The Hunt

Chapter 29: Chapter 28 - The Hunt. Chapter 28. Mo Manor Private Apron. Evening. The sun hung low, a thin blade above the western hills, and the wind on the tarmac ran in restless gusts.

Wen Yicong walked at Mo Shaoshang's side, her fingers tightening almost of their own accord around the cashmere shawl draped over her shoulders. 'Teacher Wen,' Lin Ke said, guiding the way.

'This way.' Wen Yicong raised her eyes. Before her, spread across the vast expanse of the apron, sat a streamlined aircraft—silver-white from nose to tail, its wingspan elegant, catching the dying light of the sunset in a cold, metallic gleam.

Along its fuselage, an abstract eagle was etched in sharp, severe lines, wings spread as if about to take flight—some emblem, she sensed, freighted with meaning. She tilted her head back to take in the great beast of a machine, and felt a quiet awe rise in her chest.

In all her years, she had flown—conservatively—a hundred, a hundred and fifty times. But never once had she come this close to a private jet.

This was, undeniably, her first. The boarding stairs had been lowered. A red carpet unfurled from the cabin door all the way to the ground.

Two flight attendants in deep navy uniforms stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting, their smiles practiced and proper. 'Teacher Wen, please.' Mo Shaoshang's voice sounded at her side—low, level, betraying nothing.

The words pierced her eardrum, and only then did Wen Yicong startle back to herself. She nodded, gave a soft murmur of assent, gathered her hem, and stepped onto the stairs.

Inside the cabin, everything that met her eyes threatened to overturn every notion Wen Yicong had ever held: no rows of seats, no narrow aisle—instead, a space so wide and luminous it bordered on the absurd, spare yet unstintingly luxurious. Pale gray carpet drank every footfall into silence.

Warm-toned light spilled from the wall sconces, bathing the entire cabin in a soft, golden halo. To the left, a generous sitting area—deep coffee-colored leather sofas arranged in a U, with an obsidian coffee table at the center; to the right, a dining table whose surface gleamed like a mirror, reflecting the delicate play of lamp-shadows on the ceiling above.

'Welcome aboard, Mr. Mo, Miss Wen.' A graceful, striking flight attendant stepped forward, her Mandarin fluid and standard.

'I am Marry, the chief flight attendant for this journey. My team and I will be at your service throughout the flight. Please don't hesitate to let us know if you need anything.' 'Thank you,' Wen Yicong replied with a smile, her gaze drifting as she continued to take in the surroundings.

She noticed, deeper in the cabin, several doors—and wondered where they led. Then a voice called her thoughts back: 'Teacher Wen.' She turned, on instinct.

'Mm?' The gentleman in his impeccable suit watched her calmly, his tone flat: 'Would you like to rest first, or dine first?' '...Either is fine.' Plunged into such surroundings, Wen Yicong hadn't yet found her footing. She cleared her throat, a little too deliberately, and smiled: 'Whatever you prefer.' Mo Shaoshang regarded her for a few seconds, then turned to Marry: 'Bring some tea and refreshments first.' 'Understood.

One moment.' The chief flight attendant accepted the suit jacket Mo Shaoshang had casually shrugged off, lowered her gaze, and led them both to the sitting area. Before long, another attendant arrived with the refreshments.

The bone china was delicate, almost translucent; on the tray sat an array of small, exquisite pastries, each one a work of art. Wen Yicong murmured her thanks, lifted the teacup, and took a small sip.

The tea was rich, mellow, the aftertaste sweet on the tongue—she couldn't begin to guess what rare variety it was. Time slipped by, second by second.

The cabin was utterly still, broken only by the faint hum of the air system. Wen Yicong cradled her cup, her gaze with nowhere to land, until at last it drifted to the apron beyond the window.

But even without looking, every nerve in her body could feel the gaze coming from across the way—a predator locking onto its prey, precise, unerring, settling on her with a heat that made her fingertips tremble and her skin flush. In that suffocating silence, Mo Shaoshang spoke.

'Teacher Wen seems a little ill at ease.' Wen Yicong nearly choked. She smoothed a strand of hair, her surface composure intact: 'It's my first time on a private jet.

A little, yes.' 'Anything, the first time, brings nerves,' Mo Shaoshang said. 'After a few times, it becomes natural.' Wen Yicong's eyes shifted.

A few times, and it becomes natural? Did that mean—things like this would happen again? A ripple of unease stirred in her chest.

She didn't know what to say, so she fixed her gaze on the tip of her nose, on her breath, and silently took another sip of tea. For a long while after, neither she nor Mo Shaoshang spoke again.

She watched the world outside the window; he watched her. With a gaze beyond description. Neither lewd nor wanton, carrying not a trace of frivolity—yet so focused it bordered on the pathological.

