The last glimmer of daylight vanished behind the swirling snow, swallowed by the winter storm. Lights flickered on in the villa—it should have been a festive evening, but all Mo Yurou felt was an endless, hollow loneliness.
"Miss, come eat. The food's getting cold."
Aunt Wu entered the study again, this time draping a thick shawl over Mo Yurou's shoulders.
Mo Yurou absently adjusted the shawl. She had been standing there so long, yet she hadn't even noticed the cold.
Then, a bitter smile touched her lips.
Compared to the icy indifference of Xiao Zichen, the winter chill was nothing.
She glanced at the clock. Six PM. An hour past the time they'd agreed upon.
*Of course.*
After her father's death, his cruelty had only sharpened.
"*Aunt Wu… do you think he'll come back tonight?*"
Her voice was quiet, almost fragile. She already knew the answer—but she needed the lie, needed someone to pretend there was still hope.
Aunt Wu had been her mother's maid, the one constant in Mo Yurou's life. If anyone could offer even a sliver of warmth now, it was her.
This past year, Aunt Wu had watched her young mistress marry, then wither under the cold neglect of her husband. It pained her, but as a servant, there was little she could say.
"*Of course he'll come back, Miss. It's the end of the year—the company must be swamped. Let's eat first, and we'll wait for him together.*"
The lie was thin. Xiao Zichen hadn't stepped foot here in three days. The last time? A ten-minute visit to grab some documents before vanishing again.
Mo Yurou smiled faintly.
"*Aunt Wu… he's been with Jiang Moyao all this time. For her, he couldn't even show up for Father's memorial.*"
Aunt Wu stiffened, scrambling for comfort—but Mo Yurou only patted her hand gently.
"*It's fine. They were meant to be. If not for me… they'd probably have a child by now.*"
She turned toward the dining room.
"*Let's eat. I'm hungry.*"
Aunt Wu watched her go, heart heavy.
*How could this be?*
The cherished daughter of the Mo family, Luo Cheng's most dazzling socialite—countless men had adored her. Why did she have to fall for this heartless, ungrateful Xiao Zichen?
*What a cruel fate.*
Just as Mo Yurou reached the dining table, headlights cut through the darkness outside. A car screeched to a halt.
Her breath caught.
For a fleeting second, something like hope flickered in her eyes—before she schooled her expression, sitting down with practiced grace.
***BANG!***
The front door slammed open.
"*Young Master! The mistress has been waiting for you all afternoon!*"
"*Hmph.*"
A dark, icy voice. Then—footsteps, sharp and impatient, closing in.
Mo Yurou didn't turn around. But with every step, her heartbeat grew louder, wilder.
"*What do you want?*"
The words shattered whatever fragile illusion she'd clung to.
She picked up her chopsticks, selecting a bite with deliberate calm.
"*Zichen… this is our home. How can you say you're just 'coming over'? Is it wrong for a wife to ask her husband back?*"
"*Home?*" His laugh was cold. "*Don't joke, Mo Yurou. I have many places in Luo Cheng I can call home. This? Never.*"
Even without looking, she could picture his expression—the disdain, the barely leashed anger. It hurt, but she was used to it.
Seeing her still eating, Xiao Zichen's temper snapped.
"*You lied to me again?*"
He turned to leave.
This time, Mo Yurou stood.
"*Zichen. Today is Father's seventh-day memorial.*"
Since her father's death, Xiao Zichen had only appeared once—at the funeral.
The rumors were already spreading: *The Xiao and Mo families are at war.* Today, reporters had swarmed the memorial, only to find the Mo son-in-law conspicuously absent. Tomorrow's headlines would be brutal.
Xiao Zichen didn't even face her.
"*I sent Liu Mingyu. What more do you want?*"
Her fingers tightened around the chopsticks.
"*He was your father-in-law. He's* dead. *Can't you—just this once—let go of the past?*"
She could endure his neglect, his cruelty. But not this disrespect. Not to her father's memory.
Xiao Zichen whirled around, eyes blazing.
"*So* this *is why you dragged me back? Threatening Moyao to force me here?*" He stepped closer, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "*You haven't changed at all. Still scheming, still lying. And I was fool enough to fall for it.*"
Mo Yurou didn't flinch.
But her heart? It sank.
*Is that really how he sees me?*
She had never lied to him. Not once.
Even today—she *did* have something important to say.
Taking a slow breath, she sat back down.
"*Call it a threat if you want,*" she said softly. "*But we're still married. Even without love, shouldn't you at least pretend? Do you really want the tabloids splashing photos of you and Jiang Moyao everywhere?*"
"*Enough!*" He slammed a hand on the table. "*Don't play the saint. None of this would've happened if not for you!*"
The chopsticks in her hand trembled—just slightly.
"*Sit down. Eat.*" Her voice was eerily calm. "*We'll talk after dinner.*"
"*I'm not hungry.*" His glare could have frozen hell. "*And I'm not wasting another second here. Don't bother me again.*"
*Don't bother me.*
What a thing for a husband to say.
As if she had ever *dared* to "bother" him this past year.
He turned to leave—done with her, done with this farce of a marriage.
(But he wouldn't file for divorce. Not after what the Mo family had done for him. That… was the only mercy he could offer.)
Mo Yurou watched his retreating back.
Then—
"***Xiao Zichen.***"
Her voice stopped him.
"***Stay for this meal…***"
A beat.
"***…and I'll set you free.***"
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