What Bad Intentions Could a Spoiled Little Brat Possibly have? - Chapter 31.1

“Brother, your… your hand is dirty… let me wipe it for you.”

From the moment Cheng Huai was born, almost every significant “first” in his life was destined to be completed under the companionship of Fu Zheng.

Although Chang Shu had been desperate for a child, she was never truly prepared to welcome a new life. After giving birth to Cheng Huai, her temperament changed drastically; she had zero patience for an infant’s crying. Cheng Jiayun was even less reliable; this marriage was never about love, so he naturally lacked the self-awareness and responsibility of a father.

Little Cheng Huai seemed born with a sense of insecurity. Once he started crying, it was difficult to stop. Furthermore, Chang Shu loved her vanity; she stopped breastfeeding him before her postpartum month was even over. Often, Cheng Huai would lie in his stroller wailing loudly while his parents looked on with expressions of disgust, unwilling to even spare him a glance.

Occasionally, Chang Shu would reluctantly try to coax him for a moment, but she would quickly grow irritable: “Cry, cry, cry! That’s all you know how to do!”

With a loud thud, Chang Shu slammed the baby bottle onto the table, her brows furrowing deeply. This sudden movement pulled at something internal, and she immediately arched her back in pain.

In the time it took Cheng Jiayun to go out for a smoke, the two of them—the adult and the infant—began to clash.

“Cheng Jiayun, I can’t look after this child. Whoever can do it, let them do it!” Chang Shu said sharply.

Cheng Jiayun walked back into the room smelling of cigarettes, which immediately caused Chang Shu to feel nauseous again. He used every word in his arsenal to finally calm her temper, but the successive torments of this period had left him feeling utterly powerless.

Nannies were hired, and wet nurses were swapped, but no matter who came, Cheng Huai would wail the moment he opened his eyes. He often cried until his throat was hoarse and his little face turned purple; a few times, he even cried until he lost consciousness, scaring everyone into a frantic rush to the hospital.

In the first month of his life, the number of times Cheng Huai visited the hospital was too many to count.

One day, when Fu Zheng returned home from school, he heard arguments coming from upstairs before he even entered the door, interspersed with the weak but stubborn crying of an infant.

Carrying his schoolbag, he walked to the door of the master bedroom. Inside, an infant bed sat in lonely isolation; the unreliable parents were nowhere to be seen.

The last time at the hospital, the sensation of the little fellow grabbing his finger had left a lingering mark on his heart. Fu Zheng hesitated over whether to go in and take a look, but before he could decide, his feet had already thought for him and moved forward.

The closer he got, the louder the crying became, and the tighter Fu Zheng’s heart squeezed.

The little fellow seemed exhausted from crying; his mouth was just hanging open, his face flushed red, and occasionally a choked sob escaped, sounding exceptionally helpless in the empty room.

Fu Zheng reached out, his hand landing hesitantly on the infant’s soft belly, patting it with extreme gentleness.

Just like in the hospital, miraculously, the crying stopped abruptly.

The little fellow opened his eyes washed exceptionally bright by tears and stared blankly at this unfamiliar older brother.

Their eyes met for only a fleeting moment before that little mouth crumpled piteously again. But this time, before a sound could escape, a loud gurgle erupted from his stomach.

Fu Zheng’s gaze fell on the baby bottle by the table. He reached out to check it; the temperature was just right.

He had zero experience in holding a baby. He could only rely on vague, blurry memories to clumsily and carefully lift that soft little body from the crib. His arms were stiff, maintaining an awkward posture for fear that the slightest bit of force would harm this fragile life in his arms.

The moment he was picked up, Cheng Huai made a soft sound, excitedly waving his two little “lotus root” arms, attempting to hug Fu Zheng’s neck. However, because his arms were too short, he could only wave them fruitlessly in the air.

Fu Zheng picked up the warm bottle and tentatively brought it close to that pink little mouth. The next moment, the nipple was firmly latched onto, and Cheng Huai made satisfying gulping sounds.

What made Fu Zheng’s heart tremble even more was that those two tiny hands quickly gripped the wrist of the hand holding the bottle, refusing to let go.

At the doorway, Cheng Jiayun and Chang Shu had quietly appeared, witnessing this scene. They silently exchanged a look.

The two people who had just been arguing over who would take care of this “trouble” now stared at each other amidst this strange harmony. The thought of sending Fu Zheng away was completely discarded that evening.

Since the Cheng’s didn’t mention it, Fu Zheng tacitly pretended not to know.

