The heavy gates of Mo Zeyan's estate groaned shut behind her, sealing Liang Ruoxi into a world far colder than she had imagined.
The mansion loomed in the moonlight, silent as a grave. Four stories of gothic architecture, trimmed with dark ivy and ringed by ancient-looking stone lions. Not a single light flickered from the top floor.
Ruoxi adjusted her coat as the butler led her up the stairs. Her heels clicked softly against the polished marble, echoing into the silence.
"President Mo is away at a meeting," the butler said, voice deep and expression unreadable. "He instructed that you be settled into the west wing."
Ruoxi arched a brow. "Is that where he lives?"
"No, madam. President Mo resides in the east wing."
"And the other rooms?"
The man hesitated. "Unused. And… locked."
Locked?
Ruoxi said nothing, but her curiosity piqued. The house had the air of being haunted—not by ghosts, but by secrets.
They stopped in front of her room. The doors were massive, carved mahogany with golden handles. When they opened, she was greeted by an opulent bedroom larger than her old apartment. Crystal chandeliers. Velvet drapes. A walk-in closet filled with designer dresses — all her size.
"He had these prepared?" she asked quietly.
The butler gave a slight bow. "President Mo is a man of efficiency. He prefers things… ready."
Of course he does, Ruoxi thought. Even his threats were delivered like business proposals.
"There is one thing, Miss Liang," the butler said, voice lowering. "You are asked to refrain from entering the north wing."
Ruoxi's brows drew together. "Why?"
"It's private. No staff is permitted to clean or cross it. Please remember this for your safety."
Safety?
Before she could ask, the butler bowed and retreated. The door clicked shut behind him.
She turned slowly, eyes sweeping the room again. Too grand. Too perfect. Too… sterile. Like a display suite.
She walked to the balcony. The cold air hit her skin, but she welcomed it. The city skyline glittered in the distance like a world far removed from this eerie, silent palace.
This was a house built by a man who trusted no one.
A prison disguised as a castle.
Later that night…
Unable to sleep, Ruoxi left her bed and wandered the hallways.
The marble corridors were silent, dimly lit by antique wall lamps. Oil paintings of unfamiliar people stared down at her — sharp-eyed ancestors or former enemies, she couldn't tell.
She passed the grand staircase and turned instinctively toward the north wing.
A velvet rope barred the hallway. Dust gathered around the entrance, and all the doors beyond it were shut tight. A chill lingered in the air, colder than anywhere else in the house.
A strange urge tugged at her.
Why seal off a wing?
She stepped closer.
Then paused.
Something moved.
A flicker of shadow under the crack of one of the doors. It was gone in an instant.
She stiffened, breath caught.
"Who's there?" she called.
No answer.
Her fingers reached for the doorknob.
"Curious already, Miss Liang?"
The deep voice sliced through the silence.
Ruoxi turned sharply.
Mo Zeyan stood at the end of the corridor, jacket removed, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, and a look in his eyes like he'd caught a thief.
Ruoxi exhaled slowly. "Just exploring."
He walked toward her, every step deliberate.
"You were warned not to come here," he said quietly.
"You didn't say why," she countered.
His eyes glittered. "And I don't owe you answers. This is my house. You want protection? That means you obey my rules."
She folded her arms. "Even if those rules involve locked doors and lurking shadows?"
A tense silence settled.
He stepped closer, now only inches away.
"You think you're ready to play with fire, Miss Liang," he said, voice low. "But this house is not a playground. There are things inside it that even I don't disturb."
Like what? she wanted to ask. But something in his tone made her pause.
Mo Zeyan stared at the door for a beat too long, jaw tight.
Then he turned, brushing past her.
"Go back to bed," he said without looking. "We have a press conference tomorrow. I expect you smiling and flawless by 10 a.m."
"And if I'm not?"
He stopped.
Then looked back, smirking darkly. "Then I'll make sure the entire country hears our first fight."
The next morning...
Ruoxi sat at the vanity, a makeup artist dusting her cheeks with highlighter. Across the dressing room, her image was being studied by a team of stylists. Her outfit, makeup, jewelry — all carefully curated by Mo Zeyan's PR department.
"President Mo likes subtle elegance," one of them said. "Not flashy. Classy. Understated."
"Oh?" Ruoxi said, lips curved in irony. "And does he like women who speak their minds?"
The stylist looked uncomfortable. "He's... not used to that."
She smiled. "Then he'll have to adjust."
Meanwhile...
In his office, Mo Zeyan watched Ruoxi's image on a screen. The camera feed was from the dressing room. A private one. Installed by him.
She didn't know he could see her.
But he watched the way she moved. The fire behind her poise. The calculation behind her charm.
She wasn't just beautiful.
She was dangerous.
And yet, something about her still reminded him of—
His phone rang.
"Sir," his assistant said, "the legal team finalized the contract. Liang Ruoxi's lawyer approved the terms."
"Good."
"One more thing... about the north wing..."
Mo Zeyan's jaw clenched. "I said I don't want it mentioned again. Ever."
The call ended.
And he looked back at the monitor.
Eyes narrowed.
She was already too close to the truth.