Volume One, Chapter Seven: The Argument

Jiang Yihuan’s fingers undid the buttons of Zhou Jingmo’s shirt. She slightly lifted her upper body, the distance between their lips stretching taut like a tug-of-war.

She had thought Zhou Jingmo would say, “Because I love you.”

But just when their lips were mere millimeters apart, an aggressive kiss and an answer came simultaneously.

“You’re right. Because I’m a madman too.”

Zhou Jingmo grasped her chin firmly, ignoring the world around them as he claimed her lips. His kiss was fierce, prying open her mouth with force, his tongue invading wildly like a storm.

His kisses were heavy and urgent, as if venting some pent-up fury.

Jiang Yihuan scorned her own self-deception deep inside.

What exactly was she hoping for?

With her eyes closed, she wrapped her hands tightly around Zhou Jingmo’s neck, savoring the destructive power of his kiss while her thoughts danced on the edge of madness.

She wished her hands could transform into claws.

So she could tear through Zhou Jingmo’s skin, break his bones, then delve inside him and pull out every organ.

Like extracting a pearl from an oyster, placing it in a beautiful glass jar by her bedside.

Thus, Zhou Jingmo would belong to her utterly—from inside out, solely hers, forever unable to escape.

---

Zhou Jingmo left without breakfast, too full of anger to eat.

He opened the car door and got in. His assistant, Liu Mu, noticed he was alone and hesitated. “President Zhou, didn’t you say you’d help the Second Miss move?”

Zhou Jingmo radiated an icy aura that warned strangers to keep their distance. “Why are you being so eager? She’s not grateful for it.”

Liu Mu mentally protested: Weren’t you the one who called me early this morning to come help move?

Knowing they had argued, Liu Mu said no more and quietly started the car.

Jiang Yihuan watched Zhou Jingmo’s car fade into the distance and turned away from the window.

She took out her phone to contact her only friend, Zhong Li.

Years ago, in Rong City, three great families reigned: the Jiang family, the Zhou family, and the Zhong family.

Their bonds were close, forged in blood and fire by the elder generation’s struggles.

Now, the Zhou family remained prosperous thanks to Zhou’s father; the Zhong family wielded immense power; only the Jiang family had fallen.

Since her grandfather’s death and her mother’s suicide, the Jiang family had been taken over by Shen Qiming, leaving it in ruins—power and prestige scattered like dust.

Zhong Li was close in age and had been a lifelong friend.

When Jiang Yihuan was forcibly sent abroad, Zhong Li followed to New York within a couple of years.

Raised as the cherished daughter of Commander Zhong, Zhong Li grew fearless and bold.

Together in New York, they thrived, partners in mischief like two unruly princes of the city.

She still remembered the time they were caught by the 108th precinct in Queens playing death races, and Zhou Jingmo bailed them out, scolding them harshly.

Just back in the country without a car, she had Zhong Li come pick her up to go to her mother’s house without hesitation.

The Shen family held almost nothing of Jiang Yihuan’s, and since she had just returned, she only had a small suitcase.

As she dragged her suitcase into the living room, the last people she wanted to see were there.

Shen Wuyang and Mrs. Shen, Lin Zhaohua.

Shen Qiming was already at the company, not home.

Shen Wuyang lounged lazily on the sofa, his makeup immaculate.

Seeing Jiang Yihuan, suitcase in hand, he sneered, “Oh, you actually have some self-awareness. You know this isn’t your home, so you’re packing up to get out, huh?”

“Wuyang, don’t speak to your sister like that,” Lin Zhaohua scolded, then turned kindly to Jiang Yihuan. “Yihuan, you just came back. Where are you headed?”

“I’m moving back to my mother’s house,” Jiang Yihuan answered honestly.

As if struck by a thought, she looked at Lin Zhaohua with a slight smile. “Mrs. Shen, you’ve been my mother’s close friend for years. Over all these years, you’ve occupied her property and slept with her husband. In your midnight dreams, have you ever seen her come to haunt you, calling you to account?”

Her words were measured, the sunlight outside casting mottled patterns across her face.

Her fair, delicate skin seemed bathed in golden light, her smile blooming with a soft warmth amid the interplay of shadows.

She appeared like an innocent girl in a garden untouched by the world.

But her eyes betrayed this brightness—dark pools filled with coldness, bottomless and chilling like an abyss.

---

Lin Zhaohua felt a cold sweat break out on her back under that gaze, but having navigated high society for years and as the legitimate mistress of the Shen household, she regained composure within seconds.

“You’re a child—what are you saying?” Lin Zhaohua smiled faintly. “If you move back there, you can stay with your mother. You haven’t been home in ten years; surely you miss her.”

“I do miss her,” Jiang Yihuan said slowly, stepping deliberately toward Lin Zhaohua, her smile unchanged. “Mrs. Shen, don’t you miss my mother?”

Lin Zhaohua paused, her eyes reddening suddenly. “Of course I do. You don’t know—I dream of your mother every night.”

She wiped away tears. “Yihuan, wait for me. I’ll change and go with you to pay respects to your mother.”

Suddenly, Jiang Yihuan burst out with a wild, manic laugh that echoed unnervingly through the living room.

Lin Zhaohua’s scalp tingled. “Yihuan... what’s wrong?”

The laughter stopped abruptly. Jiang Yihuan’s aura transformed, like a dazzling demon emerging from an endless abyss—both elegant and terrifying.

She fixed Lin Zhaohua with a gaze full of bloodthirsty coldness. “Does a murderer deserve to honor the dead?”

Lin Zhaohua’s heart skipped, but her face showed no fear. “Yihuan, you must be mistaken. Your mother—”

“Mistaken?” Jiang Yihuan cut her off with a light laugh, stepping toward Lin Zhaohua with graceful, measured strides that made Lin Zhaohua instinctively retreat.

Jiang Yihuan seized Lin Zhaohua’s wrist, her aura coiling like venomous snakes. “The last call my mother made before she died was to you. What did you say?”

Lin Zhaohua’s panic deepened; her expression grew strained.

But after all these years, even if she had made that call, what difference would it make?

There was no proof left.

Feigning sorrow, tears flowed freely. “It was just idle chatter. I never imagined it would be our last call. If I had known—”

“You told her—” Jiang Yihuan interrupted, her slender fingers tracing Lin Zhaohua’s cheek, her eyes dark and deep like bloodstained claws from a burial ground. “Shen Qiming loved you. You were already together, even had a child.”

“You knew she was on the brink of collapse. You crushed her last straw and, with Shen Qiming, forced her to her death.”

Jiang Yihuan’s hand slid to Lin Zhaohua’s neck, tightening invisibly. “You really are my mother’s ‘dear friend,’ aren’t you?”