Chapter 71: Quarrel Amidst the Snowstorm (Dedicated to Shan Shan’s Diamond Sponsorship)

"You truly are amusing," Ye Linglan said with a slight curl of her lips, letting out a quiet, mocking laugh. Mo Zhicheng nodded faintly, just in time to see those beautiful eyes, glittering with clear radiance. He settled her on the sofa, massaging her thigh, then lowered his head and asked in a deep voice, "Was that your cousin calling just now?"

The question struck her like thunder, instantly putting her on full alert. She answered, "Yes, he went to America for a few years and insisted I add his English name to my contacts, as if he wanted to brand it in, afraid others wouldn't know. But I don't care about him; I insist on calling him 'cousin.'"

"Oh?" The man smiled with hidden meaning. "Is that so?"

"Yes." Linglan nodded, her gaze steady as she studied Mo Zhicheng's expression. But he continued, "A distant relative?"

Truthfully, Ye Linglan was anxious. When she first infiltrated 'Heavenly City,' Ye Shao had carefully crafted an identity for her, making thorough preparations in case Mo Zhicheng investigated. Dealing with this man was like a game of chess, a contest of both courage and wit.

She quickly calculated her response, a thought flashing through her mind, then smiled lightly. "Did you not say, Mr. Mo, that you wouldn't eavesdrop?"

Mo Zhicheng slowly looked up, meeting her slightly raised gaze, his eyes dark and searching. "But I'm curious, so I want to know."

Linglan froze for a moment, the smile at her lips faltering. Meeting his probing gaze, she masked her inner worry and replied, "No."

"—"

"He's my senior from university."

"Oh? Southern River University is renowned for its talent—why call him 'cousin'?"

She smiled calmly. "You mustn't laugh, Mr. Mo."

"Go on."

"We were both in the finance department. Every time our supervisor left us a mountain of assignments, I would get a headache just seeing the dense spreadsheets. So I’d always call him for help. He’d tease me, saying I only called for trouble with spreadsheets, so he started calling me 'little cousin.' It became a habit, and in return, I called him 'cousin.'" She met his gaze and saw his expression gradually fade. "Is that so?" Mo Zhicheng asked.

He was a man who did not show his emotions, making it hard to read him. Yet through their encounters, she sensed that when displeased, he grew more silent—a kind of cold violence, quiet but even more unnerving than words, leaving one anxious and bewildered. Just like now, those two thin words slipped from his lips. She wondered if something she said had displeased him. She searched her memory for any slip, any potential exposure, but found nothing. All she could do was nod in agreement, sinking into the sudden, heavy silence.

His silence only made Linglan more tense. She didn’t know how to break the ice. She watched as he withdrew his hand, stood up, and asked in a low voice, "Is your leg better?"

She answered, "Much better, Mr. Mo."

The next moment, he turned to pick up his coat, draping it over his arm. "That's enough for tonight. I have work to handle. I'll head back now." His voice was once again cold and distant, catching Ye Linglan off guard. "Mr. Mo, you haven't had dinner yet."

"You eat," he murmured.

She couldn't help but frown in confusion. Why was he unhappy? Linglan looked after him, puzzled. Yet since Mo Zhicheng had made himself clear, it would be untimely to insist he stay. She could only yield. "Very well, your work is important. Let me see you downstairs; the corridor lights are dim, and I know the way better." Linglan turned, glanced at the medicine box, and picked it up.

Outside, snow fell in thick, feathery flakes, quickly covering the black Bentley in white. Mo Zhicheng walked ahead, never looking back, unlocking his car alone. Linglan watched his tall figure, watched the snow swirling through the air, falling onto his black coat. She called softly, "Mr. Mo, I'll see you off to here."

But the man gave no response, standing motionless in the snow, his figure a stark black silhouette against the world of white. After a long silence, Linglan looked away and turned to head back upstairs—only to be yanked suddenly into a hard embrace from behind. Before she could react, her lips were seized in a fierce, punishing kiss. He bit and devoured her lips with near cruelty. She winced in pain, opening her eyes to see Mo Zhicheng holding her tightly. How could a man be like this? His kiss brought pain, forceful and domineering, leaving no room for transition or resistance. It was as if he had waited for this moment, refusing her any chance to fight back.

She struggled, stubbornly biting back. Yet the taste of blood only fueled his madness. Holding her by the waist, he kissed her with a desperate fervor, wild and possessive, like a beast claiming its prize. She looked back at him, ignoring the burning heat of his body. Snowflakes swirled around them, cold and pure as jade butterflies, dancing drunkenly through the air, finally settling on her brow—a ruby-red dot that soon melted into a teardrop, sliding down her face.

