The weather in Lianxi was unpredictable in late spring—sunshine by morning, storms by night. But nothing prepared Shen Fuyue for the storm that would tear through her world in the form of a single name.
Gu Shuli.
It started with a whisper. A hushed conversation between Mo Ziqian's assistant and one of his business partners, caught in passing as Shen Fuyue stepped into his office with a thermos of herbal tea.
"She's back? From Country F?"
"Apparently flew in last monday. President Mo already cleared his schedule this weekend."
Gu Shuli.
That name didn't just echo—it thundered.
The tea in Shen Fuyue's hand remained untouched. The assistant offered a tight-lipped smile before excusing himself. Mo Ziqian wasn't in his office—he had left early that morning, citing meetings. But now, pieces began falling into place. She remembered the way his expression had shifted at the engagement banquet. The flicker of pain. The unspoken longing.
That look hadn't been for her.
She set the thermos down with trembling fingers and turned to leave. Her heels clicked across the polished marble floors, but in her ears, all she could hear was the thunder of her own heartbeat.
Shen Fuyue wasn't stupid.
She had grown up in boardrooms, banquets, and behind glass walls. She had learned early on how to read people—not their words, but the tiny betrayals in their eyes, the silence between sentences. And ever since the engagement, Mo Ziqian had been silent.
Courteous, yes.
Polite, always.
But warm? Never.
The realization stung like salt against a wound that hadn't even healed yet. He had protected her once, in the shadows of adolescence. She had turned that single moment into a hundred different daydreams. But perhaps, to him, it had never meant anything at all.
Perhaps… he had always been looking at someone else.
By the next evening, the whispers were no longer whispers.
Social media was ablaze with photos: Mo Ziqian leaving a high-end restaurant in Lianxi's east district—with Gu Shuli beside him. She looked unchanged from the photos Shen Fuyue remembered from her teenage years. Still elegant, still radiant. A woman who belonged in the world of wine cellars and white orchids.
She had left years ago, pursuing art in Country F. The story went that she and Mo Ziqian had parted ways because her family had disapproved, and she had chosen ambition over love.
But now she was back.
And so was he.
The image showed them walking side by side, too close for it to be casual. He wasn't smiling, but he was... softer. He had looked at Shen Fuyue during the engagement with indifference. But in the photograph, his gaze on Gu Shuli was unmistakably warm.
A pang shot through Shen Fuyue's chest.
She didn't eat dinner that night. She told her father she was tired, that she needed rest. But she didn't sleep either.
A week passed. Then another.
Mo Ziqian was hardly home. Their wedding planners had started emailing instead of meeting in person. Every time she called, it went to voicemail. And when he did respond, it was brief.
"Busy. Will call later."
"Can't meet today. Another dinner with clients."
Another dinner. Another lie.
Shen Fuyue stopped asking.
She started spending her time in the garden of her family's ancestral home, pruning rose bushes she once thought she'd use in her wedding bouquet. The petals bled between her fingers like bruised hope.
But the worst came on a Sunday.
She had gone to the Mo estate to drop off designs for the wedding invitations. Mo Ziqian's assistant told her he wasn't in—but she saw his car outside. Her stomach dropped.
She entered anyway.
The housekeeper tried to stop her. "Miss Shen—he's… he's resting…"
But Shen Fuyue was already walking past.
And then, from the end of the corridor, she saw the open door to the library. Heard laughter. A soft feminine voice.
Curiosity—or desperation—pulled her to the doorway.
She saw them on the leather sofa. Gu Shuli sat with a book in hand, and Mo Ziqian beside her, far too close for comfort. He was pouring her tea.
It was such a domestic scene. So intimate.
He had never poured tea for Shen Fuyue. He never even noticed when she walked into a room.
She stood there like a ghost, invisible.
Until Gu Shuli noticed her.
Their eyes met—and something flickered in the other woman's gaze. Surprise? Pity? Victory?
