Chapter 40: A Pathological Possessiveness

Hearing Mo Shaoshang's words, Wen Yinong's ears instantly burned, and her whole body grew hot along with them.

Her face flushed crimson, she opened her eyes wide and lowered her voice, the words practically bursting out of her: "Mr. Mo, I have serious business to discuss with you. It's about Airi."

Mo Shaoshang stared straight at her, his expression betraying nothing unusual, and answered her with a mild counter-question: "What's wrong with any of those places?"

Wen Yinong gently bit her lip.

His study, his bedroom, the underground wine cellar.

Every place Mo Shaoshang had mentioned was steeped in romantic ambiguity, each one marked by the traces of his willful indulgence with her.

Certain images scrambled into her mind one after another.

Every time they'd been alone in the study, the burning look in his eyes as he fastened a necklace around her in the bedroom, the uncontrolled frenzy of that stormy night in the wine cellar...

So much so that she simply couldn't tell whether this man was genuinely offering options for their meeting place, or merely seizing another excuse with designs on her.

Countless memories too shameful to speak of surged up. Wen Yinong's heart tightened, and her face grew hotter still.

But at this juncture, nothing mattered more than Airi's rehabilitation progress.

She was a professional special-education teacher, with both the duty and the ability to shut out all outside distractions.

Turning this over in her mind, she inhaled and exhaled, taking a quiet deep breath to steady herself. Before long, she cleared her throat and spoke again, keeping her tone as casual as possible: "Then let's use the study."

With that, Wen Yinong paused: "What time works for you?"

"Ten o'clock."

At that, Wen Yinong blinked and asked without thinking, "Ten tomorrow morning?"

"Tonight."

Ten tonight?

She was briefly stunned, and a crack split the composure she had forced onto her pale face — ten o'clock at night? Wasn't that too late?

She deliberated for two seconds and couldn't help saying, "Mr. Mo, that hour is a bit late. I'm worried it will disturb your rest. Why don't we find time during the day tomorrow to talk in detail?"

"No time tomorrow."

Wen Yinong refused to give up. "Then how about a bit earlier? Eight-thirty... if that really won't work, nine is fine too. I'll be as quick as I can, and try not to take up too much of your time."

"From eight-thirty to nine-fifty, I have a video conference." Mo Shaoshang looked down at her, his tone as even as ever. He paused briefly, then lifted a brow in a careless arc. "Forgive my impertinence. But Teacher Wen, hesitating and agonizing like this — what exactly are you afraid of?"

Wen Yinong: "..."

Asking what he already knew.

How could this man be so wicked?

The question left her with no answer. She stammered for a good while, and in the end could only stiffen her spine and nod, reluctantly agreeing to the arrangement: "Fine. Then I'll see you in the study at ten tonight."

As her words fell, Mo Shaoshang curved his lips ever so slightly: "Good."

*

Night deepened, and the Mo estate was shrouded in a tranquil dark blue. The fountain had long since stopped running; its surface was like a mirror, reflecting the warm yellow lamplight of the main residence. Wind brushed through the neatly trimmed shrubs with a faint murmur, like the low whisper of a beast.

At ten o'clock sharp, Wen Yinong arrived at the study door.

Her cheeks were somewhat warm, her heartbeat somewhat quick, and both palms were damp, beaded with sweat without her knowing when.

Clutching her folder, she steadied herself, then raised her hand to knock.

Who would have thought — the moment her knuckles touched the solid wood, before she could even strike it, the door opened on its own. As if it had been waiting for her all along.

Through the crack seeped a thread of light — dim, ambiguous, far from bright.

Wen Yinong lowered her arm, pushed the door open, and walked in.

The study was the same as always. The air carried the cold scent of book pages mixed with fragrance. Books stood in orderly rows on the shelves. The whole space was icy, hard, devoid of any living warmth — like an exquisitely arranged showroom in which no one actually lived.

A faint rustling reached her ears.

Almost instantly, Wen Yinong remembered that albino banded krait, and every hair on her body stood on end.

She turned to look at the left side of the study.

That entire area was swallowed by thick darkness; when the lamplight reached it, it was devoured inch by inch, like a never-satiated giant mouth quietly awaiting its prey to walk into the trap.

Wen Yinong clearly remembered that over there stood a temperature-controlled glass case, and inside it lived an albino krait named Silvio.

