Doting Marriage: Return Of The Real Miss Gu

Ten minutes later, she stepped back outside, clutching a fresh bundle of thirty flyers still warm from the machine.

That was when she saw the two boys darting across the road with greasy buns in hand.

"You there!"

The one with the runny nose stopped. "Miss Gu!"

She held up the paper stack. "You still want more food on opening day?"

"Always!"

"Then earn it. Help me pass these flyers around. Apartment buildings, noodle alleys, anywhere people are hungry."

The boys saluted dramatically, and she handed them the small bundle of prints she'd just picked up from the shop across the street.

"As pass as you can today and tell your friends to tell their friends, anyone who brings a friend will get some extras..."

The boys smiled, if they sticked slow to this woman then they were definitely going to be eating well.

"We'll shout it louder than the fish sellers!"

Mianmian laughed genuinely this time. She nodded and turned toward the last task of the day: packaging.

She would still need:

100 takeout bowls

100 lids

80 pairs of disposable chopsticks

60 paper bags

12 plastic cups

She paid quickly, her budget down to coins now, then hurried back toward her shop, arms aching, bags heavy.

But she walked fast because tomorrow wasn't just another day.

It was the first day of everything she'd build.

By the time she reached her restaurant, the sun was already leaning toward the rooftops.

Her arms trembled slightly from the weight of the bags, but her steps were quick, determined.

She nudged the shop door open with her shoulder and breathed in the familiar scent of dust, detergent, and faint soy.

Inside, the quiet felt heavy.

She locked the door behind her.

First, the front, she rolled up her sleeves and grabbed the rag she'd left hanging near the sink.

The signs outside had collected smudges again, and the menu board was clouded with a bit of dried soap from yesterday's wipe-down.

She cleaned them both until they shone. Then she moved to the counter, clearing away stray receipts, wiping the wood with lemon oil she'd brought from her apartment.

The mop came next. The floor still held fine dust from the street and old renovation footprints. Back and forth, she worked in silence, until the tiles caught the fading light in long, clean strips.

Satisfied, she moved to the kitchen.

The bowls were twenty-four now, unpacked and washed one by one in warm water. She dried them with a clean rag, stacking them neatly on the upper shelf.

Chopsticks, laid in pairs, their tips soaked briefly in hot water and vinegar. The small batch of teacups followed.

Her fingers were wrinkled from steam when she finally stood up and stretched.

Then came the ingredients.

She'd bought only what could survive without a refrigerator, fresh leafy greens were kept in a large woven basket laid with a damp cloth; root vegetables like carrots, potatoes, and radish went into a crate near the counter.

Eggs were nestled in straw beside the dry goods shelf. The pork wrapped tightly in paper and salted at the butcher's advice would last the day and would be the first thing she cooked come morning.

Handmade noodles sat covered on a wooden board she'd brought down from her apartment, flour-dusted and folded into neat bundles.

Soy sauce. Oil. Vinegar. Pepper flakes. Scallions. Garlic. Ginger. All arranged in the clean prep caddies beside her cutting board.

She stood back to take it all in.

This wasn't just survival anymore.

It was hers.

The shop. The work. The risk.

It belonged to her, and no one could take that again.

She wiped her hands dry and crossed to the corner where she'd left her writing pad. There, under the low lamplight, she took a deep breath and began to write.

---

[Mr. Lu..]

[As promised, this is your notice.]

[My restaurant officially opens tomorrow morning. We'll be serving breakfast noodles and lunch bowls, and you're welcome any time, though I imagine you're the type who shows up when the crowd has thinned.]

[I've reserved a bowl just for you. Sesame and scallion. Light spice.]

[Come if you can]

[Bring Mr Wei too. He looked like he could eat three]

– Gu Mianmian

She folded the note carefully and slid it into a plain envelope. Across the front, she wrote in a neat, firm hand:

Lu Yanchen, West Court, Lu Family Estate

Her pen paused just briefly before the final stroke. Then she slipped the letter into her coat pocket and headed back downstairs.

The sky outside had taken a different shade, the last of sunlight burning low beyond the buildings.

But it was still more or less bright, dusk had arrived sooner than she expected.

Mianmian locked the shop behind her and strode toward the corner dumpling stall where the neighborhood messenger boy usually hung around.

Sure enough, he was there, crouched beside a brazier, warming his hands, stuffing his face with a baozi he probably hadn't paid for.

"You.." she called.

The boy looked up, startled, cheeks stuffed. "Me?"

She pulled out a single yuan and the sealed letter. "Deliver this to the Lu estate. Directly to Mr. Lu Yanchen. He'll be expecting it."

The boy wiped his hands on his coat and took the note with wide eyes. "The Lu estate? Isn't that the one with guards and gates and dogs?"

"Tell them it's from Gu Mianmian. He'll know."

She handed him the coin.

"I'll run there!" he said at once, already stuffing the coin into his pocket and tucking the letter inside his inner shirt like it was a golden scroll. "You'll see me fly!"

"Good." She gave a small smile. "And don't lose it. That paper's worth more than that coin."

He saluted and bolted into the street, his feet thudding over stone and dirt, already yelling at dogs and carts to move out of his way.

Mianmian watched him go, then turned back toward her apartment.

She had a kitchen full of ingredients, a stack of bowls, thirty flyers in circulation, and a letter on its way to the man she could no longer forget.

Tomorrow would come.

And she would be ready for it.