightly intimidating exterior.

Wait, what? Did you actually think the young mistress wasn’t prone to violence?

The memory of being knocked out cold by a single strike from her radish (yes, a radish) was still fresh in Ye Cheng’s mind. Sure, he’d woken up quickly—and even had the honor of becoming a human stepping stone in a variety show punishment segment, courtesy of the young mistress’s relentless stomping.

So yes, a soft, sweet little cake—but one armed with a 40-meter-long cleaver and backed by an army of 3,000 henchmen. Underestimate her at your own peril.

Only someone as bold (or reckless) as Ye Cheng would dare exploit a promise extracted from the young mistress herself.

Why "exploit" and not "deceive"?

Simple. Ye Cheng was a master of linguistic finesse. Everything he said was technically true, so it couldn’t be called deception. And even if it were, since when was a scholar’s craft considered fraud?

Within the bounds of reason, Ye Cheng was a maestro—a grandmaster who could outmaneuver even the most cunning opponents.

Of course, this all hinged on the young mistress’s cooperation. Had she refused his very first request, his wicked—ahem, his noble quest for a "liability waiver" would’ve ended before it began.

In other words, Ye Cheng’s plan had a high chance of failure. But being the gambler he was, he’d bet—and won. The young mistress hadn’t refused.

And once that first crack appeared, the rest was easy.

It was like those classic lines: "Baby, I’ll just rub against you, I promise I won’t—" or "Baby, I’ll stay still, I swear—just let me—" and so on.

Ahem. Let’s leave it at that.

This was Pandora’s box—once opened, stopping was no longer an option. Mwahahaha!

Even if the young mistress sensed something was off, Ye Cheng left no traces. She couldn’t pin anything on him.

No apprentices accepted/. (One hand on his cheek, the other pointing forward, tossing his bangs with a devilish smirk)!!!

The "villainous" Ye Cheng continued his merry manipulation of the "sickly" young mistress in her room. First, it was tucking her in. Then, drinking medicine. Now, feeding her.

"Come on, Young Mistress, open wide—ahh~"

Shen Qinghan: "..."

Silently, her small fists clenched even tighter beneath the blanket. The mix of shame and something else entirely swirled inside her, reaching a delicate equilibrium.

This balance kept her compliant, unable to resist Ye Cheng’s scheming, while her rationality and lingering embarrassment held her back. She couldn’t pinpoint what exactly felt off, but she knew something was.

Had… she just fallen into someone’s trap?

Suddenly, the odd thought flickered through her mind. Stealing a glance at Ye Cheng from the corner of her eye—

"Ahh~" Ye Cheng exaggeratedly opened his mouth, as if feeding a toddler. His vocalizations even made his uvula visibly wobble.

Shen Qinghan: "..."

An inexplicable sense of shame washed over her—a feeling hard to put into words. When she was little, some naturally wicked auntie had fed her like this too. The only difference was that Ye Cheng was now holding a spoon filled with iced tea, while Madam Du had wielded...

The young mistress’s small fist, clenched tightly beneath the blanket, finally relaxed. She obediently parted her cherry-like lips and drank.

"You’re doing great, young mistress!" Ye Cheng, ever the smooth talker, even added an "encouragement sound effect." Shen Qinghan’s previously loosened hand balled into a fist again.

"Idiot, shut up!" Shen Qinghan swallowed what was in her mouth and shot Ye Cheng a glare.

Ye Cheng, however, blinked his "Kazilan big eyes" with an expression of pure innocence, nodding vigorously before...

"Ah~"

Shen Qinghan: "..."

Acknowledge the mistake, admit the mistake, but never correct it—that was Ye Cheng’s way.

After the first time, things became easier. Eager to avoid further embarrassment, the young mistress opened her mouth reflexively the moment Ye Cheng extended the spoon, not even looking, just hoping to get it over with. Ye Cheng blinked, then... placed his own finger at her lips.

Still on autopilot, Shen Qinghan took a bite—only to realize something was off, both in taste and texture. Her eyes flew open, only to find the idiot’s finger in her mouth.

Shen Qinghan: "???"