She instinctively shifted toward the right side of the study, putting as much distance as she could between herself and that darkness.

The room was utterly silent.

Apart from the rustle of Silvio slithering against the glass, the study was dead quiet.

Wen Yinong turned her head suspiciously, glancing all around, but saw no second person besides herself.

Strange...

Where was Mo Shaoshang? Hadn't they agreed to meet in the study at ten? Had he forgotten?

As she pondered, Wen Yinong fished her phone out of her pocket, intending to send her employer a text of inquiry.

Just then, a voice came from behind her without warning. Cold, low, like a snake's tongue grazing her delicate ear.

"Teacher Wen is very punctual."

Caught completely off guard, Wen Yinong jumped in fright. Her fingers slipped; the phone dropped from her grasp with a soft thud onto the carpet.

She spun around.

Mo Shaoshang had appeared behind her at some point.

He stepped slowly out of the darkness, like a spirit condensed from the night itself, or a great beast that had lain dormant in the abyss finally unfurling its form. His suit jacket was nowhere to be seen; he wore only a pure white dress shirt under a black vest, tracing the smooth, sharp line of his shoulders. His long legs were sheathed in black trousers, straight and lean, the hems brushing the carpet as he walked, soundless.

On his high-bridged nose, those gold-rimmed glasses reflected a cold glint in the murky light, making his blue-black eyes seem all the deeper and more unfathomable.

And the most spellbinding detail was the white gloves on the man's hands.

His long fingers were completely sheathed in pure white, fitted to perfection. Those hands hung at his sides, knuckles slightly bent — they were doing nothing at all, yet they inexplicably evoked operating tables, specimen cabinets, and certain mysterious, ancient rites.

Abstinent, elegant, dangerous.

Wen Yinong's thoughts were captured by the overwhelming visual impact before her, her mind drifting into a daze.

Over there,

Mo Shaoshang watched her with blue-black eyes. His long fingers moved, casually hooking the edge of a glove, and slowly pulled it off. In the blink of an eye, a hand was freed inch by inch from the white, revealing a knuckled, vein-lined hand beneath. The motion was unhurried, yet carried a gentleman's refined air.

He tossed the removed glove into the trash bin beside him.

Only then did Wen Yinong snap back to herself.

"...Good evening, Mr. Mo," she stammered in greeting.

Whether from the sudden fright or some other reason, Wen Yinong's heart was racing. After another couple of seconds to recover, she asked curiously, "Were you in the study the whole time just now?"

"Mm," Mo Shaoshang answered evenly.

"My apologies. I didn't see you earlier, so I didn't greet you," Wen Yinong said, ever sensible. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted her phone on the carpet and quickly bent to pick it up.

Straightening up, she found that Mo Shaoshang had, at some point, walked right up to her.

Less than half a meter away.

So close that she could smell the crisp cedar scent on him, could see every thick lash behind his lenses.

Mo Shaoshang's face was calm, his lashes lowered, gazing back at her. In his blue-black eyes was reflected a lovely little face.

The young girl's bright dark pupils were misty as they met his; her cheeks were flushed, her lips a tender pink.

Pure and flawless as white jade.

Like a lily of the valley that had stumbled by accident into a world of darkness.

Behind his lenses, Mo Shaoshang's gaze drifted slowly, and finally settled on her soft pink lips.

His focus verged on obsession, as if he meant to brand a mark into her lips with his eyes.

Bathed in that gaze, Wen Yinong felt uncomfortable all over. After a moment, she pressed her lips together and ventured tentatively, "Mr. Mo?"

"Just now I was feeding Silvio," Mo Shaoshang said evenly, his gaze finally leaving her lips and returning to its usual calm. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

At those words, Silvio's sinister vertical pupils involuntarily surfaced in Wen Yinong's mind, along with the image of it coiled around the man's arm, flicking its tongue — and her flesh crawled.

Forgive her, but she truly had no interest in learning more details. She could only steady herself, swiftly collect her thoughts and composure, and cut to the point.

"Mr. Mo," she said, as composedly as she could manage, "I came tonight to discuss adding social-skills classes for Airi."

Mo Shaoshang looked at her for two seconds, then turned and made a "please" gesture.

The two walked side by side over to the reception area.

Wen Yinong sat in the single-seater sofa, while Mo Shaoshang settled onto the long sofa opposite her, long legs crossed, posture leisurely and relaxed, his gaze fixed straight and unwavering on her.

