Chapter 36: Get Used to Me

"..." Wen Yinong's eyes widened. Her lips moved, but no words came out.

This man was normally aloof, distinguished, impeccably dressed—yet his logic when it came to problems was blunt to the point of savagery.

It seemed that in his eyes, all the boundaries of convention were beneath mention...

Wen Yinong stared at Mo Shaoshang's handsome, calm face. After a few stunned seconds, it suddenly dawned on her—of course. He possessed absolute wealth and power, a social standing that looked down on nearly everything.

Someone born at the top truly did have the capital to do whatever he pleased, to do everything he wanted.

Across from her.

Seeing that the girl in his arms hadn't spoken for a long while, Mo Shaoshang watched her, an almost imperceptible softness flickering through his eyes.

A moment later, his fingers shifted. He released her wrist, then cupped her small, flushed face with his knuckles, forcing her to turn back and look at him again.

"Wen Yinong."

He called her full name, his voice low and clear. "Look at me."

Wen Yinong's lashes trembled. She lifted her gaze and met the man's eyes.

The undercurrents in that blue-black deep sea seemed to have calmed somewhat, turning profound, focused, restored to their usual unruffled stillness.

"Last time, in the wine cellar, I already asked you to be with me."

He spoke slowly, each word gentle and even, like a winter breeze brushing past one's ear—cool, yet carrying a thread of tingling itch. "Your answer then was that you needed to think about it."

Pinned on his lap, unable to dodge or escape, Wen Yinong felt herself sinking into a sweet yet peril-laden deep sea, nearly drowning in it.

Ticklish, she couldn't help shrinking her neck, her breathing falling out of rhythm.

As he spoke, the man's eyes held hers, his thumb brushing lightly over her swollen, warm lips. The gesture was tender, cherishing, without the slightest trace of the violent loss of control from moments before.

"Now," he leaned close and said softly, "I want your answer."

His low, gentle voice echoed by her ear, carrying an almost bewitching magic. Listening to Mo Shaoshang's voice, her nose filled with the cool, faint scent on him, Wen Yinong's head grew foggy again—dazed and muddled.

Muddleheadedly, she replied, "I'm... not used to it yet..."

"I'll give you time." The corner of Mo Shaoshang's mouth curved faintly, his thin lips parting. "Time to get used to me. Time to grow accustomed to my presence, my touch."

Heat flooded through Wen Yinong's whole body again.

In her field of vision were his thin, beautifully shaped lips, drawing ever closer to hers.

As if possessed, she dizzily closed her eyes.

Yet the expected kiss never fell.

The man's voice sounded by her ear once more, his tone calm, his words rippling with neither wave nor turbulence—yet brooking no defiance: "However, Teacher Wen needs to be clear about one thing."

"I've always been patient with you, and I don't mind waiting for you."

"I can give you what you want, and I can clear away everything you dislike. All problems, all obstacles—leave them all to me."

Mo Shaoshang lightly pinched her chin, his eyelids lowered as he gazed at her. "And the premise of all this is that your final answer satisfies me."

"..." Wen Yinong froze slightly.

The man's blue-black eyes were inches away, so deep they seemed capable of swallowing her soul. His low voice, wrapped in something close to tenderness, struck her eardrums word by word, gentle as water.

Yet Wen Yinong felt not the slightest warmth.

A chill crept silently up her spine, raising a fine layer of trembling.

In a certain instant, she suddenly understood the way Mo Shaoshang had always looked at her.

It was by no means a gaze of adoration.

It was a beast's near-mad desire for its prey.

Soundlessly, he had woven a spider's web—gorgeous, viscous—wrapping her within it. No exit, no rules, no retreat.

Wen Yinong's flesh suddenly crawled.

Perhaps applying for the job at the Mo estate had been a mistake.

She had trespassed into a beast's forbidden territory, provoked someone who should never be provoked...

In those few seconds of distraction, Mo Shaoshang moved.

He didn't wait for her to speak, nor give her much time to think. He simply lowered his head and drew close to her.

A kiss light as a butterfly's wing landed on the center of her brow.

The kiss was gentle and solemn, like a declaration, and also like a promise—devoid of any lust—leaving Wen Yinong faintly dazed.

Somewhere in her chest felt struck hard by something. A soft, shy ache spread outward, flowing to her limbs, diluting her earlier shame and anger.

This Mr. Mo... what kind of man was he, really?

He could plunder with such violence, yet coax with such patience; one moment a fearsome beast, the next displaying a tenderness that made one's heart tremble.

Contradictory to a terrifying degree.

Before long, Mo Shaoshang ended the brief kiss. He straightened up, and the arm around her waist loosened slightly, granting her a sliver of room to breathe.

