The rain followed them home.
It wasn't a soft, cleansing drizzle. It was a relentless downpour that beat against the car roof like a thousand clenched fists — angry, insistent, refusing to let the past fade quietly.
Bai Xueyi sat in silence beside Mo Liuxian, her reflection flickering in the window as the city lights rolled past — fractured, like her own life. The leather seat was cold beneath her palms, but not colder than the distance between them.
It was strange, she thought, being alive and sitting next to the man who had watched her die.
He didn't speak. He didn't even look at her. Yet his silence was louder than thunder, pressing into her chest with every passing minute.
When the car finally turned into the Mo estate — a sprawling fortress of glass and steel perched atop the hill — she felt the same chill she'd felt the day she first became his hidden bride.
Back then, she'd entered this place with trembling hope, believing love could survive behind closed doors.
Tonight, she entered it with steady hatred, knowing it couldn't.
The mansion gates slid open soundlessly. Floodlights traced their car as it pulled into the inner courtyard. Guards stood at attention. None dared to look too long at the soaked woman beside their boss.
When the car stopped, Liuxian finally spoke — his voice low, clipped, and unreadable.
"You'll stay here. For now."
Xueyi turned her head toward him, her eyes dark and calm.
"You're bringing a fugitive into your own house. Brave move, President Mo. What will your perfect world think?"
"You're not a fugitive," he said without meeting her eyes. "You're bait."
That made her lips twitch. "For Han Ze?"
"For the truth."
She unbuckled her seatbelt slowly, deliberately, watching him the entire time.
"And what happens when the truth bites back?"
He finally looked at her then — cold eyes that once burned for her.
"Then we see who bleeds first."
Inside, the mansion smelled faintly of cedar and rain. Every hallway gleamed like it was polished daily, every step echoed. Nothing had changed — the same oppressive perfection that used to make her feel invisible.
A maid appeared, bowing slightly. "President Mo, the guest wing has been prepared."
Guest. The word stung like irony.
Liuxian's tone was curt. "Escort Miss Lin—" He caught himself. "Miss Bai. She'll be staying indefinitely. No one speaks of this outside the household."
The maid nodded and retreated.
Xueyi waited until they were alone again before saying softly,
"Still good at giving orders."
"Still good at ignoring them?" he countered, removing his coat and tossing it over a chair.
"When the orders come from a man who buried me alive?" she asked sweetly.
He didn't answer. He just turned away and poured himself a glass of whisky, amber light glinting off his cufflinks.
"I didn't bury you," he said finally. "Someone else did. Using my name."
She walked toward him, slow steps echoing on marble. "And now you think you can dig me out of that grave and fix it?"
"No," he said. "I just want to know who built the coffin."
Her expression flickered — half-surprise, half-grief — before settling back into composure.
"The coffin doesn't matter anymore, Mo Liuxian. The fire already burned everything inside."
He looked up at her then — really looked. Her face was the same, yet not. There was no softness left, only edges and flame.
"The guest wing," he said again, quieter. "You'll stay there. For your safety. And mine."
"And if I refuse?"
He took a slow sip of his drink. "Then I'll lock you in the same cage as Han Ze when I find him."
She smiled faintly. "That's the problem, President Mo. You still think you can control what's already burning."
Hours passed. The storm outside softened, but neither of them slept.
Xueyi found herself wandering the halls of the mansion, barefoot, wrapped in a robe she'd borrowed. The silence pressed against her ears like a secret no one dared to tell. Every corner whispered memories — the night they shared their first kiss in this house, the morning she watched him leave for work without a word. The echoes of a love that had been buried under duty and lies.
Her steps led her to the library, where a single lamp glowed.
Liuxian sat at the desk, shirt sleeves rolled, staring at documents he wasn't reading. The light threw long shadows across his face, tracing the exhaustion he hid from the world.
She paused at the doorway. "You're awake."
He didn't look up. "You should be asleep."
"I tried. Your walls are too quiet. They remind me of coffins."
That made him glance up, startled — and something like guilt flickered in his eyes before he masked it.
She walked to the shelves, running her fingers over the spines of books. Then she saw it — a small photo frame tucked between ledgers. Her breath hitched.
It was their wedding photo.
Unpublished. Unseen. The secret marriage certificate made into an image that was never meant to exist.
She picked it up slowly. "You kept this."
He set down his pen, exhaled. "I tried to throw it away."
"And?"
"It kept showing up again."
The admission hung in the air like smoke.
"You hide your sins well," she said softly.
"Some sins refuse to die," he replied.
Their eyes met across the lamp's glow, the distance between them charged — grief, anger, something else neither wanted to name.
Finally, she spoke again. "Why didn't you ever tell the world about me?"
"Because the world eats weakness," he said simply. "And loving you was mine."
Her lips parted, but no words came. Outside, thunder cracked like applause for a confession too late.
She set the frame back on the shelf. "Then maybe the world deserves to choke."
He looked at her — at the woman who had once begged him to love her, now standing before him like a storm he couldn't control.
For a moment, the silence was unbearable. Then he said quietly,
"You should rest. Tomorrow, we start hunting ghosts."
She nodded, turning toward the door.
"Careful, Mo Liuxian. Some ghosts bite."
And then she was gone, her steps fading into the endless halls.
He stood alone in the lamplight, staring at the photo she'd touched. The woman in that picture smiled at him with eyes full of trust.
The woman who'd just left carried the same eyes — but behind them, fire waited.
Outside, lightning cracked across the horizon, splitting the night in two.
In one half, the man who destroyed her.
In the other, the woman who came back to finish the story.
And somewhere in between — love, smoldering quietly, daring to be reborn.