Wen Yinong opened her folder and drew a deep breath.

"Mr. Mo, for children on the autism spectrum, social intervention is no less important than language and behavioral intervention." She raised her eyes, her expression earnest, her tone steady and assured. "Airi's condition has improved noticeably. He can engage in simple interactions with me and understand some basic social rules. But my companionship alone isn't enough. He needs contact with more children his age. He needs to practice, to make mistakes, to learn in real social settings."

She flipped out several sheets from the folder and handed them to him.

"This is the preliminary social-skills curriculum I've drafted. Two to three sessions a week, one hour each. The content includes turn-taking games, emotion recognition, simple scenario simulations, and so on. I'll adjust the difficulty based on Airi's real-time responses, making sure he breaks through bit by bit at the edge of his comfort zone."

Mo Shaoshang took the pages and looked down through them, his expression unreadable.

Wen Yinong continued, "Classes like these can bring multiple rehabilitative benefits for Airi. First, increased visual and auditory stimulation, promoting development in the relevant regions of the brain. Second, experiencing social interaction in a safe, controlled environment, reducing his defensiveness and anxiety toward strangers. Third, through observing other children's behavior, imitating and learning, gradually building his own social schemas."

At this point, Wen Yinong paused and looked at him.

"So I believe adding social-skills classes for Airi is very necessary."

A moment later, Mo Shaoshang lifted his gaze to her again.

"Does Teacher Wen have a concrete plan?"

Meeting those eyes, Wen Yinong's heartbeat skipped, but she kept her face composed and went on, "My plan is to take Airi out of the Mo estate to the Starbridge Children's Rehabilitation Center for the social-skills training. The environment there is designed specifically for children with special needs — professional sensory-integration rooms, play areas, and other children currently undergoing intervention. A new environment, new people, new sounds and light — all of these can give Airi richer sensory stimulation and help his brain develop."

Here Wen Yinong paused for a few seconds, then added, "Of course, if you're truly uneasy, you can accompany Airi for the first few sessions. I'll contact the principal to work out a schedule as soon as possible, and send it to you in advance for your review so you can arrange your time."

Mo Shaoshang gave a slight nod, his tone mild: "Teacher Wen is very thoughtful."

Wen Yinong forced out a smile with all her might: "It's all part of my job. It's what I should do."

When her words fell, silence settled over the study.

The faint rustle of Silvio's slithering drifted over, like some soundless timer.

After a moment, Wen Yinong took the initiative to rise from the sofa and said to Mo Shaoshang, "Mr. Mo, I've said everything I came to say. It's late now, so I won't disturb your rest any longer. Goodbye."

With that, she turned to leave.

"Teacher Wen."

The man's voice came from behind her.

Wen Yinong's steps halted abruptly, her whole body going faintly rigid.

An ominous premonition rose in her heart.

Amid utter silence, she slowly turned her head.

In the murky light, Mo Shaoshang still sat on the sofa, his posture unchanged — yet in those blue-black eyes something seemed suppressed, restrained, like an undercurrent surging beneath a deep sea, or a beast pacing slowly inside an iron cage.

Beneath the calm surface churned desire on the very verge of breaking through.

Wen Yinong's breath caught.

"That request I made of you," he watched her, his voice low and slow, "have you decided?"

Wen Yinong bit her lip ever so lightly and made no sound.

Mo Shaoshang saw her hesitation. He neither reacted nor pressed.

Wen Yinong lowered her eyes.

Ever since that time in the underground wine cellar, when this man had asked to date her, he had asked several times since. Each time she had fobbed him off with "I haven't thought it through yet."

As the saying goes, things shouldn't happen thrice — the same excuse couldn't be used as a shield every single time.

She deliberated, hesitated again and again, and finally opened her mouth, mumbling, "Does my agreement or refusal really make any difference to you, Mr. Mo?"

Which time had he not simply hugged and kissed her as he pleased?

"It does."

A one-word answer, delivered with extreme speed — so fast it seemed to have bypassed thought entirely.

Wen Yinong's lashes trembled, then lifted a few degrees as she looked at him.

Mo Shaoshang rose to his feet and took one step toward her, then two.

The distance compressed.

His figure all but enveloped her.

"Wen Yinong."

He called her full name, his voice low, slow, and clear, as if making some solemn declaration. "To be perfectly honest, I can't wait any longer. I want a title — one given by you."