"Your hair's dry," he said evenly, at the same time flicking a stray strand of hair from her cheek behind her ear with his fingertip. "Does the wound on your leg still hurt?"

Hearing this, Wen Yinong reflexively glanced at her knee and shook her head.

It was only a superficial wound; it didn't hurt as long as she didn't move it.

At that, the corner of Mo Shaoshang's mouth curved very faintly. "Then rest early. Get a good sleep."

With that, he finally lifted her off his lap and set her steadily onto the soft carpet.

The bath towel had only been wrapped around Wen Yinong's body, and as she stood, it slipped slightly. Mo Shaoshang noticed and, with an unperturbed expression, reached out and tucked it properly back in place for her.

Wen Yinong's cheeks burned. She felt the man's fingertips, deliberately or not, graze across the delicate skin of her shoulder.

"Pajamas are in the walk-in closet, first compartment on the left of the wardrobe."

Having said this, Mo Shaoshang stepped back, widening the distance between them—as if those heart-pounding intimacies of moments ago had never happened, once again the distinguished, detached figure of everyday. "If you need anything else, tell me. I'll have someone bring it."

"N-no... nothing..." Wen Yinong feigned composure, tucking her hair behind her ear as she stammered, "Everything here is perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern, Mr. Mo."

"Good night, Teacher Wen."

"Good night to you too."

Mo Shaoshang's lips curved, and he turned and walked straight toward the door. As his hand closed on the handle, he seemed to remember something.

He turned his face sideways, his brooding gaze falling directly on her, and added, "The thing you promised to consider—I hope you won't keep me waiting too long."

Wen Yinong's fingers curled gently together. The tips of her teeth bit lightly at her lip. She made no sound.

Mo Shaoshang left.

The bedroom door closed once more.

The night had grown deep. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the rippling river reflected a riot of neon lights, too beautiful to look away from.

Wen Yinong stood alone in the center of the bedroom, wrapped in the bath towel Mo Shaoshang had given her. The warmth of his fingertips lingered in her dark hair, and on her lips remained the brand of his scorching breath, and that burning kiss.

In the air, cedarwood and the fragrance of her hair remained entwined.

After a moment, she slowly raised a hand, her fingertips touching her wildly pounding chest.

The feeling had never been so clear.

Deep in her heart, beyond the panic and shame, something different truly had quietly broken through the soil. It had taken root, sprouted, and begun to grow wildly, unchecked.

*

The night was dark as ink, and Nanjin's splendor grew all the more bewitching in the darkness.

Several kilometers from the riverside mansion, inside a top-tier private club.

The lighting was deliberately tuned to ambiguous dusky yellows and dim purples. The air mingled with the extravagant scents of fine fragrance, alcohol, and tobacco. Scantily clad waiters drifted like fish, silent, gliding along the thickly carpeted corridors, standardized smiles fixed on their faces.

Inside a private room at the corridor's end, the deafening music was shut out; only low, languid jazz flowed through the air.

A rush of pouring liquid.

Qiao Mingyi's meticulously painted brows and eyes were filled with irritation. She poured herself another drink and downed it in one go.

And so it went, glass after glass, expensive foreign liquor poured down her throat like water.

Several young men and women sat around her—rich second-generation heirs who were on good terms with Qiao Mingyi. They laughed and joked, but none dared actually approach and touch the young Miss Qiao's bad side.

Just then, a young man sauntered over with his glass.

The man had dyed silver hair and several black studs embedded along his ear cartilage. His features were passably handsome, but his overall look was roguish—the very picture of a spoiled playboy.

"What's wrong, Miss Qiao?" The man sat down beside Qiao Mingyi and tapped his crystal glass against hers with a crisp ding. "Look at you—in a bad mood? Who upset you?"

The man's name was Yue Jiawei. His family had made its fortune in building materials and had branched into real estate in recent years—nouveau riche, more or less.

Hearing the voice, Qiao Mingyi slanted a glance in its direction, then withdrew her gaze, too lazy to bother with him.

Brushed off, Yue Jiawei wasn't discouraged. Instead he leaned closer, frowning, his tone taking on genuine concern: "Come on, what's really going on? Tell your big brother. Whoever made you unhappy, I'll sort them out for you."

Only then did Qiao Mingyi give a lazy, derisive laugh. She leaned back, half-reclining into the soft sofa, her eyes seductive but her voice laced with cold mockery: "You? Stop bragging."

Yue Jiawei's feelings for Qiao Mingyi were known to practically everyone in their circle. Unfortunately, Miss Qiao had high standards and had never deigned to notice him.

