Mo Zhicheng belonged to Ye Linglan, and Ye Linglan belonged to Mo Zhicheng.

Upon hearing this, Jiang Min, furious, clenched her fists and blurted out, "Even so, Ye Linglan, what proof do you have that it was me?"

—

"Proof? Jiang Min, do you want me to tear off all pretenses and lay out the evidence one by one before you'll admit it? Fine. That day, the supplier called Xiao Zhou to inform her that the hyacinths were out of stock. You saw an opening and took action. You asked Xiao Zhou for the supplier's number, contacted them privately, and planned to accept the pink roses yourself. What you didn't expect was that the supplier sent the roses early to the front desk at Night City, and when the receptionist inquired about the delivery, your name was revealed. In other words, you signed for the pink roses. Then you contacted another florist and ordered the same quantity of daffodils."

Jiang Min stared at Ye Linglan, her eyes wide with sudden fear, her panic thinly veiled.

Ye Linglan continued, "After the withered flowers were removed, I left the banquet hall. When you found out I had gone to the storage room to look for evidence, you locked me inside."

"Ye Linglan, when did I ever lock you in the storage room?"

Ye Linglan sighed softly. "Jiang Min, you’ve always treated me as your imaginary rival. I've never wanted to compete with you. In fact, all the trouble you stir up in private—I stay silent. That doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed. I'm telling you these things in private out of consideration for our time as colleagues—this is the first and last warning I’ll give you. As for what happened at the birthday banquet, if accountability is needed, I’ll speak to the supervisor myself. I’m giving you a chance, but if you cause trouble again, I won’t let it go."

She watched Jiang Min, who was trembling with anger, her entire expression taut, knuckles pale as she squeezed her fists. Ye Linglan looked on calmly. "Jiang Min, take care of yourself." She spoke softly, striking the last, fragile chord in the woman. As Ye Linglan turned to leave, she was caught off guard—Jiang Min suddenly grabbed her wrist. Turning back, Ye Linglan saw her hand raised, and the next instant, a stinging slap landed on her cheek.

A crisp crack split the air, rocking her to the core.

"Ye Linglan, you have no right to lecture me!"

In the next moment, a burning pain spread across her right cheek. Before she could recover, Ye Linglan raised her head, her self-restraint finally breaking. She stepped forward and slapped Jiang Min in return, her right hand trembling from the force.

The sharp sound reverberated through the entire break room. Jiang Min stared in disbelief, her head knocked to the side, her slender hand covering her stinging cheek. She gazed, speechless, at the woman before her—this seemingly delicate woman possessed such startling strength.

Her once-beautiful face was now twisted and contorted by anger and envy. She forgot all pretense of gentleness and decorum, clutching Ye Linglan’s blouse at the chest, shoving her hard against the floor-to-ceiling window. "Ye Linglan, why does everyone look at you? Why? Why—"

She roared, her pale, slender fingers becoming vicious claws, digging into Ye Linglan’s neck. Her reddened eyes blazed with fury. "Yes, I admit it—I envy you. Entering Tiancheng was my dream. I sacrificed so much for it."

She was burning with envy, its fire consuming her. She constantly picked fights and tried to trip Ye Linglan up, hoping she would give up and retreat, but the deeper her jealousy, the stronger Ye Linglan became, as if she had never even regarded Jiang Min as a threat.

"Cough—cough—"

Ye Linglan’s body slammed against the heavy glass. Thirty stories below, the city traffic streamed. She, like a butterfly with broken wings, was pinned to the cold windowpane. For a fleeting moment, she thought she might fall, smashing to pieces without a second thought.

Through half-closed eyes, she watched the twisted face before her as the woman nearly cut off her breath. "Cough—cough—" Linglan’s face flushed, on the edge of suffocation. At the critical moment, there was a loud crash—the woman stumbled into the water dispenser. Before Ye Linglan could react, a powerful arm yanked her back, pulling her into a strong embrace. A man's voice rang out, full of anger: "How dare you lay a hand on my woman?"

At the sound, Jiang Min froze in shock. "President Mo—" she gasped, climbing to her feet, pain etched on her face, unable to believe what she saw.

His woman?!

"President Mo, I didn't—I didn't mean to," Jiang Min stammered, desperate.

Linglan was dazed, her body weak as she collapsed into his arms. She didn’t know what he said afterward; all she knew was that his chest was warm, carrying a faint scent of musk that lingered at her nose. She closed her eyes, a trace of warmth misting her vision.

She couldn't make out what he said next—only that there was noise outside the door, Jiang Min explaining something, others murmuring. But the moment he spoke, the room fell silent. Mo Zhicheng gently picked her up in his arms and, in front of everyone, carried her out. She didn’t resist, letting him bring her into his office.

Mo Zhicheng closed the door with his foot and quietly turned the lock. Only then did Ye Linglan realize there was a private lounge inside his office.

He carefully set her down on the edge of the Simmons bed, but as soon as Linglan saw the bed, a wave of fear washed over her. She stiffened and edged backward until her back thudded against the carved walnut headboard, pain shooting up her spine. Her brows knitted, she turned her face away, lowering her eyes, avoiding his intense gaze.

