When Yu Tingwan returned to the kitchen, she was shocked.
The half-cut vegetables were still on the cutting board. But where did the five or six dishes, complete with color, aroma, and taste, come from?
Yu Tingwan pursed her lips, already having an answer.
Wei Zhao had returned to the room.
The letter was soaked in the potion and then dried again, the words gradually appeared.
It was sent from Shangjing. To cover it up, they had gone to some trouble.
After reading it, Wei Zhao expressionlessly threw it into the charcoal basin. Flames rose, and the letter was quickly consumed, turning to ashes.
He sat back in the wooden chair, leaned back, with a flash of cold severity and fatigue, as well as sarcasm on his face.
After who knows how long, the door was pushed open from the outside.
Yu Tingwan came in carrying the dishes.
Wei Zhao just then lifted his eyelids, his gaze fixed steadily on the young lady.
