Xia Ruyan soon excused herself, the urge to leave overwhelming. Behind the closed walls of her room, she leaned against the door, struggling to steady her breath.
A voice echoed in her mind, quiet but firm, telling her to breathe, slowly, with him, in and out.
She obeyed, trying to anchor herself, to rein in the emotions that surged like violent waves crashing against the fragile edges of her rationality. Her eyes burned, but she wouldn't cry.
She couldn't cry.
When Mo Yichen asked if she had also lost her heart, she had almost laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was bitterly ironic. She never had a heart, or at least, she never knew she could. What she lost was something far more brutal—her soul.
Ripped from her flesh without mercy. She had watched it happen. Watched as her peace, her calm…. what others might call a heart, was torn from her, leaving her hollow.
How could she restrain her emotions? How could she stay calm when she was reminded of the moment she lost… lost everything within her? And then they told her it was okay, that it would pass, that time would heal.
But the scars etched into her very identity only deepened with every passing second. Every time she nodded in silent acceptance, every time she let them walk all over her, every time she whispered, I'm okay, a little more of her unraveled.
She decided to live through these scars, not because she was healed, but because it wasn't her time to leave. Because what happened to her soul wasn't fate, and she lives to find out why.
She wrapped her arms around herself, one crossing her chest, the other across her belly—in a quiet imitation of being held.
That embrace… the warmth of a jacket, the scent of mint and agarwood clinging to skin like his arms around her waist, and the faint trace of tobacco, not smoke or fire, but raw leaves, bitter and comforting. The scent of thought. The embrace she once hid in. The embrace she still longs for.
The embrace she will never feel again, no matter how much she imitates it, no matter how deeply she desires it.
And Mo Yichen had asked if she had lost her heart. How could she tell him that "loss" was an understatement? That she couldn't even put it into words, and even if she could, Mo Yichen would never be the person she would share that pain with.
He was not worthy to carry even a fragment of her soul. Not a chance.
Xia Ruyan didn't open the door for the rest of the day. She stayed curled up in her room, drained, too exhausted to speak. The fatigue manifested in a headache. She lay down, her eyes blank, deadened.
There was nothing she could do for now.
On the tenth day after her discharge, Xia Ruyan decided to return to the office. That morning, she dressed for work in her usual sleek style, a white blazer over white wide-legged pants. When she joined the table for breakfast, Mo Yichen and Grandpa Mo were surprised.
"Are you going somewhere?" Mo Yichen asked.
"Office," she replied flatly.
Marie set her breakfast down. She gave a quiet, "Thank you."
"It would be better if you rested for a few more days," Grandfather Mo suggested gently. "There's no rush to work, child."
"I'm well," she replied, and with that, the conversation was over. The Mo family had learned by now: when Xia Ruyan made up her mind, there was no changing it.
Mo Yichen sighed. He didn't understand what was happening to him lately. He was noticing her, far too much. Her subtle frowns. The emotions that were buried beneath her mask of composure.
The curve of her eyes. The muscles in her jaw were moving. The way her lips thinned. The slight bend in her lower lip, as if she bit the inside. Her thumb was running along the edge of her middle finger.
He noticed all of it. And that scared him.
She was becoming something from nothing in his mind, and that was never part of the plan.
She was never supposed to matter.
They rode together to the office. Not a single word was exchanged during the drive. It felt like they had gone back in time, like the two weeks of softness, of care, had never happened.
Xia Ruyan returned to work efficiently. Mo Yichen didn't disturb her, perhaps out of consideration, or perhaps out of guilt.
During the lunch break, Xia Ruyan walked toward the terrace. The sky was cloudy, and the wind had picked up. She needed fresh air.
As she approached the elevator, a group of employees was already waiting. Among them was Qin Feifei, the same woman who had tried to sabotage Ruyan's presentation at the conference. When she saw Ruyan, the humiliation returned, raw and fresh. Bitterness twisted her face.
"Secretary Xia, long time," she said sweetly. Her eyes betrayed her tone.
Xia Ruyan glanced at her and said nothing.
"Feifei, won't you introduce us?" a male employee asked, clearly mesmerized by Ruyan's presence.
"Oh, this is Secretary Xia, from the presidential office. She doesn't mingle with us mortals," she said with a laugh, but her words dripped venom. The others chuckled awkwardly, unsure if it was a joke or a jab.
"Secretary Xia, why don't you join us for lunch?" another male employee offered, trying to break the tension.
The elevator dinged. Xia Ruyan stepped in, then turned slightly.
"Pardon me. But your offer is appreciated," she said, and left.
The employees looked at each other.
"She's just like that. Just because she got praised, she thinks she's someone special," Qin Feifei snapped.
Rika, the HR director, standing nearby, sneered quietly. She didn't speak, but something within her, a woman's instinct or envy maybe, disliked Xia Ruyan. Her aura, her beauty, her calm temperament, it all stirred discomfort.
Without further conversation, they dispersed.