I Don't Want to Have a Baby with You - Chapter 11
Song Xuehe let out a soft chuckle, her gaze scrutinizing. “Qu Chunjun, the two million I donate every year isn’t for you to sit around doing nothing.”
Qu Chunjun met her eyes calmly. “Ms. Song’s generosity and compassion are deeply appreciated.”
Song Xuehe’s stare remained fixed on her face.
Without a flicker of emotion, Qu Chunjun replied, “This is a last resort—time-consuming and laborious. But right now, there’s no other way.”
“If she hadn’t met with an accident, and if you, benefactor Song, had spiritual protection, we wouldn’t need to resort to this.”
The “she” referred to none other than Qu Fengling.
The remark struck a nerve with Song Xuehe.
After Qu Fengling’s car accident, Song Xuehe’s first thought had been about her daughter, Song Tai. Now that a solution was at hand, albeit troublesome, she had no choice. Song Tai was her only daughter, and whether Qu Chunjun was deceiving her or not, Song Tai’s well-being was paramount.
Suddenly, Song Xuehe smiled, as though the earlier unpleasant interrogation had never happened, her tone softening. “I trust Teacher Qu will fulfill her duties diligently.”
Qu Chunjun nodded, her words measured. “Of course.”
Song Xuehe had no further objections, but Song Tai did.
Coming here once a year was already unbearable—once a month would be the death of her.
But her opinion didn’t matter.
From start to finish, neither of them had bothered to ask her.
Song Xuehe placed a chopstickful of greens into her bowl. “Eat more.”
Song Tai couldn’t muster any joy. She obediently took a bite of the greens, then shot Qu Chunjun a glare. “Hmph.”
Qu Chunjun remained unfazed, even offering a faint smile, her usually indifferent eyes glimmering with subtle amusement as she ladled a bowl of soup and set it before Song Tai.
The table held two dishes and one soup—all seasonal fare.
Fresh bamboo shoots were at their best this time of year, and Qu Chunjun had prepared some today.
Behind the temple lay a bamboo grove.
The previous caretaker had been an elderly woman, and out of curiosity, Song Tai had once followed her into the grove to dig for shoots and gather wild herbs.
The thought of Qu Chunjun—with her striking beauty—rolling up her sleeves and bending over to dig for bamboo shoots amused Song Tai, momentarily easing her irritation.
A few seconds later, Song Tai stared at the bowl of soup in front of her, picked up her spoon, and couldn’t resist shooting Qu Chunjun another glare.
The remaining two days felt like an eternity, her gaming console confiscated, leaving her with no entertainment.
Whatever gratitude she’d felt toward Qu Chunjun evaporated the moment she realized this ordeal would repeat every month.
Now, she couldn’t stand the sight of Qu Chunjun.
Fraud, charlatan, swindler.
Every time she saw Qu Chunjun, Song Tai couldn’t help but hurl silent curses at her with her eyes.
But Qu Chunjun remained utterly unaffected.
And though Song Tai loathed to admit it, she needed Qu Chunjun.
Ever since the last incident, the sight of that idol had left her unsettled. With Qu Chunjun around, she felt a little safer.
The three days finally crawled to an end. By Monday evening, Song Tai was practically itching to leave under the cover of night.
Just as she was about to get into the car, Qu Chunjun suddenly called out to her and handed her a small bundle—a slender peachwood box wrapped in a piece of turquoise cloth.
Song Tai froze.
Over the past three days, apart from the time Qu Chunjun had helped cover for her, the woman had barely spared her a glance.
And now she was giving her a gift?
The little box felt heavy in her hands, its contents a mystery.
Song Tai looked down at the item with skepticism, silently grumbling to herself—was this some kind of evil curse meant to harm her?
Ancient spirit dolls, shadow entities, the Cruciatus Curse, Avada Kedavra…
She’d seen plenty of videos online and considered herself well-informed. Qu Chunjun wasn’t going to fool her.
Yet, despite her disbelief in such things, she couldn’t deny that the incantation Qu Chunjun had chanted that day had worked. She still remembered the sudden lightness in her body, a sensation that had left her feeling oddly at peace.
While she hesitated, Qu Chunjun had already placed the item firmly into her hands, stepping back with an indifferent expression to put distance between them.
Just then, Song Xuehe called for her to get in the car.
Reluctantly, Song Tai accepted it.