When he finally reached his limit, he pushed her away with force, breathing heavily, his deep eyes stormy with desire. Ye Linglan instinctively took several steps back; the snow was marked with messy footprints, and the cold medicine had fallen, soon covered by snow.

She pressed her hand to her bitten lips, her eyes flashing with anger she dared not express, only staring at him in shock. Mo Zhicheng said nothing as he stepped forward. She retreated again. He bent down and picked up the medicine. "Go back inside," he commanded. "I told you to go upstairs." His low growl shook her to the core.

For a long time, she watched the Bentley disappear into the snowy night. All this anger over a single word—'cousin'? Linglan wiped away the traces of his kiss from her lips, scrubbing hard. She took out her phone and, dazed, dialed that familiar number. The ringing echoed coldly through the silent night. She waited for Ye Shenghan to answer, but instead heard a familiar ringtone nearby. She looked around in a hurry—was he close?

Linglan searched frantically. She hadn't misheard—it was Ye Shenghan's ringtone! He must be nearby, not far from her side. But she couldn't find him; all around was a world of white. She called out, "Ye Shao, where are you?"

"Ye Shao, I know you're close by." Her voice rang out. He had to be there.

She sensed a dark shadow looming behind her. Instinctively, she turned to see a familiar face, a fine layer of snow dusting his black hair—how long had he been waiting? She stared at him in shock, hurrying forward, then stopping short. He’d been downstairs all this time—had he witnessed Mo Zhicheng kissing her? Realizing this, she was seized by a wave of panic, as if caught in an affair by her husband—awkward and stinging.

She gazed at the short distance between them. "You saw?"

Yes, he had seen everything. He saw that man hold her in the snow, kissing her; saw her caught in his arms, returning the kiss. Ye Shenghan turned aside, leaning lightly against the wall. Linglan walked toward him and stopped by his side. Melting snow soaked into his wool coat, the open collar revealing a neck reddened by the cold. He said, "I don't know if I'll regret what I've done."

"What?" she asked, brows furrowing, her heart aching for this man.

Ye Shenghan looked back at her. "You're taking a shortcut for my sake." She had chosen to seduce Mo Zhicheng—a shortcut fraught with danger and thick with passion, because desire itself is a perilous game.

Through the falling snow, she looked at this man's face, her heart full of sorrow. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold him tightly, but she could not. Linglan suppressed the urge and leaned against the wall beside him. "Mo Zhicheng is a shrewd man, so I must earn his trust. But he's a master of this game—"

Before she could finish, he turned and trapped her between himself and the wall. Linglan looked up in surprise, blurting out, "Ye Shao—" Why was he suddenly so close? Before she could question further, Ye Shenghan lowered his head and kissed her.

He is a master of the game, she had said. The words echoed with all his suppressed anger, stripping him of all reason. In the cold night, his face was pale, but her lips were red and glistening—the lips that other man had kissed, that other man. The thought roared in his mind. Impatiently, he pried open her lips, his kiss cold and urgent, leaving him dizzy and lost. He kissed her fiercely, as if desperate to erase every trace the other man had left. This kiss, held back for more than ten years, was finally unleashed, thick with jealous passion. He was like a jealous husband, punishing the woman before him ruthlessly. He had known it would hurt, but he never imagined the pain would be so deep. Even the cold comfort of the night could not satisfy his wild despair.

Ye Shenghan stared at her, their lips pressed tightly together, and through open eyes he saw snow settle on her trembling lashes, like a thin veil of mist. Her beautiful eyes were wide with shock. She could hardly breathe—he was kissing her? He was actually kissing her? The suddenness left her helpless, gasping for breath. She heard him say, "I don't like him leaving any mark on you."

He let her go, steadying his breath.

Ye Linglan slumped slowly, wrapping her arms around herself, hurriedly explaining, "No, it's not like that."

"—"

"On the surface he treats me warmly, but he’s still testing me. Tonight, when you called, he was on guard, so I didn’t answer. But he called you back in front of me, as if to confirm something. In the moment, I could only call you 'cousin.' But later, I thought about the identity you created for me, and to avoid complication, I had to make up another story."

"What did you say?"

Linglan nodded, her eyes wet. "I said you were my senior at university."

"And?"

"He seemed very angry after hearing that. I don’t know if I said something wrong, or if he’s suspicious of me. He suddenly decided to leave, and before going, he kissed me—forcefully. I don’t know why."

Ye Shenghan paused. "He was jealous."