Along with the photo, Morrison added a couple of lines:
"Your underwear's too conservative.
Next time, I'll take you shopping—my style."
He could practically imagine her reaction.
Oh, she was definitely going to lose her mind.
Just picturing her fuming, face red and fingers trembling with rage, made him chuckle out loud in the dark. After all the times she'd bruised his pride—especially that one time when she called his sweaty palms a sign of kidney deficiency—this?
This was sweet, sweet revenge.
Finally, he scored a point.
Still laughing to himself, he paused. Then sighed.
Damn. That was childish.
He knew it too. Everything about this—taking over her bed, snapping a shirtless selfie, teasing her with that message—it was petty and immature as hell.
But he couldn't help it.
Maybe it was her influence—something about being around that naïve, ridiculously blunt little girl made him regress too.
He powered off his phone and settled back in. The exhaustion from the past few days hit him like a wave. Here, in this quiet, untouched space that smelled faintly like her shampoo and laundry detergent, he finally let himself drift.
Wrapped in her blanket, surrounded by her presence...
He slept like a baby.
Meanwhile, somewhere across town…
Lilian was not sleeping like a baby.
Thanks to her nap earlier in the day, she hadn't gotten to bed until past midnight—right after finishing a movie in bed. She had just pulled the covers up, eyes half-closing, when—
Ping.
Her phone lit up.
She grabbed it instinctively, thinking it might be something random. Instead…
She stared. Then blinked.
Then sat up straight like she'd been electrocuted.
No—she half-knelt on the bed in disbelief, frozen in a posture halfway between a lunge and a heart attack. Her brain stalled. Her heart punched against her ribs.
She stared again.
Nope. Still there.
A shirtless man.
In her bed.
With her blanket. Her pillow.
Smirking into her camera like he'd just conquered enemy territory.
And beneath the photo—those shameless words.
Something about her underwear being too conservative?
And that he'd take her shopping for what he liked?
Lilian felt her entire face burst into flames. Her ears were burning.
Was this guy even human?!
She let him crash at her place out of kindness, and this was how he repaid her?!
Sneaking into her room?
Sleeping half-naked in her bed?!
Rifling through her wardrobe?!
Commenting on her—her private things?!
He was a menace.
A perverted, arrogant, shameless disaster of a man!
Her first instinct was to call him. Immediately.
"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. RIGHT NOW."
But when she dialed—beep.
His phone was off.
She called again.
Still off.
Again.
Still off.
Lilian nearly threw her phone across the room.
She was practically vibrating with fury. The thought of him, lying there smug and shirtless on her bed while she was stuck imagining it all… it made her want to scream into a pillow.
She wanted to storm back to her apartment right then and throw him out herself.
But it was the middle of the night.
And going back alone?
Yeah, that'd be like handing herself over to the wolf.
So instead, she just lay there—steaming with rage, wide awake, clutching her phone, and getting absolutely zero sleep the entire night.
Lilian woke up at the crack of dawn.
She hadn't slept much, if at all. Fueled by rage and residual humiliation, she sprang out of bed, skipped breakfast, and bolted out of Tiffany's apartment like the place was on fire.
Behind her, Tiffany called out in confusion, brushing crumbs from her robe.
"Hey! At least have something to eat—what's the rush? Did something happen?"
Lilian waved her hand hurriedly as she shoved her feet into her shoes, mumbling,
"No, no, nothing! I just… remembered I forgot something. Very important!"
And then—she ran.
She had one mission.
Evict the shameless man from her apartment. Immediately.
Last night, in a rare moment of boiling emotion, she had even posted a late-night rant to her Weibo:
"Too much. This is TOO MUCH.
Falling in love sucks. I take it back. Full regret."
So now, naturally, she was speeding back to her place, ready to breathe fire.
She unlocked the door with trembling fingers, stormed into the bedroom like a SWAT team—and froze.
The room was empty.
Not a soul in sight.
Except... the obvious dent in her pillow and the distinct impression on her sheets. Someone had definitely slept there.
And then she noticed it—his suitcase was gone.
He had already left.
Lilian stood still for a second, clutching her fists at her sides.
"You coward," she muttered through clenched teeth.
She had planned to storm in, drag him out of bed, and yell at him until he apologized—or combusted. But the man had slipped away like a thief in the night. No showdown. No catharsis.