As the car started and gradually moved away from the small temple, Song Tai impatiently unwrapped the cloth covering the object. The moment she saw what was inside, her movements froze.
Noticing her reaction, Song Xuehe casually asked, “What’s in there?”
Song Tai hurriedly snapped the box shut, her heart pounding. “Just some sachets,” she mumbled.
Song Xuehe didn’t question it—she still trusted Qu Chunjun. “Since Teacher Qu went to the trouble, don’t waste her kindness.”
Song Tai guiltily murmured an agreement.
Instinctively, she glanced back through the car window, but they were already too far away to see Qu Chunjun.
The box didn’t contain sachets at all—it was the red-and-black handheld game console Qu Chunjun had taken from her before.
Seizing a moment when Song Xuehe wasn’t paying attention, she pretended to pull the console from her bag.
She suspected Qu Chunjun had tampered with it.
Had she deleted her game account?
Why else would she return it so willingly?
When she turned it on, the cheerful game music started playing.
Song Xuehe glanced over disapprovingly. “It’s late, and the lighting in the car is bad. Don’t play for too long—just half an hour, then rest.”
“Yeah, yeah, got it,” Song Tai replied absentmindedly, her gaze suddenly locking onto the screen.
The familiar game interface greeted her, but the level she’d been stuck on before had been cleared—not just cleared, but all the achievement badges had been unlocked for her.
There was only one person who could have done this.
It certainly wasn’t a ghost.
Song Tai privately took this as Qu Chunjun’s way of extending an olive branch.
But did she really think a little favor like clearing a game level would make up for everything?
Not a chance.
With a silent scoff, Song Tai stuffed the console away and pulled out her phone.
Thanks to Song Xuehe’s watchful eye, she hadn’t touched her phone in three days.
Song Xuehe rubbed her tired eyes, finished with work, and turned to her. She gently touched Song Tai’s cheek. “It’s late. Want to sleep with me tonight?”
Song Tai didn’t answer, her attention fixed on her phone screen.
The moment it powered on, a flood of notifications popped up.
There were two from Chen Ling—adorable photos of Wangwang playing with a ball of yarn.
But the majority were from Qu Fengyue.
A staggering sixty-plus messages.
The most recent one, sent just two minutes ago, seemed to anticipate her return: “Jiejie, can I come see you?”
It was followed by a sticker of a pitiful puppy wagging its tail.
Song Xuehe chuckled. “Hmm? What’s got you so distracted? Why aren’t you answering me?”
Snapping out of her daze, Song Tai stared at Qu Fengyue’s message for a couple of seconds before shaking her head. “No, I have work tomorrow.”
It was a perfectly reasonable excuse.
Song Xuehe didn’t say anything more but asked her, “Does your knee hurt?”
Song Tai nodded.
Although she had tried every possible way to slack off, after three days, she had still spent quite a while kneeling.
Modern people, unless indulging in some kinky play, rarely experienced such feudalistic nonsense.
Her knees weren’t made of iron, so of course they felt sore and uncomfortable.
“Come here,” Song Xuehe signaled.
Song Tai took off her shoes and obediently moved closer, resting her legs on Song Xuehe’s suit pants.
Holding her phone absentmindedly, she first replied to Chen Ling’s message, then hesitated over whether to agree to Qu Fengyue’s request.
She missed Qu Fengyue a little—not in her heart, but her body did.
But it was already late today, and she was a bit tired…
Song Xuehe lifted her skirt above her knees and saw a patch of reddened skin.
It wasn’t serious, but Song Tai’s fair complexion made even minor abrasions stand out.
Under the dim car light, Song Xuehe took out a prepared ointment and carefully applied a layer to her knees.
The medicine felt cool at first, but it quickly seeped into the broken skin, causing a stinging warmth and slight itchiness.
Song Tai’s lashes fluttered as she instinctively tried to pull her leg back, only to be abruptly held in place.
A warm hand firmly gripped her ankle, locking her in place.
Song Tai looked up at her and whispered, “Mom…”
The car’s interior was dimly lit.
Song Xuehe suddenly spoke, her tone casual yet not quite: “Xiao Yu mentioned that you’ve been getting close to an intern in your department lately?”
Xiao Yu was Song Tai’s direct supervisor—the short-haired woman in the round-neck sweater from the elevator that day.