The next morning, Ruyan got ready as usual and joined the rest of the Mo family for breakfast. Her place was already set, and her meal was tailored precisely to her preferences. Grandfather Mo had made sure the family was informed about her preferences.
Mo Yichen finished his food quietly and excused himself. When he returned a little while later, he was holding a file in his hand. Ruyan was already standing on the car porch, ready to head to work. Marie was bringing her car from the garage, her Range Rover, a gift from her father.
Mo Yichen's eyes landed on the car, and his expression darkened. He had never noticed it before, but now that he did, his brows furrowed with disapproval.
"Where did this car come from?" he asked sharply, anger lacing his voice.
Marie responded politely, "This is a gift from Master Xia for Miss Xia."
Mo Yichen's jaw clenched. "The Mo family has enough cars. Do we need any from your master?" he snapped, his tone grating.
"This is for me," Ruyan interjected, her voice calm but firm. "Not for your Mo family."
"You are my wife," he retorted, stepping closer, voice low but fierce. It unsettled him how easily she detached herself from the Mo family, from him.
But what he saw next in her eyes startled him: first, a flicker of disgust, and then grief. Soul-wrenching grief that reached places words could never describe.
And then she closed her eyes.
For a second, he stood there frozen. When she opened them again, her expression was blank, her pretty amber eyes back to that unsettling calm.
"We're just a deal, President Mo," she said, her voice hollow. And with that, she turned and walked away, her heels echoing faintly against the polished floor as she stepped into the car. The door shut with a quiet finality, sealing her from him again.
Mo Yichen stood there, frozen in place.
Her words echoed in his mind like a cold slap. A deal… just a deal…
This is what he asked her to remember always: that this marriage means nothing but a deal to him. He clenched the file in his hand, the edges bending beneath his tightening grip. Something twisted in his chest, a strange, uncomfortable weight pressing down, making it hard to breathe.
He told himself he had no reason to feel anything. This was the arrangement. This was what they had agreed to. She was never supposed to matter. But why did her eyes haunt him? Why did the grief he saw in them make his throat feel tight?
On her way to the office, her mind still clung to that one word: wife.
She was a wife.
But not to someone she once dreamed of.
She once had small, sweet dreams. She once wanted to get married, to share a life with someone. She had imagined late-night drives with soft music playing, windows rolled down, laughter in the wind. Dancing in the rain, teasing each other on a backyard swing. Lazy evenings, weekend brunches. Kitchen dates where they'd cook together, stealing kisses and smiles. Warm cuddles beneath soft blankets, a gentle embrace after a long day.
Her dreams had been simple. So heartbreakingly simple.
But her world had burned. And in its flames, her dreams had turned to ash. She had watched everything she believed in die, watched the light leave her own life. Her refuge, her salvation… stolen.
And now she was a wife. That thought was repulsive.
She shivered, as though something invisible had crawled across her skin. Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, not for protection, but for an illusion of being hugged, a quiet voice echoed in her mind, tender and faraway. "Janan… It will be okay."
Her breath caught. A pressure built in her chest, a weight behind her lips. The urge to cry surged through her like a wave crashing into a fragile dam.
But she wouldn't cry.
She would never cry.
She entered her office, setting her things in place. Her expression was composed, her aura was cold and controlled. She waited patiently for Mo Yichen to arrive so she could report to him.
When he finally did, she walked into his office and presented the morning files and schedule updates.
"There's a protest at the garment factory today," Mo Yichen said, not even looking up from his documents. "You'll go and mediate it."
He knew her nature well by now: quiet, introspective, the kind of woman who found comfort in solitude and silence rather than chaos and noise. Crowds unsettled her. Confrontation wasn't her domain.
So he deliberately chose the garment factory protest, noisy, unpredictable, and emotionally charged. It wasn't just an assignment; it was a provocation. A subtle punishment, perhaps, or maybe a cruel curiosity to see how far she could be pushed before she cracked.
He expected hesitation. Maybe even a polite refusal. Something, anything that would give him the upper hand. But she gave him nothing
She accepted the file without blinking, her expression unreadable. A simple nod, and she turned to leave, gracefully, untouched by the bait he'd set for her. And somehow, that quiet acceptance grated on Mo Yichen more than open defiance ever could.
In the car, Ruyan flipped open the file and scanned it thoroughly. Her fingers moved swiftly across the tablet as she began a quick search online, piecing together context and names. She had no intention of walking into a volatile situation blind.
She knew exactly what this was, another of Mo Yichen's games. He was testing her, pushing her, convinced she would bend if pressured hard enough. But he didn't understand.
She was no longer a whole thing to be broken. She was already a void, emptied out long ago. And you cannot shatter a broken glass, there is nothing left to destroy.
"Marie," she said, her tone sharp yet soft, "find out what triggered the protest and who's stirring it."
"Yes, ma'am," Marie replied without hesitation, keeping her eyes on the road as she made a call. She had chosen to stay with Ruyan after noticing she hadn't eaten anything the previous day.
Within minutes, the report arrived. Ruyan studied the new intel with a sharp eye.
"Call the police," she ordered again, her voice unwavering. "Yes, ma'am," Marie responded crisply. There was no need for questions. She was trained for this, trained to follow, to assist, to protect.