Her leg wound hadn't healed, and the gauze soon turned crimson again. But she gritted her teeth and endured it—she had to get her mother's ashes back.
The first time she brought it, Stefanie wrinkled her nose. "Not fresh enough. I want pickled vegetable porridge instead."
The second time she said, "Too salty. I want century egg porridge."
The third time, she smiled slyly. "Oh, I forgot—I'm allergic to century eggs. Bring me noodles."
...
By the tenth trip, Stefanie sighed theatrically. "Actually, let's go back to the seafood porridge."
By then, Venice's legs were soaked with blood. Still, she limped all the way back to the VIP ward, clutching the steaming bowl.
Just as she reached for the doorknob, laughter drifted out from inside.
"Kevin, did you really make this porridge yourself?"
Kevin's deep voice replied, warm and indulgent. "Yes. I cooked it for two hours. My princess, have a taste."
Venice heard the sound of him blowing on the spoon, feeding it to her.
The bowl in her hands slipped and shattered with a sharp clang.
The smell of seafood filled the hall, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.
She stumbled back, her knees buckling—and a passing doctor caught her just in time.