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... or the nemesis, specializing in getting up and procrastinating】

[What are you worrying about? Will Su Yangyang be willing to punish Qiao Hefeng? Look, it will be over after a while.]

[Qiao Hefeng has the guts to show that the rumors are true]

[Sure, in terms of Qiao Hefeng's attitude towards Su Yangyang, how could it not be true? 】

Xiao He probed and said, "Sister Yang, do you want to... go and call?"

"No, let him sleep." Su Yangyang said.

Xiao He shiver ...

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Tang Qiu was a substitute bride–forced to take her half-sister’s place and marry the young master of the Jiang family, a deformed cripple with less than 6 months left to live.

“Who would have thought that even a sickly whelp like Jiang Shaocheng would find himself a bride?”

“I hear that he’s practically on his deathbed and he’s only marrying the Fengs’ daughter to improve his lifespan.”

Tang Qiu ignored the whispers around her and focused on her husband-to-be, who coughed violently in his wheelchair. At the altar, after they had said their vows, she lifted her veil and knelt in front of Jiang Shaocheng, pressing a hesitant kiss to his lips.

The marriage contract was signed. No matter his physical deformities, he was now her husband.

She wasn’t afraid of the scars that marked his face, nor was she repulsed by him being confined to a wheelchair. Every morning, she made him breakfast, attended to his needs, and thought of little else beyond her duties as a wife.

“Young Master Jiang is a cripple who can’t get it up,” her best friend argued. “When he dies, you’ll still be untouched. You should set your sights higher.”

“A sickly invalid like Jiang Shaocheng can’t give you happiness,” her ex-boyfriend insisted. “I’ll wait for you.”

But Young Master Jiang only scoffed. “I have plenty of time left to be with her.”

Later in their marriage, Jiang Shaocheng wanted to enjoy his little wife in all ways–the press of her lips against his, the brush of skin on skin; the way a husband and wife were supposed to. But Tang Qiu refused him, blushing. “No, we can’t. The doctor says you can’t exert yourself.”

Jiang Shaocheng’s desire was surging through him, a heat in his core that demanded to be satiated. He cursed, I should have gotten rid of that doctor and the wheelchair long ago.

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Ye Tingjiang hated two types of people in his life. One was like the moon approaching immortals, and his eyes were higher than those of the top born. The two were like furnaces and cauldrons, who didn’t think about making progress and served people with colors.
Helpless to the latter, he eats the marrow and knows the taste, and gradually develops pity
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