In the dimly lit hospital room, a man sat in silence. The only sound was the steady beeping of the machine, cold and clinical, yet the sole proof that the woman lying motionless on the bed was still alive.
He hesitantly reached for her hand, his fingers brushing against her wrist, wrapped in sterile white bandages. If she were awake, she would have never let him touch her.
"Wake up… alright?" he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of emotions he didn't want to name. His long fingers entwined with hers, trembling.
"Please… please wake up. Even if it's to hate me, to blame me," he pleaded.
She had been a deal to him, a calculated move in a negotiation. But now, with the real possibility of her never waking up, something inside him shattered, and he could hear it. Was it his pride? His ego? Or something far more fragile, his soul?
If only he had kept his promise. If only he had stayed.
The door creaked open. An elderly man stepped in, his face drawn with resignation. "A-Chen, you should rest," he said gently.
"Grandfather… this is my fault," A-Chen murmured, eyes hollow. "They're right to call me dishonorable."
The old man's voice was heavy with regret. "A-Chen… It's my fault too. I thought you deserved her…"
A-Chen looked up, and the sorrow in his onyx eyes burned into something darker. Revenge. He shouldn't feel that way, but he couldn't help it. He turned to the unconscious woman, battered and bruised, her body too delicate for the cruelty of the world. And then, he remembered,
It wasn't so long ago, just a few months back, when his grandfather had dragged him along to a meeting he hadn't wanted to attend... Beyond the capital city, a few kilometers ahead, in a small, forgotten town. A place untouched by time, where the streets remain quiet and the air feels gentler.
At the very end of the town stands a bungalow, the kind one would expect in a fairytale. Enclosed by a neat wooden fence, the house sits under an amber shade roof. At the entrance, thick money plants curl upward like guardians, and vibrant coral roses bloom in clusters, embracing the house in a sea of color and fragrance.
It is a breathtaking sight.
A sleek, black luxury car glides to a halt in front of the fence gate. The engine cuts off, and silence settles once again.
The front passenger door swings open. And he steps out. He was tall, well over 190 centimeters. His presence is both composed and commanding, the kind that demands attention without needing to speak a word.
His face holds the elegance of a classical painting: high cheekbones, a clean, straight nose, and a sharply defined jawline. But what truly captures attention are his eyes, dark onyx, almond-shaped, and framed by thick lashes. They burn with a quiet intensity of mystery, unforgiveness, and unforgettable.
A gaze that could consume you whole. His beauty isn't loud. It doesn't scream for validation. Instead, it lingers elegantly, almost haunting.
He adjusts the cuffs of his white button-down shirt, his movements fluid, effortless. His eyes scan the surroundings with disinterest until they fall on the bungalow.
For a brief moment, something flickers in his gaze.
One word appears in his mind: Cherished.
He didn't believe in fate. But something about this place made him uneasy. Almost… expectant. Without a word, he moves toward the back of the car, opening the door with practiced ease. He bends slightly, extending a hand with unexpected gentleness.
An old man steps out, his face lit with excitement. Today, he's here to visit an old friend. More importantly, to meet the friend's granddaughter, who, he's been told, is not only beautiful but spirited.
Of course, getting his grandson to accompany him took endless persuasion... and a little blackmail.
But here they are. Begrudgingly or not, he knows what his grandson is. A heartthrob. A man carved out of stone and silk. Not just incredibly handsome, but the CEO of one of the world's leading corporations.
With a cane in one hand, Old Master Mo leaned on his grandson as they slowly walked toward the quaint little bungalow. He cast a glance at the young man beside him, tall, dignified, and, of course, frowning again. That frown sat on his face like a crown, worn with the same pride as his three-piece suit.
Old Master Mo sighed. He knew Mo Yichen was always buried in the affairs of the Mo Empire, too busy chasing deadlines and boardrooms to chase anything else, even happiness. Of course, the boy still didn't know why he'd dragged him out here. If not for the hunger strike, this stubborn brat would've never agreed to come.
"Stop frowning. Who are you trying to scare?" Old Master Mo barked with a mock glare.
"I'm not frowning," Yichen replied coolly. His voice was rich and husky, like aged wine with a dangerous finish.
"Yeah? And pigs are flying. Look up, quick!" the old man pointed dramatically at the sky.
Mo Yichen blinked. Speechless. He gave his grandfather a look.
"What? You insinuating I'm blind now? You think I can't see that storm brewing on your forehead?"
The CEO sighed. "Alright, alright."
Just like that, the mighty Mo Yichen surrendered. Again.
He could run a billion-dollar empire, but never win against this childlike, sharp-tongued old man, his closest family. So, he only sighed again… and let him lead the way.
They knocked on the door. Moments later, a man who appeared to be a housekeeper opened it, stepping aside as though he had been expecting them.
"Please, come in. Sir and Madam will be here shortly."
The living room was wide and filled with light, framed by tall windows that opened to a garden bursting with wisteria. It was immediately clear, whoever lived here had a deep love for plants.
Just then, a tall, slender man entered. He looked to be in his mid-forties, dressed simply in a high-collar white shirt and light-colored trousers. His black hair was streaked with a graceful touch of white, and thin glasses rested on the bridge of his nose. There was something poetic about his presence, refined, almost scholarly.
"Uncle Mo," he greeted warmly, his smile calm and genuine.
"Jingxuan, you still look as youthful as ever," Old Master Mo laughed heartily, shaking his hand.
"I wouldn't dare compete with you, Uncle Mo," Xia Jingxuan replied with quiet grace.
"And this," Old Master Mo turned to the young man beside him, "is my grandson, Mo Yichen. My heir and the CEO of Mo Corporations."
Mo Yichen stood, offering a polite handshake. He felt the unexpected but controlled strength behind Xia Jingxuan's grip.
"Call him Uncle Xia," the old man added. "He's your grandfather's best friend's son."
"Uncle Xia," Yichen said smoothly, his tone reserved.
"If someone from your company saw you now, they'd never believe you're the same frown-wearing tyrant they work for," Old Master Mo teased under his breath.
Just then, a woman entered. She was tall and graceful, dressed in flowing ivory pants and a loose silk blouse. Her dark hair was tied in a low bun. No jewelry adorned her save for a single emerald ring on her finger. She carried herself like someone who had never once stumbled in life; each movement was purposefully elegant.
Xia Jingxuan stood immediately. "This is my wife, Rong Liyan."
Her soft smile barely curved her lips, yet it lit up her entire presence. She greeted the guests with elegant composure and gently instructed the house help to bring tea and snacks. Mo Yichen observed everything keenly. And for some reason, he began to realize why his grandfather had dragged him here. A wave of irritation swept over him, but only for a moment.
Because the house… the house was something else.
It felt like time had slowed. Wisterias were draped across the back windows. The faint scent of herbs lingered in the air. Everything about the place, from the light to the way it held its silence, whispered of gentleness and warmth.
Soft laughter passed between Old Master Mo and Xia Jingxuan, while Rong Liyan poured tea with graceful hands and a serene smile. Mo Yichen, who never quite belonged in warm spaces like this, sat still. Watchful but curious.
He found himself sipping the tea quietly, almost savoring it. He made a mental note to ask Madam Xia about it later. And then, just as the conversation found its rhythm, the garden door creaked open.
Every eye turned.
Footsteps, soft, measured, drifted into the room from behind.
Rong Liyan's eyes lit up with surprise. "She's back early."
The warmth in her voice was unmistakable. Mo Yichen didn't move, but something in his chest shifted, just slightly. Irritation? Curiosity? He couldn't name it.
Someone had arrived.