Provoked like this by the woman he adored, Yue Jiawei couldn't quite save face, and his voice rose a few notches involuntarily: "Bragging about what? You're like a sister to me! Anyone who crosses you is crossing me, Yue Jiawei! Tell me—who is it?"

Qiao Mingyi looked at him coolly, fingers idly turning the empty glass. After a good while, her red lips parted slightly and spat out three words: "Mo Shaoshang."

The moment the words landed, even the noisy background sounds in the room seemed to still for an instant.

At first Yue Jiawei thought he'd misheard. His brow knotted tightly, and he pressed uncertainly, "Who did you say?"

"I said, the one who upset me is Mo Shaoshang," Qiao Mingyi enunciated word by word, with a venting viciousness. "Mo. Shao. Shang."

This time, Yue Jiawei heard clearly.

His expression froze for a few seconds, then darkened at visible speed, obvious wariness flashing through his eyes. He turned his head away, avoiding Qiao Mingyi's gaze, raised his own glass and gulped down a large mouthful, his Adam's apple bobbing. He said nothing more.

Seeing this, Qiao Mingyi laughed twice in an unreadable way. She straightened up, leaned toward Yue Jiawei, her breath fragrant as orchids, but her words were knives gouging at the heart: "What, scared the moment you hear Mo Shaoshang's name? Weren't you just swearing you'd get revenge for me? Yue Jiawei, forget it—you're not up to it."

Yue Jiawei was, after all, a man—young and hot-blooded. How could he swallow words like that? Especially from the woman he longed for day and night.

A rush of blood mixed with alcohol shot straight to his head. Neck stiff, he lowered his voice and asked, "Mo Shaoshang... how did Mo Shaoshang cross you?"

"Don't even mention it! Just talking about it makes me furious!" As she spoke, Qiao Mingyi sniffled, her eyes actually reddening faintly, her voice taking on a choke. "At today's Yunguzhai auction, Mo Shaoshang showed up too, and he brought some shady woman, said she was his girlfriend... I merely asked who the woman was, and he gave me attitude in front of everyone and walked off with her! So many people were watching—where does that leave my dignity? I'm so angry I could die!"

Having heard the whole story, Yue Jiawei fell silent.

He lit a cigarette and held it between his fingers. The scarlet ember flickered in the dim light, smoke curling, blurring his expression.

Watching Yue Jiawei's indecisive manner only stoked Qiao Mingyi's resentment.

She leaned in again, nearly pressing against his ear, and lowered her voice into a tone mixing seduction with goading: "I already had someone look into it. That woman is called Wen Yinong. She's no daughter of any great family at all—just the home tutor Mo Shaoshang hired for his autistic nephew. A special-ed teacher, that's all. Yue Jiawei, if you're a real man, help me vent this anger."

Yue Jiawei lifted his eyelids and looked at her through the smoke. "Vent it how?"

Qiao Mingyi narrowed her frost-covered eyes. Her red lips drew close, nearly touching Yue Jiawei's ear, and she whispered at a volume only the two of them could hear.

A moment later, Yue Jiawei's motion of flicking his ash paused. His face showed difficulty, and he hesitated: "Yiyi, it's not that I don't want to help you... but this girl is Mo Shaoshang's now. Doing this... it isn't right, is it? What if..."

"What if what?" Qiao Mingyi cut him off, her voice abruptly turning cold with contempt. "A special-ed teacher with a few decent looks, that's all. Do you really think Mo Shaoshang takes her seriously? He'll play around for a few days and get bored once the novelty wears off. Even if he finds out afterward, at worst he'll be angry—have your dad or my dad step in and apologize, and it's over, isn't it? Do our two families really not have even that much face?"

Seeing Yue Jiawei still wavering, Qiao Mingyi's thoughts turned, and she suddenly reached out and wrapped her arms around his, pressing her soft body against him. She tilted her face up, her tone instantly turning sweet and coaxing: "Jiawei-gege, you care about me the most. That woman made me suffer such a huge grievance—can you really bear to watch me get bullied? Just help me, teach her a lesson, let her learn that not just anyone can climb up to a high branch... please?"

Warm, fragrant softness at his side, the rare pleading whispers of his beloved in his ear, alcohol scorching through his veins.

Yue Jiawei looked at Qiao Mingyi's bright eyes so close before him—pitiful, plaintive, full of entreaty—and his last shred of reason and scruples gradually crumbled.

After a long moment, he took a heavy drag, ground the remaining cigarette viciously into the ashtray, tilted his head back and drained the dregs of his glass, then slammed it down on the table with a crack.

