Sometimes, Mo Xuan felt like a canary trapped in a gilded cage.
Yun Jiumo’s villa was massive—four stories tall, with a red roof and yellow walls, adorned like a European castle in gilded splendor.
The residential complex stretched vast, with dozens of similar villas circling an artificial lake in concentric rings.
From the rooftop, only layered mountain peaks were visible. A single road led outward—the only exit, where taxis occasionally passed.
After breakfast, Mo Xuan lay on the sofa, staring blankly out the window.
He’d texted Shen Bingjing, but his phone remained utterly silent. It was his sole lifeline to the outside world.
Yun Jiumo had meticulously deleted every contact from his university, high school, even middle school years, claiming they were useless. Faced with her unshakable justification, Mo Xuan had nothing to say—only the growing distance between her and the woman he once remembered.
In high school, she’d been pure, graceful, elegant, gentle—qualities that had utterly captivated him. He’d pursued her like a desperate man for three years. Yet the moment they started dating, she transformed: domineering, aggressive, cold, obsessive.
Which Yun Jiumo was the real one?
His phone buzzed once. Mo Xuan snatched it up, scanned the screen—a flicker of hope, then disappointment. Just spam.
No reply, no time given. Shen Bingjing must have learned his situation and felt deeply let down too.
Since announcing his relationship with Yun Jiumo, she’d faded from his world. Without Shen Bingyao’s connection, they might have become strangers long ago.
Glancing at the overcast sky, Mo Xuan knew he couldn’t endure this any longer.
Even if it meant confronting Yun Jiumo directly—he *had* to attend the funeral.
Fuming, he stormed downstairs to the front gate. The moment he pushed open the ornate metal door, two burly guards—each nearly 1.9 meters tall—stood ramrod straight, hands clasped behind their backs like sentinels.
Two guards guarded each of the villa’s two gates. Rumor said they were ex-military; Yun Jiumo’s generous pay kept them stationed dawn to dusk.
Officially for security. Truthfully? To watch *him*.
Why else would they instantly block the door the second he hinted at stepping out?
He’d tried being friendly. Their replies were always cold, dismissive.
The left guard shot him a sideways glance. “Something you need?”
No title. No respect. Unlike their deferential “Madam”s for Yun Jiumo.
“I need to go out today,” Mo Xuan forced a smile.
“Madam’s orders: you do not leave,” the right guard replied flatly.
“A friend passed today. I just want to pay my last respects. Brothers, cut me some slack.” He offered a pack of premium cigarettes.
Both guards raised a hand in unison, voices stern: “Return immediately. Under *any* circumstances, you stay.”
“Just an hour. I swear I’ll be back.”
This time, no words. One shoved him back; the other slammed the gate shut.
Mo Xuan barely dodged—the metal nearly smashed his nose.
As it closed, he caught a flicker of helplessness on their faces.
Alone in the silent hall, he ground his teeth and hurled the cigarettes to the floor.
He knew their disdain. Society still clung to the old script: men provide, women nurture. Even with progress, reliance on a woman bred deeper scorn than freeloading off parents.
His cheeks burned. Powerlessness and resentment coiled through him.
If the front gate was this strict, the back was worse.
No other exits existed. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned every level—Yun Jiumo loved the sunlight; he’d once enjoyed winter naps by them. But only the top panels opened. No ladder, no escape.
Back on the fourth floor, he paced in tight circles.
Time ticked. How long had the funeral lasted? When would it end?
He knew Shen Bingjing resented him—yet she’d still sent the invitation, perhaps honoring his past with her sister.
He’d failed Shen Bingjing. He’d failed Shen Bingyao. Since he entered their lives, everything shattered. Honestly? Their pain was inextricably tied to him.
One last look at the vast window. Mo Xuan steeled his resolve.
Desperate gamble. Yun Jiumo’s reaction? He no longer cared.
Gripping a wooden chair, he dragged it forward with all his strength.
*Damn it—why is this chair so heavy?!*
A chill of foreboding crept in. His body felt… wrong.
CRASH!
The deafening impact of wood against glass cut short the guards’ chatter downstairs. Moments ago, they’d been smugly dissecting his plight. Now—stunned silence. Then a heavy thud. Their faces paled; hearts hammered.
Truth was, they disliked him. Scoffed at the man living off a woman. Enjoyed watching him break. Expected him to slink back, defeated.
Instead—chaos.
Exchanging panicked glances, they flung the gate open and raced upstairs. Met the back-gate guards mid-staircase, all frantic—as if their pants were on fire.
They didn’t care about *him*. But if he vanished? Their easy, high-paying jobs vanished too.
Subdue him. Blame him. Save themselves.
They burst into the bedroom.
The window was shattered—a gaping hole at its center.
“No way!” All four lunged forward, peering wildly, hearts in throats. *Did he…?*
In that split second of distraction—
Mo Xuan, hidden behind the gate, darted out. Bolted through the entrance. Slammed the gate shut. Locked it from outside.
Ignored the furious pounding and shouts behind him. Head down, he sprinted through the drizzle to the community gate, doubled over, gasping.
Less than three hundred meters felt like a marathon. Lungs burned. Vision swam dark.
*So this is what “living off a woman” does to you?*
He’d never imagined his body had weakened this much.
After deep breaths, he pushed upright, leaning against the wall with a bitter smile.
The gate guard recognized Yun Jiumo’s rarely-seen husband. Didn’t question. Just waved him through.
Luck held—a taxi passed. He hailed it.
Meeting the driver’s puzzled gaze, he amended:
“First, downtown. I need a suit.”
No joy bloomed in his chest. Leaning into the seat, lips twisted dryly.
“For the final farewell… I should at least look presentable.”