Seeing this, the man made no further move.

A moment later, she felt the bed dip slightly—Mo Zhicheng had sat down not far from her. He gazed at her in silence for a long time, the familiar quiet between them spreading like ink in water. He gave a bitter smile—so this was their way of being together. How to speak, how to express it?

He reached out, gently raising her chin so she had to face him. He saw the faint glimmer in her eyes, a thin mist of tears, sorrow so deep it seemed impossible to dispel.

He knitted his brows, brushing his hand over her flushed cheek, where the mark of five fingers was still visible. "Does it hurt?" he asked in a low, restrained voice. She was like a startled bird, and he feared scaring her further, making her flee.

Linglan’s gaze slowly met his. She saw the tension in his handsome brow, the coldness in his eyes fading, replaced by a trace of tenderness.

Their eyes met, and the autumn waters in her eyes shimmered. He lowered his head, pausing. "Wait here for me."

He retrieved cotton swabs and antiseptic from the medicine cabinet. Linglan glanced at his back in surprise. In no time, the scent of medicine drifted through the air.

When he returned, carrying a tray of supplies, Linglan was momentarily stunned. A man’s office, prepared with every medical necessity—what did it mean? Was he just cautious, or was there another reason?

Her brows drew tighter. Tang Pei’s words echoed in her mind: Don’t be fooled by President Mo’s glamorous exterior. To outsiders, he’s a wealthy, elegant gentleman, but what he truly wants—what others think is the simplest happiness—has always been a luxury for him.

Lost in thought, she barely noticed Mo Zhicheng had returned and now sat even closer. He lowered his head, carefully preparing the medicine. Gently lifting her chin, he examined her and spoke softly, "Don’t move, there’s a cut at the corner of your mouth."

Ye Linglan said nothing. Since entering the room, she hadn’t spoken a word to him.

Mo Zhicheng’s gaze fell on her delicate lips. Dipping a cotton swab in the purplish medicine, he dabbed it softly at her wounds, his eyes dimmed with sorrow. Ye Linglan was dazed. Sometimes, she thought that beautiful sights only held meaning when shared beside the one you love.

Yet all those moments she’d thought of as beautiful—her kisses, her body, the comfort she needed when hurt—were all tied to this man. The realization pressed on her throat, bitter and helpless.

Except for that heart of hers—the heart that still cherished Ye Shenghan, sealed away.

Did she hate him? Sometimes, even hatred felt feeble and powerless before him.

Mo Zhicheng looked up and saw the tears welling in her eyes. He brushed away the trace of wetness with his fingers, the gesture so gentle as he said, "Linglan, look at me, really look at me!"

Linglan stared at him, seeing only the resolve in his eyes.

He felt her tremble slightly between his fingers. Drawing closer, he wrapped his strong arms gently around her shoulders, his breath mingling with her ink-dark hair. The man closed his eyes, breathing in her scent, his words unyielding as stone: "Remember, from this moment on, Mo Zhicheng is Ye Linglan’s man!"

Linglan was dazed as he continued, his voice cruel in its certainty: "Ye Linglan is Mo Zhicheng’s woman! I will not allow anyone to bully you, hurt you, or insult you!"

She lay motionless in his arms, listening. His woman? She was his woman?

She closed her eyes. As she regained her composure, she resolutely pushed him away, turning aside. From her bag, she took out a brocade box, opening it to reveal a red gemstone as vivid as a drop of blood. She handed it to him. "President Mo, I’m returning this to you."

She drew a deep breath, head bowed, the elegant curve of her neck exposed, sunlight gilding her in a gentle halo. In her quietness, she was so gentle and graceful. After regaining her composure, she said, "Let’s consider that night a drunken mistake. I’m trying to forget it—please, President Mo, you should forget it too. If you feel you owe me anything, please just grant me three more days off. I need time to recover."

Mo Zhicheng lowered his eyes, watching her quietly. It felt as if something heavy pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe. Her hand, holding the box, hung suspended in midair, but he made no move to take it. Ye Linglan looked up, puzzled.

"A drunken mistake?" Mo Zhicheng murmured. "Ye Linglan, I never saw it that way. I’m not a man who indulges in casual lust; I have no need to take a woman I don’t care about, just to satisfy some impulse. I desire you, yes, but more than that, I have feelings for you. I never pursued you because I didn’t know how deep those feelings might go—deep enough to make me lose control, to want to possess you completely.

"I’m a man who values reason above all. I’ve always known what I want, and I’ve met countless women—heiresses, beauties of every kind—and always kept a safe distance. That’s why I’ve always been cautious with you, neither too close nor too far.

"But later, I realized something had changed, somehow, somewhere. I wanted to see you. I found myself adjusting the pleated blinds to just the right spot so that, whenever I looked up, I could see you without you noticing. When you read documents, you chew on your pen, lost in thought. When you browse the web, you prop your chin on your hand, eyes bright with focus. Your water glass is always on your left, set a bit away from your computer. You never drink coffee, only plain water…"