For Mo Yiran, it was impossible to swallow the humiliation. He burned with rage and shame. His lips parted, but no words came. He was a man silenced not by volume, but by the sheer force of control Ruyan wielded like a sword.
From the moment he met Xia Ruyan, he had found her dreamily beautiful, like something out of a painting. But her arrogance had left a bitter aftertaste. If not for Ye Yutong, he might have admired her. Perhaps even fallen for her. But she was married to his brother.
However, Ye Yutong had always been his first love, his childhood friend, his constant. So, what if she didn't return his feelings? So, what if she wished to marry Mo Yichen instead? He could be noble; he could sacrifice his heart for her happiness and his brother's.
He had always believed his brother had feelings for Yutong, too. Why else would Mo Yichen tolerate her whims? He was cold, strategic, and unyielding, yet the only woman he had ever allowed close was Yutong. Even now, when it was obvious Yutong was scheming against Xia Ruyan, he still turned a blind eye.
For a brief moment, Mo Yiran felt a flicker of guilt. Maybe he had judged Xia Ruyan too harshly. But if pitying Xia Ruyan meant hurting Yutong, then he would rather be the villain. He could be cruel if it meant indulging the only woman he ever loved.
Fueled by wounded pride and blind devotion, Mo Yiran stepped forward, ready to teach Ruyan a lesson. The slap she had given him earlier wasn't just physical, it had bruised his ego, shattered his pride.
But before he could reach her, Mo Yichen stepped between them. Mo Yichen, who had remained silent throughout, felt something shift within him. A strange mix of pride and unease. He had seen powerful women before, but Xia Ruyan was something else entirely. She didn't just exist in the Mo family. She dominated the space, even when unwelcome. Even when unloved.
"Brother, move aside. I will teach this...."
His words froze on his tongue. In one swift motion, Mo Yichen grabbed his collar and pulled him forward until their faces were inches apart. The veins on Yichen's neck were bulging, his voice low and seething.
"She is my wife." The meaning was unmistakable: You will respect her.
Then, with one sharp shove, Mo Yichen pushed Mo Yiran back, sending him stumbling. Without even glancing at him again, he turned to Butler Yang.
"Take Second Master back to his room. He needs rest to calm down." It was an unquestionable order.
The room was tense, silent save for the heavy breaths and rustling of fabric. Grandfather Mo cleared his throat, the only one in the room not stunned into silence. "From today onward, let it be known that anyone who dares insult Xia Ruyan will deal with me."
He looked at Madam Mo pointedly, then at Yutong, who shrank into herself. Then Grandfather Mo turned to Xia Ruyan, his tone gentle, conciliatory.
"Child, give Grandfather some face, alright? Forgive them this once. I promise you, there won't be a next time."
But Xia Ruyan stood with an unreadable expression, no anger, no sadness, no fear. Not a single crease marred her calm face. She looked like a marble statue, quiet and poised.
Yet behind her, Marie looked anything but calm. Her eyes were narrowed; her jaw was tight. One hand was buried in her pocket, her fingers wrapped around something hidden. She looked ready, ready to act if her boss was in any danger.
And from the tension in the air, danger was never far. Xia Ruyan slowly turned her eyes toward Grandfather Mo.
Forgive?
A strange calm settled in her chest, not peace, but the kind of stillness that comes after a storm, a fragile silence before another eruption. She looks toward the old man who once welcomed her with kind eyes and grandfatherly warmth.
"I'll forgive him," she said quietly, her eyes pointing to Mo Yiran, who was still waiting for the verdict before going to his room as ordered. Everyone looked up, some in relief, others in surprise.
"But not because he deserves it." Her tone was clipped and precise. "I forgive him because I respect you."
Mo Yiran flinched as if slapped again, but this time, there was no raised hand, only the weight of her words crashing over him.
"I don't need to teach him a lesson. Life has already done that," she continued. "He's grown up surrounded by everything but nothing that could teach him honor."
It was an insult not only to Mo Yiran but also to the Mo family's upbringing. Madam Mo shivered with rage but could not bring herself to say anything. After all, Elder Mo was still there.... Who also looked down in contemplation.
Marie stepped beside her then, slowly removing her hand from her pocket, a subtle sign to Ruyan that she was on standby. Ruyan gave the briefest of nods, acknowledging her without words.
"I'm tired of this circus," Grandfather Mo said. "If the Ye family has any self-respect left, they'll stop sending their women here like merchandise. And if anyone in this house wants to test my patience again, try it."
With that, he turned and walked away, his cane tapping angrily against the marble floor.
Ye Yutong stared at the floor, trembling. Mo Yiran still hadn't moved. Zhang Lili had already fled. Madam Mo… couldn't speak.
Mo Yichen looked at his wife. Her voice had been calm, but he knew her well enough by now. She wasn't calm, she was resolute.
And this version of her, the one that didn't need saving or protection, was far more dangerous than the one Mo Yiran thought he could intimidate.
"Miss Xia, I just wanted..." Ye Yutong started her drama once again, her tone soft and calculated, as if playing the victim would somehow erase the truth. But she was abruptly cut off.
"Clean this mess," Ruyan said with her expression as serene as it had been at the chessboard, not looking at anyone in particular.
"Yes, Ma'am," Marie said, stepping in with perfect timing. Xia Ruyan didn't spare Ye Yutong a glance. She accepted Marie's cue with quiet elegance and turned to leave, giving no face to the first lady of the Ye family.
She could excuse Mo Yiran for the sake of Master Mo, but she had never said she would forgive the other two culprits. Her silence was not surrender, nor was it forgetfulness.
Long ago, she had stopped forgiving.
With unshakable grace, she left the room, her every step unhurried and regal. She made the rest of them stand frozen in place, their eyes following her with a mix of awe and hatred.
But she didn't care.
And she would never care.
Finally, Mo Yize, who was shooting the whole scene and enjoying the tea, let out a low whistle.
"Damn," he muttered. "I think I just fell in love."