From then on, this six-year-old child had a heavy responsibility added to his life alongside his studies: taking care of the little fellow at home.

Gradually, seeing that Fu Zheng took care of Cheng Huai better than anyone else, Cheng Jiayun and Chang Shu returned home less and less frequently. It became common for them not to be seen for ten days or half a month. In the vast villa, often only Fu Zheng and the babbling little fellow remained.

Fortunately, in terms of material wealth, the Cheng’s were never stingy. They lived in the villa with nannies provided, though most of the time, Fu Zheng preferred to do things himself.

The balance on the bank cards left for them never dropped below six figures. Money couldn’t fill the void of parental affection, but it at least ensured they lived without worry.

Cheng Huai’s dependence on Fu Zheng grew by the day. As long as his brother’s figure left his line of sight, the little fellow would immediately cry without ceasing. Eventually, having no other choice, Fu Zheng had to take the child to school to attend classes with him.

Before Cheng Huai could walk, he was placed in a specially made baby chair, following Fu Zheng to class.

He was extraordinarily well-behaved, neither crying nor making a fuss. He simply kept his large, dark eyes wide, staring intently at the brother beside him. Sometimes, when he got tired of watching, his little head would tilt and naturally rest against Fu Zheng’s arm, falling into a sweet dream.

At around one year old, Cheng Huai uttered the first meaningful syllable of his life. It wasn’t “Papa,” nor was it “Mama,” but a slurried “Ga-ga.”

Fu Zheng froze for a moment, then lowered his head, gently touching the child’s soft cheek, and corrected him seriously: “Not Ga-ga, it’s Ge-ge (Brother).”

Cheng Huai seemed to understand but not quite. He blinked his eyes and tried hard to mimic the more complex pronunciation: “Guo… Guo.”

From then on, “Brother” became the word most frequently on his lips. Every morning when he opened his eyes, the first thing he did was call out “Ga-ga, Ge-ge” incessantly, as if it were a mantra to wake the world.

As he grew older, Cheng Huai could stagger his way to Fu Zheng’s side and habitually climb onto his brother’s lap, finding a comfortable position to sit.

Fu Zheng would hold him with one arm while taking notes with the other. Sometimes after a whole class, Fu Zheng’s arm and leg would be numb, but he would simply switch arms and continue holding him.

In Cheng Huai’s earliest memories, his brother’s image was always silent and profound.

His brother didn’t smile often and didn’t speak much. There always seemed to be an unmovable worry knit between his brows. Occasionally, he would gaze in a certain direction, or gaze at Cheng Huai, lost in thought for a long time.

Thus, a great wish was quietly buried in young Cheng Huai’s heart: he wanted to make his brother a little happier, to make him smile more.

He would obediently listen to everything his brother said. His brother’s requests were like indisputable imperial edicts in his small world; if his brother told him to go east, he would never go west.

Behind all this obedience and submissiveness lay nothing more than a child’s most pure and sincere longing: he wanted to use all his effort just to make his brother happy.

In the year Cheng Huai was in fifth grade, Fu Zheng was a sophomore in high school. During the summer vacation, Fu Zheng took him to learn swimming.

By then, Fu Zheng’s desire for control had already begun to show its signs.

He first spent a week mastering freestyle, breaststroke, backstroke, and even butterfly, and from those, he screened for the safest and most stable teaching methods.

That wasn’t enough. He booked the entire indoor heated swimming pool to ensure no outsiders would enter their line of sight during training. Even Cheng Huai’s swimwear was strictly controlled by him.

Although it was a form-fitting swimsuit style, it was a long-sleeved and long-panted design. Except for the wrists and ankles, not a single inch of skin was allowed to be exposed.

Even though there were only the two of them by the vast pool, Fu Zheng absolutely would not allow Cheng Huai to have any bit of exposure.

On the first day of teaching, Fu Zheng didn’t let Cheng Huai go directly into the water. Instead, he had him stand one meter away from the pool’s edge.

Fu Zheng sat by the edge of the pool, his posture relaxed but his gaze focused as he looked at Cheng Huai.

At eleven years old, it was the age when the body begins to change quietly. Having been meticulously raised by Fu Zheng, Cheng Huai’s body still carried the soft roundness of childhood. His skin was so white it was almost transparent, revealing a healthy pink glow.

“Come here,” Fu Zheng said.

Cheng Huai did as he was told and walked closer. Fu Zheng reached out, palm up.

Cheng Huai immediately understood and placed his hand in Fu Zheng’s palm.

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