Wen Yinong froze.

Her heartbeat felt seized and released, then flung up into some distant night sky.

The feeling was truly complicated. Panic, embarrassment, and a faint, indescribable, secret flutter — like a tender sprout breaking through spring soil, slender yet persistent, impossible to ignore.

Wen Yinong didn't dare look at him anymore. She lowered her eyes, lashes fluttering.

After a long while,

she finally closed her eyes briefly, let out a breath, and said, "Tomorrow night."

Mo Shaoshang arched a brow slightly.

"Tomorrow night, before twelve," Wen Yinong raised her eyes to meet his gaze, "I'll give you my answer."

*

Leaving the study, Wen Yinong returned to her own bedroom.

Outside the window, the night had deepened. The moonlight was hidden behind clouds, and the estate sank into a profound dark blue. Only a few streetlamps in the distance still glowed, their halos dim yellow, like a drowning person's final breaths.

She showered, lay back in bed, and stared at the ceiling in a daze for a while.

Scenes from mere minutes ago spun through her mind like a revolving lantern — along with that line, "I want a title given by you"...

Wen Yinong raised her hand and covered her burning cheeks.

Stop.

Don't think about it!

Wen Yinong steadied herself, fished her phone from the nightstand, and prepared to play a few rounds of chess to calm down.

Unexpectedly, the moment she entered the game interface, her ringtone started jingling.

Wen Yinong glanced at the caller ID: Shen Yulan.

Her eyes flickered. Then she cleared her throat, picked up, and called out in a light tone, "Hello, Mom."

"Sweetheart, are you asleep yet?" Her mother's voice came through with its familiar affection.

"Not yet. I just showered and lay down." Wen Yinong rolled over and propped her pillow higher. "Mom, why are you calling me all of a sudden?"

Shen Yulan laughed and teased, "You silly girl. You're my own daughter — do I need a reason to call you? Can't it be that I simply missed you?"

Wen Yinong couldn't help laughing too. "Of course you don't need a reason. Mom, I miss you too."

Mother and daughter chatted idly about family matters for a while.

Shen Yulan mentioned that the daughter of Auntie Zhang downstairs had just had her second baby, then complained that pork rib prices at the market had risen absurdly lately. Wen Yinong listened, responding here and there, the corners of her mouth curving up without her noticing.

The long-missed warmth of everyday life, ordinary and comforting, finally let her nerves — taut all evening — gradually relax.

But just then, to Wen Yinong's surprise, her mother Shen Yulan abruptly changed the subject and blurted out of nowhere, "Oh, right, Nongnong — how have things been going with Dr. Pei lately?"

Wen Yinong froze, utterly bewildered. "What do you mean, how are things going with Dr. Pei?"

"Didn't I send you Dr. Pei's WeChat before?" There was a note of scrutiny in Shen Yulan's tone. "You've added each other all this time and haven't chatted at all?"

At those words, Wen Yinong smacked her forehead, belatedly remembering — a while back her mother had pushed Pei Xizhou's WeChat contact to her and told her to add him as a friend.

And her?

She'd agreed readily enough at the time, then promptly forgot it to the ends of the earth.

Mulling it over, Wen Yinong coughed dryly a few times and hedged, "Dr. Pei is terribly busy. Where would he find the free time to chat with me?"

No one knows a daughter like her mother. Shen Yulan keenly sensed something off, and her voice sank: "Did you simply never add him?"

Wen Yinong didn't dare deceive her mother, and could only answer with an awkward yet polite silence.

"Wen. Yi. Nong." Shen Yulan intoned the three-character curse, one syllable at a time.

Wen Yinong guiltily shrank her neck. "...But Mom, is it really necessary for me to add Dr. Pei on WeChat? Didn't Grandpa already get discharged?"

"Of course it's necessary."

There was a hint of displeasure in Shen Yulan's voice. "For Grandpa's follow-up daily care, won't you need to ask Dr. Pei about things? And scheduling his check-ups later on. Adding Dr. Pei as a friend can only benefit you — there's no downside." She paused, then couldn't help scolding her precious daughter. "You agreed to something and then didn't do it. Isn't that just treating your mother's words as wind past your ears?"

Better to avoid extra trouble — Wen Yinong didn't want to upset Her Ladyship, so she hurriedly said, "Mom, I really did forget. I wasn't deliberately ignoring your words. I promise you, the moment we hang up I'll add Dr. Pei. Okay?"

