December 24th, Christmas Eve.
Snow swirled in the air as icy winds howled. Mo Yurou stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of the study, her plain white dress blending into the winter gloom outside. The lawn had vanished under a thick blanket of snow, and the distant asphalt road was barely visible—just a faint gray smudge swallowed by the storm.
Today was her twenty-fourth birthday—and also the seventh day since her father's passing. It was, without a doubt, the most agonizing birthday she had ever endured.
Not far away, on the desk, lay a stack of photographs. The two people in them looked perfectly matched: the man handsome and composed, the woman gentle and beautiful. Yet these very images pierced Mo Yurou's heart like shards of glass.
She glanced at her phone. After days of hesitation, she had finally made a critical decision.
Taking a deep breath, she dialed a number she knew she could never erase from her memory.
*Beep… beep… beep…*
She waited, her heart pounding with dread. Would this be another call left unanswered?
"Hello, who is this?"
A woman's voice. Mo Yurou's chest tightened—but then, she smiled bitterly. Hadn't she expected this all along?
She refused to speak to *that woman*. Silence stretched between them until, finally, the voice on the other end handed the phone over—but not before delivering a crushing blow.
*"Zichen, whose number is this? Why do you have such a weird contact name saved?"*
*"No one important. Mòmò, go make me some coffee."*
The voice that followed was one Mo Yurou had longed to hear for so long—yet it was nothing like she remembered.
The voice she knew was cold enough to freeze blood. But now? It was softer than she had ever heard.
*"What do you want?"*
Snapped back to reality, Mo Yurou flinched at the sharp, impatient tone that cut through the line.
Hearing this, Mo Yurou let out a cold laugh. *So, this man was capable of tenderness—just not for her.*
"Xiao Zichen, come home tonight. There's something important we need to discuss."
"Mo Yurou, we have nothing to say to each other. If it's business, contact Liu Mingyu."
Every word from the man named Xiao Zichen dripped with frost and disdain, but Mo Yurou seemed long accustomed to it.
"Xiao Zichen, unless you want Jiang *Miss* to become the most hated homewrecker in Luocheng, I expect you home by five."
She knew his weakness too well.
"You—are you *threatening* me?"
The fury in his voice was palpable, but Mo Yurou didn't flinch. This was their dynamic now.
"Call it what you want. *'CEO Skips Father-in-Law's Funeral to Spend Night with Celebrity Designer.'* How's that for a headline? Oh, and let's not forget: *'Absent from Memorial Service, But Spotted at Hotel with Lover.'* The tabloids would *devour* this."
Her tone was eerily calm, as if discussing the weather.
"Enough! Mo Yurou, do you have a death wish?!"
If she'd been standing before him, he might've strangled her then and there.
But Mo Yurou remained unshaken.
"Xiao Zichen, you know me—I'll stop at nothing. I drove Jiang Moyao out of Luocheng once. I can ruin her reputation today. Or have you forgotten *who your wife is*?"
"And *you* forget how you claimed that title. Every reminder just makes me sick."
The venom in his voice matched the hatred in his heart.
"Too bad, Xiao Zichen. However much you despise me, my name is still on that marriage certificate. However much you love Jiang Moyao, I can still brand her a mistress with a snap of my fingers. Five o'clock. Or tomorrow, every newspaper in Luocheng gets a *very* juicy story."
She hung up before he could reply.
Only then did Mo Yurou realize her hands were trembling.
A bitter smile twisted her lips before her nose stung, and tears spilled over.
All these days—even when she received the news of her father's death—she hadn't shed a single tear. For seven days, she'd stood strong, greeting every mourner with composure. She knew better than to show weakness in front of them.
But now, hidden where no one could see, the phone call and those photos on the desk shattered her last pretense.
*Knock, knock, knock—*
The study door creaked open. A woman in her fifties entered, holding a document.
"Young Mistress, Assistant Jiang sent these papers."
Mo Yurou kept her back turned, not daring to let "Aunt Wu" see her face. "Just leave them on the desk," she murmured, voice steady.
Aunt Wu noticed nothing amiss—until she reached the desk and froze at the scattered photos.
"Young Mistress, the Young Master, he…" Her voice wavered with concern.
Mo Yurou had barely slept or eaten since the funeral, her frame gaunt under the white mourning dress.
"It's fine, Aunt Wu. Prepare more dishes tonight. Zichen… is coming home."
Aunt Wu hesitated. The Young Master hadn't dined here in months. Would he truly return? But she nodded. "Of course."
Once the door shut, Mo Yurou finally turned. Tear tracks glistened as her gaze fell on the document. *She knew what it contained.* That was why she'd demanded Xiao Zichen's return.
Beside it lay a photo of her and her father. Now, memories were all she had left.
*"Father… you'd approve of my choice, wouldn't you? Or did you foresee this all along? I was the fool, clinging to delusions. But no more."*
She tucked the document away, then—after one last look—fed every incriminating photo into the shredder.
No matter how cruel those two had been, her heart still loved him. Even without his pity, she couldn't bear to tarnish his name.
As the machine devoured the evidence, Mo Yurou suddenly laughed.
*"Father… I finally understand. Love was never a game for one player."*
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