"Fine." As if steeling his resolve, Yue Jiawei turned to look at Qiao Mingyi, a ruthless glint passing through his eyes. "However you say to do it, that's how I'll do it."

*

Dawn broke, and the night receded like the tide.

The eastern sky was dyed in layered shades of tangerine-pink and golden red, like a carefully rendered watercolor. The magnificent morning light leapt across the river's surface, climbed the glass curtain walls of the high-rises, and finally poured gently through the enormous curved floor-to-ceiling window of the top floor of Jinfu Residence into the bedroom, driving away the last trace of darkness.

Wen Yinong had not slept well that night.

Her dreams were bizarre and kaleidoscopic, one after another, interweaving the kiss in the stormy night, the dazzling lights of the auction, and the man's profound, brooding blue-black eyes.

A little past eight in the morning, she woke in a daze.

As consciousness returned, her first sensation was the faint, dull ache from her knee.

The wound had already scabbed over with a thin, soft layer of dark red. The pain was no longer as sharp and unbearable as last night, but since the injury sat on a moving joint, the slightest motion still brought a distinct tug and discomfort.

After a few seconds, Wen Yinong propped herself up, rubbed her eyes, endured the discomfort in her knee and got out of bed, then limped into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face.

The warm water was refreshing.

Finished washing, Wen Yinong looked up.

The girl in the mirror had a clean, bare face, snow-white skin, and beneath her lively, limpid large eyes, two faint shadows of blue could be seen.

Wen Yinong sighed softly, casually tied her long hair back, then pulled open the bedroom door and, holding the wall, carefully made her way out.

After a night's sleep her throat was parched; she wanted to find some water.

The mansion was exceptionally quiet in the early morning. The rare plants in the entrance garden gave off a faint floral fragrance that drifted through the air.

Wen Yinong inched along the corridor like a tortoise, step by slow step. When she had finally, after untold effort, crossed the vast expanse of the mansion and reached the open dining area, her steps halted abruptly.

The morning light was perfect.

Before the huge floor-to-ceiling window, Mo Shaoshang sat at the head of the dining table, eating breakfast.

He wore a pure black suit, no tie, two buttons of his shirt collar undone, revealing the clear, sensual lines of his collarbones. Golden sunlight streamed in through the glass at his side, gilding his tall figure with a soft halo; fine golden motes danced mischievously, kissing his long lashes and cheeks.

Like a medieval nobleman stepped down from a mural.

At the sight, Wen Yinong's breath caught slightly.

In the blink of an eye, last night's chaotic, ambiguous memories came surging back all at once, bringing heat to her cheeks again.

Embarrassment, shyness, and an indescribable flutter tangled together. Purely on instinct, Wen Yinong turned to flee.

Chanting silently in her head: I'm air, I'm air, you don't see me, you don't see me...

But the moment she moved, a calm, unrippled voice came from that direction, cutting through the quiet air and landing in her ears—

"Good morning, Teacher Wen."

As if someone had pressed pause, Wen Yinong's steps halted abruptly and her whole body went rigid.

Two seconds later, she closed her eyes, drew a deep breath, steadied her heartbeat, composed her expression, curved her lips, mobilized her facial muscles to squeeze out the most natural smile she could manage—and only then slowly turned around.

"Good morning, Mr. Mo," she said through gritted resolve, beaming.

At the sound, Mo Shaoshang set down his knife, fork, and newspaper, and raised his eyes to her.

Noticing the girl's somewhat awkward stance, he frowned almost imperceptibly. "Does your leg hurt badly?"

"Ah, no. Not badly." Wen Yinong waved her hands hastily, embarrassed. "It's just on the joint, so walking is a little affected... it's fine."

At that, Mo Shaoshang said nothing more. He set down his cutlery, rose, and walked toward the open kitchen adjoining the dining room.

The counter was clean and tidy. A white porcelain soup bowl rested quietly in the warming cabinet, steam curling from its rim.

Mo Shaoshang took the bowl out and set it on the dining table.

Instantly, a fresh, rich aroma spread through the air, enough to stir anyone's appetite.

Wen Yinong's stomach had been empty all night. Smelling that fragrance, her cravings surged.

She craned her neck for a look.

In the bowl was a clear broth, a few plump, pink fresh shrimp, verdant greens, and a soft-centered egg fried to perfection.

The noodles beneath were distinct strand by strand, soaked in the savory broth—they looked delicious.

She couldn't help poking a finger at the air and asking softly, curiously, "This is...?"

"Breakfast. Prepared for you." Mo Shaoshang's expression was as usual, his tone flat. "Fresh shrimp noodles. I made them."

Wen Yinong: ...0.0

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Author's note: Momo: cooking noodles for wifey

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100 random red packets