I had said it.
It was disguised as a simple statement of fact, but I still said it anyway. My heart hammered against my ribs, waiting for his comeback. I expected him to laugh coldly, or perhaps to stand up and walk away again, leaving me in this cold and empty manor.
But he just stared at me. Mo Yichen stared at me as if I were a fascinating thing.
His face, which had been unreadable, seemed to crack. He studied me for a long, agonizing moment, me biting my inner jaw, his eyes searching mine, as if trying to decipher if this was another one of my drunken provocations or a genuine plea.
I mean, he can leave if he wants; I won't stop him.
The tension in his shoulders dropped, and the cold mask of the tyrant dissolved, replaced by a raw, desperate relief that mirrored the exhaustion I felt.
He didn't speak.