It didn't matter.
Mo Ziqian turned his head then. Their eyes met. And for a second—just a second—he looked guilty.
But then it passed.
"Miss Shen," he said, standing up, brushing nonexistent lint from his sleeve. "You should've called."
Miss Shen! Her fingers dug into the folder in her hand. He didn't even address her by name, as if he was trying to distance himself from her.
"I brought the invitation drafts," she said. Her voice didn't shake. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction. He subtly flinched.
Gu Shuli set the book down, rising with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh? So you're Miss Shen."
The tone was courteous. The undertone was not.
Shen Fuyue gave a slight nod. "Yes. And you are?"
Gu Shuli tilted her head slightly. "Gu Shuli. An old... friend of Ziqian's."
Friend. The word hung in the air like smoke.
Mo Ziqian didn't move from his seat. "I'll look at the drafts later," he said simply.
No apology. No excuse.
Gu Shuli smiled—serene, effortless. "They must be beautiful. Ziqian always told me how detailed you were."
It was subtle, but Shen Fuyue caught it. The use of his first name… so casual, so familiar. She'd never called him that. Not aloud.
The intimacy of it clawed at her ribs.
Mo Ziqian didn't deny her closeness. He didn't say anything at all.
Shen Fuyue placed the folder carefully on the table. "I won't keep you," she said, stepping back.
No protest. Not even a glance.
She turned and walked out.
Mo Ziqian didn't follow her.
She didn't realize her hands were trembling until she reached the hallway. Her perfectly curated composure was cracking, piece by piece.
As she moved to leave the estate, someone stepped into view.
A man.
Tall. Lean. Effortlessly handsome in a way that made the air shift around him. His expression unreadable, but not unkind. His shirt sleeves were casually rolled up, and there was a quiet self-assurance in his posture that made him impossible to ignore.
Mo Zixuan.
Shen Fuyue stopped. For a split second, they simply stared at each other.
She knew who he was, of course. Mo Ziqian's stepbrother. The black sheep of the Mo family. The one name never spoken in kind tones during dinners. She had always made it a point to avoid him—because Mo Ziqian hated him, and that had been reason enough.
They had never met face to face.
Until now.
"Miss Shen," he said politely.
She gave a polite nod. "Second Master Mo."
His eyes flicked toward the hallway behind her, then returned to her face. "You're leaving in a hurry."
She didn't reply. She didn't have the strength for it.
But then, the inevitable voice called from behind her.
"Mo Zixuan. Why are you here?"
Mo Ziqian.
His voice held that familiar undercurrent of hostility—sharp and immediate.
But Shen Fuyue didn't stay. She stepped aside quickly, murmured a quiet "excuse me," and passed between them without waiting to hear Mo Zixuan's answer or Mo Ziqian's next bitter remark.
She didn't care anymore.
Outside, the wind was sharp. Her hair whipped around her face as she crossed the estate grounds alone, the ring on her finger burning like a brand.
He was marrying her.
Mo Ziqian had agreed to this engagement. If he didn't want it, he could've walked away.
But he hadn't.
So why was he with Gu Shuli?
His first love. The one he never talked about, but never really let go of.
Still, Shen Fuyue told herself it didn't matter. Maybe he was just confused. Maybe he needed to see Gu Shuli again to realize that what they had was already over. Maybe being with her was just a way to finally close that door.
Maybe this was part of his process—of choosing Shen Fuyue fully, finally.
She had to believe that.
Inside that house, Mo Ziqian was smiling again—for someone else.
And she was just the one walking away, telling herself it didn't mean anything.
Back home, she sat in front of her vanity. The room was warm, quiet. The ring glittered beneath the soft yellow light, but it looked too perfect—too staged—on her trembling hand.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
Because deep down, she still believed.
Maybe Gu Shuli was just a phase. A mistake he needed to make. Maybe he'd come back after he figured it all out.
He had to.
He would.
Wouldn't he?