SOLD to My Ex: A Forbidden Service Contract - Chapter 11

On the day of his discharge, I had planned to just leave, but as soon as I put on my shoes,

he stopped me, still in his hospital gown. “The doctor said I can’t live alone.”

“Don’t you have a bed at the club?”

“But I’m so sick. What if I die at the club? Would it be considered a work injury or a medical accident?” His tone was serious. “You’re my only ‘family member’.”

…And just like that, I took him back to his place.

But as soon as we walked in, he leaned against the door, looking weak. “It’s your turn to cook today.”

I sneered. “You’re recovering pretty fast.”

He raised his arm matter-of-factly. “This hand still can’t lift.”

“Then where do you get the strength to talk nonsense?” I glared at him.

He suddenly smiled, a hint of triumphant cunning in his eyes. “I recover faster when you’re at home.”

I became his “home service provider,” of course, a dedicated, contract-free, all-volunteer one.

His kitchen was as clean as a showroom. I was originally going to just heat up some instant noodles to get by.

But he dragged me in from the doorway. “Service includes cooking. No frozen food.”

“You’re a picky eater?” I asked. He was leaning against the refrigerator door, looking lazy. “It’s not about being picky, it’s about nurturing.”

“Nurture my ass,” I said, defrosting a frozen dish while sharpening a knife, thinking that if he dared to say another word, I’d steam his head in the pot.

But he still walked over, one hand braced next to me, and took the knife from my hand. “Your technique is too rough, you’ll cut your nails.”

“Are you doing this on purpose, getting so close?” After hearing my words, he laughed without a care in the world. “I’m supervising the quality of service.

If you get any closer, I’ll have you in the pot supervising that old piece of ginger.”