"Don't wait until we hang up." Shen Yulan was resolute. "Add him right now, so you don't forget again."

Wen Yinong couldn't win against Shen Yulan. With no choice, she dug through her chat history for the contact card her mother had sent.

The profile picture showed a young man in a white doctor's coat, standing amid tree shadows and sunlight, smiling — refined and gentle, with clear, handsome features.

She tapped "Add Friend" and earnestly wrote in the note: Granddaughter of the elderly Shen Ruiqing.

Having done all this, Wen Yinong dutifully reported to Shen Yulan, "The friend request has been sent."

Only then was Shen Yulan satisfied. She laughed, her voice returning to its usual kindness. "That's more like it."

At this point she paused a beat, then added meaningfully, "Nongnong, Dr. Pei is good-looking with a good career. You young people really should make more friends with such promising young talents."

Wen Yinong heard the implication in her words and answered with amusement, "Yes, yes, yes, everything you say is right."

After a bit more small talk, mother and daughter hung up.

Wen Yinong stared at the "Friend request sent" notification on her screen, shook her head, set the phone aside, and closed her eyes.

*

Eleven o'clock at night.

Deep in the underground wine cellar of the Mo estate — the studio.

A single lamp burned, its light pale and cold, slicing the vast space into two clean halves of light and dark. Beyond the light stretched boundless darkness, like a tide that might surge in at any moment and swallow everything whole.

Mo Shaoshang stood before the easel, still wearing that spotless white shirt. His sleeves were casually rolled up, exposing lean, powerful forearms. A few smears of still-wet paint clung to his fingers, glinting faintly in the ghastly white light.

The young girl on the canvas was gazing at him.

Those eyes were wet, brimming with tears, the rims flushed red. Below, her tender pink lips were parted slightly, as if about to say something, or as if nothing could come out at all.

The flushed cheeks, the disheveled strands of hair, that fragile, wanton loveliness — this was the Wen Yinong of his memory.

And the Wen Yinong who existed only beneath his brush.

Mo Shaoshang stared at those tearful eyes for a long time, then slowly raised his hand.

His fingertip touched the canvas, tracing gently along the contour of her cheek. The motion was soft, tender, daring no force at all — as if caressing a flower that might wither at any moment, touching a piece of jade porcelain that might shatter at any instant.

Waiting was the cruelest torment.

How much longer must he wait?

Before these wet eyes would truly take him in. And from then on... see only him.

Suddenly, amid the eerie stillness, a crisp "ding" rang out.

The phone.

Mo Shaoshang's movement paused. Two seconds later, he withdrew his hand, picked up a wet wipe nearby, and unhurriedly cleaned the paint from his fingertips — one finger at a time, meticulous and elegant.

Only then did he pick up the phone and light the screen.

An unread WeChat notification entered Mo Shaoshang's view.

The sender's profile picture was a young man in white medical scrubs — clear-browed, handsome, every inch the gentleman.

Pei Xizhou: Teacher Wen, I'm very glad to receive your friend request.

Mo Shaoshang's pupils contracted slightly.

His gaze fixed on that line of text, motionless.

A moment later,

another message came.

Pei Xizhou: Sent that to the wrong person. Sorry.

Immediately after, the first message was recalled right before Mo Shaoshang's eyes, vanishing completely.

The studio was dead silent.

Mo Shaoshang's lashes lowered as he stared at the now-empty chat window.

The light cast two small pale reflections on his lenses, concealing every emotion in his eyes.

After a long while,

his finger moved, tapping into the other man's profile picture.

In the photo, the young man in the white coat stood in the sunlight, his smile gentle and refined, his features clear, his whole being radiating the aura of the normal world — warm and harmless.

Mo Shaoshang stared at that face and narrowed his eyes.

Then,

expressionless, he moved his finger.

Delete friend.

The screen flashed, and the offending profile picture disappeared completely.

Mo Shaoshang set the phone aside carelessly and turned back to the easel.

He picked up his brush and dipped it in paint.

On the canvas, those tearful eyes still gazed at him.

The corner of his mouth hooked into a faint, sinister arc, and in his eyes dark tides surged, converging into a pathological deep sea.

-----------------------

Author's note: Momo: Fine, fine, fine — you're really set on making me lose it, huh?

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Random 100 red packets~