As if, in his eyes, she were the only thing in the world that existed; the only living thing breathing in all this stillness. They sat across from each other, wordless, the air between them strange and charged.

Wen Yicong felt her cheeks burn, her whole skin prickle with heat. She realized that if she didn't say something to break this pool of silence, she might lose her mind.

'Ah, right. Airi...' Something had just occurred to her. She hesitated a few seconds, then ventured: 'Mr. Mo, forgive me for asking.

Is it true Airi doesn't like blue?' At her words, Mo Shaoshang's eyelids dipped—almost imperceptibly—and he gave a small nod. Wen Yicong was surprised.

Her eyes widened a fraction: 'You knew already?' 'Mm.' Perhaps it was professional instinct, but Wen Yicong paid close attention to every particular behavior of little Airi, unwilling to let slip any thread that might lead her into the child's inner world. Her brow furrowed slightly.

She asked again: 'Is there a particular reason?' Mo Shaoshang: 'I'm not sure.' At that answer, Wen Yicong's brow knit briefly—but then, on second thought, she understood. Of course.

Airi had been in Italy until recently. Mo Shaoshang, though a relative, had lived with the child for only a handful of months at most.

The boy's life in Italy—he wouldn't know. It was only natural. Wen Yicong mulled this over, then thought of something else.

The corners of her mouth curved, soft and reassuring, and she said: 'Actually, children like Airi, more or less, all have their own particular likes and dislikes. As long as it has nothing to do with some psychological shadow, it won't affect much.

You don't need to worry too much.' At this, Mo Shaoshang lifted the glass of Red Wine from the table and took a small sip. Then he raised his eyes, his gaze returning to that bright, beautiful little face—his expression deep, his thoughts unreadable.

Meeting that look, Wen Yicong realized something. She coughed, embarrassed, and faltered: 'Sorry, I'm talking too much again...

I just didn't want you to worry.' Mo Shaoshang took in the flush on her cheeks. Within a few seconds, the corner of his mouth curved—almost imperceptibly.

Wen Yicong noticed, bewildered: 'What are you smiling at?' Mo Shaoshang looked at her and said: 'Teacher Wen, paying attention to my feelings—that's very good. Mi fai stare bene.' Wen Yicong: '...' Her already-warm cheeks grew inexplicably hotter.

Panic fluttered in her chest. On instinct she wanted to look away, but her gaze betrayed her, sliding to the man's faintly smiling lips.

Mo Shaoshang's lips were beautiful. The shape was elegant, the color pale, and now the corner was lifted in the slightest arc—an attraction so striking it was almost breathtaking.

Those lips. That dim, absurd night—those were the lips that had kissed her. Kissed her with a ferocity, a wildness, a heat like fire, as if to burn her through from head to toe...

In a flash, Wen Yicong felt shame and vexation tangle together, a red tide spreading from her cheeks down to her ears, her neck. She didn't know how to answer Mo Shaoshang, so she turned her head slightly, took a sip of juice from her glass, and refused to look at him.

This man was always like this. Casual, effortless—and yet able to raise a storm in her heart with a single word. But... Airi disliked blue, yet Mo Shaoshang seemed especially fond of it.

Was it mere coincidence, or was there some connection between the two? Wen Yicong turned this over in her mind. After a long while with no answer, she let it go.

Outside the window, dusk and dawn traded places. The sun had at some point been swallowed whole by thick clouds. Not far off, the sky churned with dark clouds, layer upon layer like ink-soaked cotton, their edges glowing with a strange, dark-gold light—uncanny, bewitching.

The clouds hung low, as if one could reach out and touch them; within them, lightning flickered now and then, silently brewing a storm. The plane climbed, passing through a sea of gray clouds.

Below, the city's lights blurred, until they became a distant, faint glow. Wen Yicong pressed her lips to the rim of her glass, forcing herself to turn her attention away from Mo Shaoshang.

She began to savor the juice in her glass. The juice was a deep purple, sweet and tart—apple and mulberry, perhaps. It was good.

She licked her lips and couldn't help but take another sip. The sound-absorbing carpet swallowed footsteps whole, offering the perfect quiet.

Because of this, Wen Yicong had no idea when the dedicated flight attendant, Marry, had appeared at her side. This fair-haired, blue-eyed European beauty had a pair of long, straight, well-proportioned legs, and was very tall.

Now, to match the height of Wen Yicong's seated position, she bent one long leg and half-knelt, asking in soft, smiling Mandarin: 'Miss Wen, I see you like this juice. Shall I bring you some more?' Wen Yicong had never in her life been waited on at such a level.

