Volume One, Chapter Five: Do You Like Well-Behaved Children?

It was just past five in the morning, and before the sky had even begun to brighten, Jiang Yihuan was already awake.

She suffered from severe insomnia, and even medication could not grant her a long night’s rest.

She shifted her numb and aching body, gazing at Zhou Jingmo, who was still asleep beside her. Her eyes were filled with a complex emotion, like a shattered galaxy. Although there was no blood relation between her and Zhou Jingmo, Father Zhou had always treated them like siblings, which was why she knew all too well that there could never be a future for them.

Their disastrous beginning had started two years ago, back when she was still in New York.

It was New Year’s Eve, the eighth one Jiang Yihuan had spent in New York. Every year, she found the holiday unbearable—not because of the loneliness of being alone, but because it was the day her mother had left her forever. Heaven was cruel; at the age of eight, on a day when the entire nation celebrated family reunions, she had lost the person who mattered most to her.

From that moment on, she became marginalized by the world, unable to find her place no matter how hard she looked.

Jiang Yihuan had sat alone on a park bench not far from her apartment, watching the festive streets. She felt like an outsider, a rootless duckweed with nowhere to call home. The more vibrant the world around her became, the more the suffocating sense of isolation spread within her heart.

A Lamborghini Revuelto pulled up to the intersection. She didn’t turn to look; she knew who it was. The car stopped ten meters away, and Zhou Jingmo stepped out. Even among Westerners, his height was striking. He wore a moon-white, custom-tailored suit that fit perfectly, tracing the fluid lines of his broad shoulders and narrow waist, his inherent aristocratic aura unmistakable.

He walked straight to her, said nothing, and gently took her cold hands, warming them with his palms. Then, he asked softly, “Are you coming home with your brother this year?”

The dialogue was familiar; Zhou Jingmo crossed mountains and seas every year to find her in New York, stubbornly asking the same question. And every time, Jiang Yihuan would respond with robotic repetition, “I have no home left.”

In the past, after hearing this answer, Zhou Jingmo would only fall into a helpless silence, unable to provide a satisfying solution. But this time, he gave her an answer—one that shattered the calm lake of her heart, leading her to forget, with a twisted sort of psychology, that he had once been her brother in name only.

After that night, she spent a long time wondering why she had acted that way. Why was it Zhou Jingmo who dragged her into the mire? And why had she so easily crossed that red line?

Eventually, she realized it was because, while they seemed to have different origins, they were of the same root. Beneath their bloodlines lay only perversity and madness. With Zhou Jingmo, she could bare the rot in her soul, the poison in her heart, and the cowardly decay of her flesh without shame.

Zhou Jingmo was her spiritual sustenance in the dim darkness—both the source of her illness and her only antidote.

She pushed back the covers and sat up, noticing that it had snowed overnight. The view outside was a pristine, snowy white, beautiful in its silver cloak. Yet, she had never liked winter. She found the frozen world too cold; the biting wind felt as though it could pierce straight to the marrow.

Beside her, Zhou Jingmo stirred. He squinted, naturally draping an arm over her slender waist, his long fingers kneading the soft flesh as he asked in a raspy voice, “What time is it?”

“Past five. You should go back to your own room.”

The servants would be up at six to make breakfast. If it were discovered that Zhou Jingmo had spent the night in her bedroom, both the Shen and Zhou families would be in an uproar.

Zhou Jingmo didn’t speak, but his large hand reached brazenly under the hem of her pajamas, his fingers poking at her stomach rhythmically. Jiang Yihuan knew what he meant—he didn’t want to leave. She pulled his hand away, wrapped a blanket from the armchair around herself, and prepared to head to his room instead.

Watching her back, Zhou Jingmo gave a mocking laugh. “Fine, I’ll go. You stay.”

Without hesitation, Jiang Yihuan turned back and crawled under the covers. She hated winter and couldn’t stand the cold. Zhou Jingmo stretched, lazily pulled her back into his arms, and rubbed his head against her waist. “Let’s move out. I’ve been keeping up the maintenance on Aunt Jiang’s house; you can move back whenever you like.”

Jiang Yihuan stiffened.

The place they were currently staying was a villa Shen Qiming had bought later. He had found the old Jiang residence unlucky because someone had died there, and he refused to live in it.

After a moment of silence, Jiang Yihuan said, “Alright.”

She did need to go back. Only by living there could she ensure she never forgot her hatred.

After lingering a while longer, Zhou Jingmo got up to dress and returned to his room before the servants woke. Jiang Yihuan also rose to wash up, sitting before her vanity to begin the process of “reconstructing” her face.

Back in his own room, Zhou Jingmo took a shower and rolled around on his untouched bed to make it look as though he had slept there. Then, he swaggered back to Jiang Yihuan’s room in full view of the servants.

He leaned against the doorframe, legs crossed, and waved a hand with lazy grace. “Good morning, little sister.”

Jiang Yihuan: “...”

She truly wished it were summer so she could pray for a lightning bolt to strike this great devil down. The price of that night of madness in New York was to be shackled by this demon for the rest of her life.

There was no escaping it.

Zhou Jingmo walked into the bedroom with one hand in his pocket, leaning against the vanity and watching her apply makeup, his long fingers idly rummaging through her cosmetic bag. Jiang Yihuan was actually quite pure-looking, but she always liked to dress herself in an alluring, rebellious style, leaving others with the first impression of a wayward bad girl.

He reached out and stroked her red lips with his thumb. “You dress yourself up so beautifully, it invites the covetous eyes of others. Your brother doesn’t like that.”

Jiang Yihuan smiled at him. “What can I do? I quite enjoy being coveted.”

Zhou Jingmo raised an eyebrow. “Are you deliberately going against me?”

“Do you like obedient children?”

Zhou Jingmo laughed. He leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear. “Still, this feeling of watching you put on makeup in the morning is truly wonderful. Let’s move to Aunt Jiang’s house today. I want to spend every morning—”

“Brother Jingmo, good morning,” Shen Wuyang’s voice suddenly rang out.