She had nowhere to throw her anger.
In the end, she could only grit her teeth and stomp over to the bed, yanking the sheets, duvet cover, and pillowcases off with fury.
Everything needed to be washed. Immediately.
Sanitized. Purified. Exorcised, even.
Meanwhile, Morrison was in a fantastic mood.
He had woken up early on purpose, quietly left her apartment, and headed back to his own place—because he knew.
He knew she'd be coming back in the morning, eyes blazing, ready to demand justice.
And he had no intention of being there for that little drama.
As he stepped through the door of his apartment, his phone buzzed.
Linda.
His mother.
Morrison stared at the caller ID and sighed.
Why did mothers always know the least convenient time to call?
He hesitated, finger hovering over "decline." Odds were, if she was calling this early, it could only mean one thing:
Another arranged date.
Still, he hadn't been home for a week thanks to that business trip. He figured he owed her a pick-up.
With a deep breath, he answered.
"…Hey, Mom."
On the other end of the line came Linda's unmistakably sweet, sugar-drenched voice:
"Baby, are you back from your business trip?"
Morrison winced.
There it was—that nickname again.
Linda had been calling her two sons "baby" since the day they were born. "Big baby" for Morrison, "little baby" for his younger brother Karl. And despite Morrison's repeated protests—especially after he took over as CEO of MOS Corp.—she had never truly stopped.
"I'm the head of a multinational empire," he had once snapped. "It undermines my image when you call me 'baby' in front of shareholders."
Linda had blinked innocently, smiled, and replied, "But sweetheart, you'll always be Mama's baby."
Since then, she'd agreed to tone it down in public. But in private? All bets were off.
Karl, on the other hand, loved the nickname. The traitor. He'd even said once—unironically—that he found it comforting. Morrison still remembered that conversation vividly, mostly because it had led to Linda accusing him of growing up and "developing wings to fly away" like some ungrateful fledgling.
So when Linda's voice came floating through the phone like honey laced with cyanide, Morrison knew—something was up.
"…Yeah. I'm back."
He answered as casually as he could, even as warning bells went off in his head. Linda only got this sugary when she was about to drop a bomb.
Sure enough.
"I heard from your secretary that you landed last night," she said sweetly. "But when I called, your phone was off. Where were you? Why didn't you come home for dinner after being away for a whole week?"
Ah, there it was.
The barrage.
The patented Linda-style guilt-trip barrage.
Morrison sighed internally. He had meant to drop by the house later today anyway. He hadn't seen his parents in over a week, and, well, familial duty was still a thing.
As he walked into his dressing room to drop off his luggage, he answered lightly,
"I was seeing a friend."
"…What kind of friend?"
That voice turned sharper, instantly.
Here we go.
He chuckled, leaning back slightly against the doorframe. With three parts mischief and seven parts real amusement, he said:
"A girlfriend."
There was a long pause on the other end of the call.
Too long.
Morrison had just tossed his jacket onto the couch when Linda's voice came blasting back through the speaker—sharp, furious, and with all the righteous indignation of a queen betrayed.
"Morrison! I'm telling you—you're already thirty-two this year! If you're still out there fooling around with those messy, no-good women, then don't you dare call me your mother again!"
Ah. That line again.
The classic.
The ol' 'disown-you-if-you-don't-settle-down' speech.
Morrison had heard it so many times in the past few years, he could practically lip-sync it from memory. Every time his birthday came around, every time a new socialite was even rumored to be seen near him, Linda would launch into this exact monologue—word for word.
And yet, despite all the drama and threats of severing ties, she never actually cut him off.
Not once.
Morrison rolled his eyes, switching the call to speakerphone as he loosened his tie and sank into the sofa.
"Yes, yes. Got it. No more messy women. I'm trembling in fear, Mom."
"You think this is funny?" Linda snapped. "Do you want to end up alone in a big empty house, with no wife, no kids, and only your dog to talk to when you're sixty?"
Morrison smirked. "Well, if the dog's less naggy, that might not be such a bad deal."
"Morrison Hayes!"
There it was—the full name attack. The ultimate sign she was really pissed.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Okay, okay, relax. I'm not messing around this time."
"…What do you mean?" she asked suspiciously. "You said 'girlfriend' earlier. Was that a joke or do you actually mean it?"
Morrison paused.
Then smiled faintly.
"I meant it."