A little embarrassed, she held her goblet with both hands and nodded slightly: 'Yes, please. Thank you.' Marry was charmed by the shy Chinese girl.

She smiled and said: 'You're very welcome.' As she spoke, she refilled Wen Yicong's juice, and as she rose, asked softly: 'Dinner will begin in about an hour. Is there anything in particular you'd like to eat?

The chef can prepare it for you on the spot.' Wen Yicong thought for a moment: 'I'm not picky. Anything is fine.' Marry smiled and inclined her head: 'Then I'll have the chef prepare tonight's signature set for you.' Such meticulous service made Wen Yicong feel both refreshed and a little uneasy.

Only after Marry left did she quietly exhale and relax. Once relaxed, her gaze drifted, inexplicably, back across the way.

And there, once more, was her employer. At some point, Mo Shaoshang had taken up a document and was reading through it. In the play of light and shadow, his profile was clean-cut and distinct—perfect, without a single flaw to find.

As if sensing her gaze, he looked up. Their eyes met. As if scalded, Wen Yicong quickly looked away, pretending to study the clouds outside the window.

'If Teacher Wen is bored, feel free to walk around, look at whatever you like,' Mo Shaoshang said, his long legs crossed with easy elegance, his tone casual. 'Besides the dining area, the plane also has a bedroom and an entertainment room.' 'Oh... alright.' Wen Yicong replied.

'You're busy. Don't mind me.' Time flowed on in silence. Wen Yicong sipped her juice in small mouthfuls, occasionally stealing a glance at the man working across from her.

She noticed that, when he read, his expression was focused, severe—his brow sometimes furrowing, sometimes easing; his long, well-defined fingers occasionally tapping lightly against the page. The fierce, cutting edge of him receded a little, replaced by something more scholarly, more refined...

Before she knew it, Marry appeared again, announcing that dinner was ready. Wen Yicong followed Mo Shaoshang to the dining area.

The table had already been laid. Bone china caught the candlelight in soft glints; in the vase at the center of the table stood a fresh bouquet of white tulips, their petals still beaded with dew.

The chef came in person to introduce the evening's dishes—the appetizer: caviar on blini; the soup: matsutake cream; the main: Wagyu ribeye steak with seasonal vegetables; the dessert: a lava chocolate cake. The air carried the soft strains of a violin.

Wen Yicong and Mo Shaoshang ate in silence, heads lowered. The dining area was utterly still. A chef was a chef—his skill, as expected, left nothing to fault.

The steak was seared to perfection; when cut, the juices ran rich and the meat melted on the tongue. In the face of such food, Wen Yicong ate with such delight that she almost forgot the man sitting across from her.

Before long, Lin Ke stepped in, murmuring something into Mo Shaoshang's ear. Mo Shaoshang's expression remained neutral.

He took a napkin, lightly dabbed his lips, rose, and left Wen Yicong with a single line—'Take your time, Teacher Wen. I'll be back shortly'—before turning and walking away.

Wen Yicong, steak still in her mouth, tilted her head up and watched. She saw her employer and his assistant leave the dining area one after the other, then disappear down the corridor.

Curious, she couldn't help turning to the flight attendant beside her and asking softly: 'How big is this plane, exactly?' The flight attendant remaining in the dining area was Chinese—black hair, snow-white skin, a small face on a small frame. She was also the youngest of the dedicated cabin crew, fresh on the job.

She was about Wen Yicong's age, and seeing how gentle and approachable Wen Yicong was, she relaxed a little too, and answered: 'The cabin? It's pretty big.

Besides the dining area and the private kitchen, there's a bedroom, a washroom, an entertainment room... Mr. Mo's Cloud Eagle is a Bombardier Global 7500—the top of the line for private jets.

Its range is over seven thousand nautical miles.' Wen Yicong listened, astonished, and murmured to herself: 'So many features. This isn't a plane at all—it's a mobile presidential suite.' The young attendant nodded: 'Yes.

The plane was only delivered last year. The interior was all customized to Mr. Mo's preferences.' Wen Yicong was silent for a moment, then sighed with the gravity of an old sage: 'Indeed.

The life of the rich is beyond the imagination of ordinary people.' The young attendant let out a soft laugh, then added: 'That's nothing. I heard from Marry-jie earlier—Mr.

Mo has several private jets like this. The Cloud Eagle is the one he uses most. There's another one, Yinyi, that's even bigger, but Mr.

Mo thinks it's too flashy, so he doesn't use it often.' Wen Yicong: '...' Envy makes one unrecognizable. She didn't feel like talking for the moment.

She picked up her fork, speared a piece of beef, and put it in her mouth. Chew, chew, chew. The young attendant reached over to clear the appetizer plate Wen Yicong had finished.

