Boss, Your Wife Runs Again - Chapter 1514

He is the heir of Di Hao Group; decisive, cold-blooded yet dotes on his wife a little too much.

“Husband, I think I want to rear a pet. What do you think we should rear?”

“Rear you.”

“Husband, I want to change bed sheets. Which material do you think is the most comfortable to sleep on?”

“You.”

“………”

Zhuang Nai Nai: Can’t he speak properly for once?

One day, somebody asked the man, “Why are you always the first one to bow your head every time you two fight?”

Si Zheng Ting: “I am 185 cm, she is 165 cm. Of course I have to bow down to speak to her.”

To put it short, this is a story about a black-belly president, his wife and their effort to conceive children after marriage.

- Description from Novelupdates

The top student from the Agricultural University, Qiao Mu, was digging in the experimental field when her hoe struck through to the godforsaken Tupo Village.No money, no rice, no tall, rich, and handsome guy, the aunts and the older female cousins pecked at her every day, making her meals less than satisfying with constant bread rolls, leaving her so hungry she felt faint.Luckily, the Heavens took pity and rewarded her with a tall and handsome man, who was enthusiastic and bold. His debut move was to climb straight into bed, sparking rampant gossip in the village: that Qiao girl, the third daughter, is nothing but trouble at such a young age, shamelessly bringing some wild man into her boudoir to fool around – absolutely shameless!Muniang looked to the sky and bellowed, “Alpacas! You think I'm Hello Kitty when I don't show my claws?”Make a fortune, become rich, fight off the scum, raise a husband – life became increasingly lush.

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”