In the middle of the night, a gray Rolls-Royce Cullinan stopped in the villa courtyard.
Mo Hanche got out of the car. The air carried a faint scent of grass and subtle floral fragrance, no longer the usual rotten, muddy smell. The wall lamps on the courtyard walls faintly illuminated neatly trimmed greenery. The lights along the cobblestone path had also been repaired.
The entire courtyard was softly lit, warm and welcoming.
Mo Hanche waved for Bai Shuo to leave and stood alone in the courtyard for a moment. The night breeze brushed away some of his fatigue, clearing his mind slightly.
He entered the house using the passcode. Motion-sensor night lights lit up in sequence in the hallway. Mo Hanche took a bottle of water from the fridge, drank a couple of sips, and went upstairs with his briefcase.
He opened the door, set down the briefcase, casually threw his suit on the floor, and groped his way to the bed. He lay down and fell asleep.
“Hm.”
A faint murmur made Mo Hanche suddenly open his eyes. He sprang up from the bed, turned on the bedside lamp, and when he saw what was on the bed, his gaze turned cold.
Why was this crazy woman here?
He stared tightly at that pale face. Unlike his impression of her—glamorous and sharp—this sleeping version looked soft and gentle, like the gardenias quietly blooming in the courtyard tonight.
Mo Hanche rubbed his temple, turned off the lamp, picked up his briefcase and suit jacket, and went to the study to sleep.
..
The next morning, Song Wenxi was half asleep when she vaguely heard noises downstairs. She rolled around in bed a few times before sitting up dazedly and going out.
Standing by the corridor railing upstairs, she unexpectedly met everyone’s gaze downstairs. All conversation stopped instantly. She scanned the scene.
Three little ones. A woman in a white shirt and black A-line skirt. Nanny Zhao. And a casually seated man—likely the “cheap husband” of this body.
Yun Qingman’s expression changed rapidly.
It was her first time seeing Song Wenxi so unkempt—no makeup, wearing pajamas, hair messy. In the past, Song Wenxi would always be fully made up even at home, dressed brightly and extravagantly, always with a superior air.
Most importantly, she had just come out of Mo Hanche’s bedroom.
Yun Qingman’s gaze flicked toward the man on the sofa, her hand tightening unconsciously. They had always slept in separate rooms—how had this changed?
“Hiss—pain.”
Mo Dongchen’s soft voice sounded clearly in the quiet hall.
Yun Qingman immediately released him and crouched down, gently rubbing his hand, looking flustered and guilty.
“Xiao Chen, are you okay? Sorry, teacher forgot to trim her nails, did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to.”
The three children kept looking upstairs. Seeing Song Wenxi about to return to her room as usual without smiling, their eyes darkened.
Normally, they didn’t care about her at all. But today felt different.
A trace of darkness flashed in Yun Qingman’s eyes, though her expression remained guilty and aggrieved.
Mo Hanche lifted his eyelids slightly and said coldly, “Answer the teacher. Don’t be rude.”
Mo Dongchen softly replied, “Teacher Yun, I’m fine… it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Song Wenxi paused.
Tch. This man is so perfunctory.
She turned around and walked downstairs lightly, heading straight to Mo Dongchen.
But just as she reached out, someone blocked her.
“Miss Song, it’s time. I’ll take them upstairs for class.”
Song Wenxi looked at the woman in front of her calmly.
The novel only briefly mentioned her as a “private tutor.” In the original owner’s memory, she was basically a servant. Most of the time, the original host didn’t even spare her a glance.
Right now, Yun Qingman looked defensive, as if Song Wenxi, as the children’s mother, might harm them.
What era was this—still playing palace intrigue?
Without wasting words, Song Wenxi pushed her aside. Yun Qingman staggered back two steps, then suddenly glanced toward the sofa and deliberately fell to the ground.
“Miss Song, how could you… Mo sir, I…”
She looked wronged and fragile, pitiful beyond words.
Mo Hanche raised his eyes slightly, glanced at the scene, then returned his attention to his tablet PPT.
Mo Beiyu frowned at Song Wenxi and moved to help Yun Qingman.
Mo Nanqing kept watching Song Wenxi quietly.
Mo Dongchen hesitated, then looked at the fallen teacher.
“Let me see your hand.”
A soft voice like clear spring water sounded.
Before Mo Dongchen could react, a small hand reached out and took Song Wenxi’s hand.
It was Mo Nanqing.
Song Wenxi smiled, gently squeezing his soft hand and patting his head.
“So you’re the little sweetheart.”
Mo Nanqing’s eyes lit up. “Good morning.”
“Mm, good morning Xiao Qing.”
Mo Dongchen hurriedly reached out too. “G-good morning…”
Mo Beiyu stood silently, unsure whether to help or not. His nose felt slightly sour as he watched.
Yun Qingman’s performance collapsed. She stood up awkwardly, looking at the warm mother-child interaction, confusion and panic flashing in her eyes.
Song Wenxi checked Mo Dongchen’s hand and saw a faint red nail mark.
It hadn’t fully faded—clearly it had been pressed hard earlier.
She stood up and walked toward Yun Qingman.
“Teacher Yun, as a tutor, you don’t even know the difference between scratching and pinching?”
She grabbed Yun Qingman’s hand without hesitation.
“This is scratching.”
Her nails lightly dragged across the back of the hand.
“And this is pinching.”
She pressed down sharply with force.
“Ah!” Yun Qingman cried out in pain, unable to break free, tears welling as she looked toward the sofa—but Mo Hanche’s gaze was on Song Wenxi instead.
Song Wenxi released her hand calmly.
“Today the children are off. No tutoring. Please come back tomorrow.”
She glanced at Mo Hanche, then turned and went upstairs.
“Mo sir…” Yun Qingman clutched her hand, eyes red.
Mo Hanche looked at the three children still staring upstairs and asked, “Do you want class today?”
All three shook their heads hesitantly.
He checked his watch, put away the tablet, stood up, and said flatly, “Teacher Yun can leave. Come back tomorrow.”
Yun Qingman was unwilling but forced a gentle smile.
She bent down and said softly, “Even if there’s no class, you must review your lessons. Piano, painting, calligraphy—don’t fall behind.”
The three children obediently said goodbye.
In the bathroom, Song Wenxi brushed her teeth, thinking about Mo Hanche’s face.
She hadn’t looked closely, but the outline was indeed refined.
Wait—why was he home so early? Did he come back last night? Then wouldn’t she have been caught sleeping in his bed?
She splashed water on her face and instantly woke up. After changing into loose home clothes, she hesitated for two seconds before going out.
Outside, the car engine faded into the distance.
Nanny Zhao said, “Sir has gone to work.”
Song Wenxi sighed in relief, then frowned again.
This man even works on weekends—no wonder he ends up dying from overwork. He builds everything himself only to leave it for others in the end.
Too tragic.
The mother and three children quietly finished breakfast, but Mo Beiyu remained visibly low in mood.
Song Wenxi noticed everything.
In the children’s innocent understanding, Yun Qingman was a warm and caring teacher who filled the emotional gap left by their mother’s neglect.
So when Song Wenxi pushed her earlier, it looked like bullying.
The original host had indeed been aggressive at times, so the children disliked her—it made sense.
Explain that the teacher had ulterior motives? That she deliberately fell?
Could such young children even understand this kind of subtle manipulation?
Forget it. She wouldn’t hold grudges against kids—but she also didn’t feel like comforting them yet.