A glance to the side—and she saw the young woman chewing her steak with puffed cheeks, as cute as a little squirrel. She couldn't help laughing, and added: 'Miss Wen, you have such a nice personality.

Being around you isn't tiring at all.' Wen Yicong flushed at the praise and smiled: '...I talk a lot. Not as quiet as Mr.

Mo.' The young attendant blurted out: 'I didn't mean serving Mr. Mo is tiring. I meant that Miss Qiao from last time.' Hmm?

Wen Yicong paused. Her ears perked up, and her eyes filled with the unmistakable light of gossip. 'Miss Qiao?' 'Yes.' The young attendant lowered her voice, complaining: 'You have no idea how difficult she was to serve.

The moment she boarded, she said the slippers we'd prepared weren't comfortable—she had to have her usual brand. We had to urgently contact the ground to buy them for her.

Then she said the scent in the cabin was too faint, not sweet enough—she had to have it changed to the one she liked... During the flight, she was cold one moment, hot the next.

The chef's steak, she said, wasn't cooked right—she demanded it be remade. In short, she was a handful.' Wen Yicong listened with great interest.

Just then, a woman's voice cut in sharply, low and rebuking: 'Linda, I asked you to serve Miss Wen's meal, not to chat.' The words landed. Linda's face changed instantly.

She fell silent at once, lowered her head, not daring to say another word. Wen Yicong turned toward the sound. She saw Marry standing at the entrance to the dining area, face cold, her eyes full of displeasure at Linda—and a trace of something else... panic?

Worried Linda would be punished, Wen Yicong quickly spoke up to help: 'It wasn't her wanting to chat. I was the one who insisted on asking her questions.

Don't blame her.' Marry shot Linda a look, then walked over. When her face turned toward Wen Yicong, it had already resumed a professional smile, and she said earnestly: 'Miss Wen, Linda is new—a little clumsy, and not great with words.

Please be understanding.' 'No, not at all. She's done everything well,' Wen Yicong said quickly. After a few more words, Marry took Linda to clear the empty plates and left.

Wen Yicong was alone in the dining area again. She picked up her small fork, about to enjoy the dessert, when Linda's words echoed in her ears once more.

Miss... Qiao? Who was she? Someone who could ride Mo Shaoshang's private plane, and boss around his dedicated cabin crew so freely—she must be very close to him...

Wen Yicong scooped up a spoonful of lava cake and put it in her mouth. The sweet richness melted on her tongue, but her heart was a mess.

Just then, the atmosphere shifted. A cold chill crept up from behind her. She turned, instinctively. At some point, the man had returned.

His handsome brow was unruffled. He sat down with composure and said lightly: 'Some last-minute business. Sorry to have kept you waiting, Teacher Wen.' 'It's alright, I hadn't waited long...' Wen Yicong faltered, lowering her head to continue eating her dessert.

The dining area fell quiet again. Only the violin remained, and the occasional clear ring of spoon or fork against bone china.

But Wen Yicong's heart refused to settle. Though she tried hard to ignore it, and was unwilling to admit it— The truth was, Linda's words had lodged like a small thorn in some soft place inside her.

She didn't know how long it had been, or how it happened, but Wen Yicong heard herself speak, as if possessed: 'Mr. Mo.' At her soft call, Mo Shaoshang's hand paused for a breath.

Then he lifted his gaze to that flushed, lovely little face, and even his voice softened without his knowing: 'Mm?' The beautiful Eastern girl fixed her bright eyes on him, clear as stars: 'That Miss Qiao, who has also ridden this plane—is she a friend of yours?' The words landed.

Mo Shaoshang was silent for half a second, then raised one brow—very slightly. Across from him— Only Wen Yicong herself knew that, the very first second after asking, she regretted it.

Mo Shaoshang was her employer. And his relationship with that Miss Qiao was purely his private life. What standing did she have, what identity, to ask her employer such a private question?

Truly, she had spoken without thinking—far too brash! But... This man had told her himself that he wasn't good at socializing, that he couldn't even find a female companion to invite to a Dinner Party, and that he had no friends...

So how could there suddenly appear a Miss Qiao so familiar and intimate, who could ride his private jet? Wen Yicong's cheeks burned.

Her heart felt like a ball of yarn a kitten had tangled—messy and panicked. She could only force herself to keep her eyes wide, meeting those blue-black eyes.

She didn't know how long it had been when a voice, cold as jade and endlessly suggestive, finally sounded, piercing through all the chaos around them. Mo Shaoshang watched her, unblinking, and said: 'Teacher Wen, are you unhappy?' Wen Yicong: '...' ----------------------- Author's note: Mo Mo: Are you jealous?

My little darling. —— Random 100 red packet