Beyond the capital city, just a few kilometers ahead, lies a small, forgotten town, a place untouched by time, where the streets remain quiet, and the air feels softer, gentler.
At the very end of the town stands a bungalow, the kind one might expect in a fairytale. Enclosed by a neat wooden fence, the house sits beneath an amber-shaded roof. Thick money plants curl upward like guardians at the entrance, while vibrant coral roses bloom in clusters, embracing the house in a sea of color and fragrance.
It is a breathtaking sight.
A sleek, black luxury car glides to a halt in front of the gate. The engine cuts off, and silence settles once more.
The front passenger door swings open.
A man steps out.
He stands tall, well over 190 centimeters. His presence is composed and commanding, the kind that demands attention without a word.
His face holds the elegance of a classical painting: high cheekbones, a clean, straight nose, and a sharply defined jawline. But what truly captures attention are his eyes, dark onyx, almond-shaped eyes, framed by thick lashes. They burn with a quiet intensity. Mysterious. Unforgiving. Unforgettable.
A gaze that could consume you whole.
His beauty isn't loud. It doesn't scream for validation. It lingers elegantly, it was restrained, almost haunting.
He adjusts the cuffs of his white button-down shirt, his movements fluid, effortless. His eyes scan the surroundings with mild disinterest until they fall on the bungalow.
For a brief moment, something flickers in his gaze.
One word appears in his mind: Cherished.
Without a word, he moves to the back of the car and opens the door with practiced ease. He bends slightly, extending a hand with unexpected gentleness.
An old man steps out, his face lit with excitement.
Today, he's here to visit an old friend and, more importantly, to meet the friend's granddaughter, who, he's been told, is not only beautiful but spirited.
Of course, getting his grandson to accompany him took endless persuasion... and a little blackmail.
But here they are.
Begrudgingly or not, he knows what his grandson is: a heartthrob. A man carved out of stone and silk. Not just incredibly handsome, but the CEO of one of the world's leading corporations.
No woman has ever refused him.
After all, he wasn't just a man. He was the kind of man who could make time stop.
With a cane in one hand, Old Master Mo leaned on his grandson as they slowly walked toward the quaint little bungalow. He cast a glance at the young man beside him, tall, dignified, and, of course, frowning again. That frown sat on his face like a crown, worn with the same pride as his three-piece suit.
Old Master Mo sighed. He knew Mo Yichen was always buried in the affairs of the Mo Empire, too busy chasing deadlines and boardrooms to chase anything else, even happiness.
Of course, the boy still didn't know why he'd been dragged out here. If not for the hunger strike, this stubborn brat would've never agreed to come.
"Stop frowning. Who are you trying to scare?" Old Master Mo barked with a mock glare.
"I'm not frowning," Yichen replied coolly. His voice was rich and husky, like aged wine with a dangerous finish.
"Yeah? And pigs are flying. Look up, quick!" the old man pointed dramatically at the sky.
Mo Yichen blinked. Speechless. He gave his grandfather a look.
"What? You insinuating I'm blind now? You think I can't see that storm brewing on your forehead?"
The CEO sighed. "Alright, alright."
Just like that, the mighty Mo Yichen surrendered. Again.
He could run a billion-dollar empire, but never win against this childlike, sharp-tongued old man, his closest family.
They knocked on the door. Moments later, a man who appeared to be a housekeeper opened it, stepping aside as though he had been expecting them.
"Please, come in. Sir and Madam will be here shortly."
The living room was wide and filled with light, framed by tall windows that opened to a garden bursting with wisteria. It was immediately clear—whoever lived here had a deep love for plants.
Just then, a tall, slender man entered. He looked to be in his mid-forties, dressed simply in a high-collar white shirt and light-colored trousers. His black hair was streaked with a graceful touch of white, and thin glasses rested on the bridge of his nose. There was something poetic about his presence, something refined, almost scholarly.
"Uncle Mo," he greeted warmly, his smile calm and genuine.
"Jingxuan, you still look as youthful as ever," Old Master Mo laughed heartily, shaking his hand.
"I wouldn't dare compete with you, Uncle Mo," Xia Jingxuan replied with quiet grace.
"And this," Old Master Mo turned to the young man beside him, "is my grandson, Mo Yichen. My heir and the CEO of Mo Corporations."
Mo Yichen stepped forward and offered a polite handshake. He felt the unexpected but controlled strength behind Xia Jingxuan's grip.
"Call him Uncle Xia," the old man added. "He's your grandfather's best friend's son."
"Uncle Xia," Yichen said smoothly, his tone reserved.
"If someone from your company saw you now, they'd never believe you're the same frown-wearing tyrant they work for," Old Master Mo teased under his breath.
And then, a woman entered. She was tall and graceful, dressed in flowing ivory pants and a loose silk blouse. Her dark hair was tied in a low bun. No jewelry adorned her save for a single emerald ring on her finger. She carried herself like someone who had never once stumbled in life; each movement was purposeful, elegant, and fluid.
Xia Jingxuan stood immediately.
"This is my wife, Rong Liyan."
Her soft smile barely curved her lips, yet it lit up her entire presence. She greeted the guests with elegant composure and gently instructed the house help to bring tea and snacks.
Mo Yichen observed everything keenly. And for some reason, he began to realize why his grandfather had dragged him here. A wave of irritation swept over him, but only for a moment.
Because the house… the house was something else.
It felt like time had slowed. Wisterias are draped across the back windows. The faint scent of herbs lingered in the air. Everything about the place, from the filtered light to the way it held its silence, whispered of gentleness and warmth.
And the couple welcomed him with grace.
Soft laughter passed between Old Master Mo and Xia Jingxuan, while Rong Liyan poured tea with steady hands and a serene smile.
Mo Yichen, who never quite belonged in warm spaces like this, sat still. Watchful. Curious.
He found himself sipping the tea quietly, almost savoring it. He made a mental note to ask Madam Xia about it later.
And then, just as the conversation found its rhythm, the garden door creaked open.
Every eye turned.
Soft footsteps drifted into the room from behind.
Rong Liyan's eyes lit up with surprise. "She's back early."
The warmth in her voice was unmistakable.
Mo Yichen didn't move, but something in his chest shifted, just slightly. Irritation? Curiosity?
He couldn't name it.
Someone had arrived.