Hearing Mo Xuan had escaped the villa, Yun Jiumo cut her meeting short and set off to find her husband.

She calmed herself quickly—it wasn’t shocking. He’d hinted before about wanting out. This was Shen Bingyao’s funeral. Given their history, nothing could stop him.

Still, she hadn’t expected four guards to fail at holding one man.

Since marriage, Mo Xuan lived nearly in seclusion. Even in this city he’d called home for years, he relied on taxis. His range was limited. Find the funeral site, check nearby streets—he’d be found.

Perhaps fate refused to part them. Soon, she spotted the café—and inside, two figures seated face-to-face.

Recognizing the girl—Shen Bingyao’s lookalike, the one who once clung to Mo Xuan daily—a cold, vicious rage surged in Yun Jiumo’s chest.

To her, Shen Bingyao was the most hated woman alive. That tragic soul had nearly threatened her, hurt Mo Xuan indirectly. Now she was gone. Yun Jiumo felt no sorrow—only sharp, sweet relief.

*Finally.* The woman who held a place in his heart was dead. Mo Xuan belonged to her alone. What joy could surpass this?

Yet here came Shen Bingjing—the foolish sister, clinging to delusions about him. *Trying to seize the moment now that her sister’s gone?* That act of grief and loneliness? So fake.

Beneath a slate-gray sky, fine rain fell unceasing. Yun Jiumo walked bareheaded. Water soaked her hair, traced her neck, smudged her makeup. Pale face. Crimson lips vivid as blood. Rose-red eyes glowed with icy depth. Veins rose on her hands.

She tossed her hair and strode toward the café—majestic, unstoppable, like a general charging the battlefield.

…

Her arrival shattered the silence. Mo Xuan tensed. Shen Bingjing paled. Neither felt at ease.

Toward this wife—legally and truly his—Mo Xuan’s feelings had grown tangled.

Yes, he loved her. Why else pursue her relentlessly through high school? Never rewarded, never hopeful—yet he never quit. All because that first glance made his heart race.

But dating revealed the truth: Yun Jiumo wasn’t who he imagined.

She hid too deeply.

Even now, he couldn’t grasp her.

Her early purity, gentleness, kindness? Mostly a crafted facade.

Beneath lay obsession, dominance, madness, possessiveness.

Gradually, he wondered: Did he love the moonlit girl of memory—or this obedient yet fiercely clinging wife?

Mo Xuan drifted in haze. Shen Bingjing did not.

Her fingers gripped the coffee cup, knuckles white. Yun Jiumo hadn’t even reached them, yet her presence froze Shen Bingjing solid, breath catching.

She’d never forget that blood-streaked sunset: Mo Xuan curled on the floor, groaning; her disheveled sister straddling him; Yun Jiumo crashing through glass, expressionless, slashing her sister’s cheeks with shards.

Spraying blood. Shrill screams. Those murderous eyes. An eternal nightmare.

If she could, she’d never face this woman again. Just imagining Mo Xuan sharing a bed with her made Shen Bingjing’s stomach churn.

The café fell silent—some awed by Yun Jiumo’s aura, others captivated by her beauty.

Every man stared. Her simple business suit clung to full yet slender curves. Paired with her innate ethereal grace, she seemed a celestial maiden descending through rain.

Yun Jiumo saw only Mo Xuan. Everyone else vanished.

Steps closed the distance. She stood before him, gaze locked. Water dripped from her delicate jaw.

Mo Xuan met her eyes. He didn’t know what she’d do next—but one thing was certain.

She wouldn’t hit him.

*So… not so scary.*

He softened his expression—as if caught chatting with a female friend without warning, now scrambling to explain. “Cold? Want coffee?”

Shen Bingjing across the table snorted, shrugged, turned away.

Yun Jiumo ignored her completely. Eyes fixed on Mo Xuan, voice feather-soft: “It’s raining. Let’s go home.”

Mo Xuan watched her pale hand clutch his wrist. *Do I even have a choice?*

This trip was only to see Shen Bingyao one last time. The dead were gone. Grief changed nothing. Life moved on.

Only Shen Bingjing suffered—losing her sole blood relative.

He sighed inwardly, stood, nodded to the silent girl. “I’ll take my leave.”

“Wait!” Shen Bingjing shot up, yanking a plastic-wrapped notebook from her coat. “I have something for you!”

Before the words faded—blur. The notebook vanished.

Yun Jiumo frowned at the faded cover, pink peach-blossom watermark visible. A teenage girl’s secret heart, sealed inside. Disgust coiled tight. *Tear it to shreds.*

“Give it!” Mo Xuan and Shen Bingjing shouted together.

They froze, flustered.

“What is this?” Yun Jiumo asked Mo Xuan.

“Shen Bingyao’s keepsake,” he said, reaching. Yun Jiumo pulled back.

“Hand it over!” Shen Bingjing cried. “My sister left it for him!”

Yun Jiumo finally glanced at her. Rose-red eyes swept coldly over the flushed girl—a cobra’s stare.

Nails dug into the cover. *Even dead, she haunts us.*

*No!* Mo Xuan’s heart lurched.

Shen Bingjing’s face went blank—then she lunged, claws aimed at Yun Jiumo’s face, screaming: “I’ll kill you—!”

Chaos erupted. Waiters rushed in. Customers scrambled back. Phones rose to record.

Mo Xuan spread his arms, shielding Yun Jiumo. Harsh words or not—she was his wife. He’d protect her.

Shen Bingjing, restrained and sobbing, glared with raw hatred.

Mo Xuan turned to Yun Jiumo’s icy face. “Give it to me.”

She hesitated.

“I won’t say it a third time.” *After calming her… don’t pour oil on the fire!*

Seeing his resolve, Yun Jiumo’s eyes flickered. Reluctantly, she handed it over.

As Mo Xuan exhaled—she yanked his tie.

He stumbled into softness. Warm, smooth lips pressed his—sweet as jelly.

Shen Bingjing froze. Struggles ceased. Bloodshot eyes widened. Tears streamed silently.

Yun Jiumo kissed him, watching from the corner of her eye. *Just as I thought.*

Amid murmurs, Mo Xuan stiffly pushed her away, straightened his tie, avoided Shen Bingjing’s gaze.

“Darling, let’s go home,” Yun Jiumo cooed, tugging his sleeve—sweet as a newlywed.

The funeral was over. The past—illusions, tragedy—drifted like rain outside. On life’s uncertain road, everyone drifts apart. Mo Xuan. Yun Jiumo. Shen Bingjing. Even Shen Bingyao, gone. None could return.

Perhaps this was his last glimpse of the Shen sisters.

Clutching the diary, Mo Xuan stole a glance at Shen Bingjing—then whispered, “Take care,” and left without looking back.

Outside, cold rain touched his eye.

A thin coat settled over his head.

His wife, in a damp shirt, linked arms with him. In her slender eyes—deep, trembling unease.