Let Me Go Crazy.

Chapter 37

Fortunately, the X-ray results showed that Wen Yicong had not injured her bones—only soft tissue damage. Plenty of rest and regular dressing changes would suffice.

By the time she left the International Hospital, it was nearly noon.

The late-autumn sun was not scorching; its clear golden light carried a chill, slicing the camphor tree shadows in front of the standalone building into fine speckles that scattered across the spotless stone path.

The wound on her knee made Wen Yicong uncomfortable. She moved one step at a time, walking with extra caution. Beside her, Mo Shaoshang supported her, matching her pace—neither hurried nor slow.

The Bentley was already waiting in the open space before the building.

Seeing the car, Wen Yicong instinctively quickened her steps, reaching for the door handle. But just as her fingertips were about to touch it, the man beside her extended his hand and opened the door before she could. Then he lowered his gaze, expressionless, watching her with a dark, blue-black stare that silently imprisoned her.

Wen Yicong bit her lip.

A gentleman with perfect manners, helping an injured lady into the car—flawless, proper, reasonable.

There was no reason to refuse.

Wen Yicong pressed her lips together, said nothing, bent down, and prepared to sit in the back seat.

But at that very moment, Mo Shaoshang leaned toward her—a natural, measured movement.

The hand that had been lightly supporting her elbow now slid down her forearm and firmly grasped her slender wrist. No longer a polite, gentlemanly touch, but a grip filled with obsessive possessiveness, unmistakable.

‘…’ Wen Yicong blinked and turned her head to look at him.

‘Steady yourself,’ Mo Shaoshang said flatly.

Meeting his eyes, as deep and still as an ocean, Wen Yicong was momentarily stunned.

Was it her imagination? She thought she saw Mo Shaoshang’s gaze flicker—just a brief, indifferent glance—toward a spot in the camphor tree shadows across the street.

A fleeting, almost imperceptible look.

It lasted only a fraction of a second, as quick as sunlight slipping through a gap in the leaves.

Before Wen Yicong could recover, Mo Shaoshang had already withdrawn his gaze. He bent slightly, shielding her head as he guided her into the car. He followed her in, and the door closed, shutting out all external prying eyes.

The engine hummed softly, and the Bentley pulled smoothly away from the Hospital Complex.

Mo Shaoshang’s expression remained calm throughout—no extra questions, no commands. It was as if the disturbance in the shadows had never registered with him.

In the rearview mirror, Lin Ke sensed something and lifted his eyes.

The two men’s gazes met for an instant in the air.

His boss’s face was cold, no words, no movement, not even the slightest change in the curve of his eyes.

But Lin Ke understood.

*

Three kilometers away, an inconspicuous gray van was parked in a temporary parking zone. The man in the passenger seat was flipping through the camera screen, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

‘Got it?’ The companion in the back leaned in.

‘Got it, got it!’ The paparazzo was thrilled, keeping his voice low. ‘No clear faces, but the wrist-grabbing detail is perfect! The Mo Group crown prince personally helping her in and holding her hand—isn’t that headline explosive enough?’

He spoke with excitement, repeatedly zooming in on the photo on the screen.

Sunlight, tree shadows, a black Bentley.

A tall, imposing man with a sharp profile, looking down at the young girl beside him. He gripped her wrist, his knuckles distinct, the pressure not light. The girl showed only a slender, fair forearm and half a skirt hem, gently leaning against him.

The image looked both intimate and restrained.

Brimming with undercurrents.

Satisfied with his work, the paparazzo put away the camera, lit a cigarette, and leisurely instructed his companion, ‘Call that person. Tell her it’s done. Ask her to prepare the final payment.’

*

A few minutes later, in an upscale café in Nanjing City.

Qiao Mingyi sat in a corner booth, sunglasses covering most of her face. The coffee before her had long gone cold.

The paparazzo across from her carried a camera, looked unremarkable, with a cheap cigarette tucked behind his ear. He was leaning back, legs crossed, squinting as he scrolled through the photos on his camera screen.

‘You said it was done,’ Qiao Mingyi said in a low, displeased tone, ‘and this is what you bring me? A few blurry shots?’

‘Miss Qiao, you said it yourself—it’s a sneak shot. Getting the back and profile is already quite something.’

The paparazzo turned the camera toward her. The screen showed a series of continuous captures: at the VIP entrance of the private International Hospital, a tall, well-dressed man in a suit turned slightly, his arm lightly touched by a slender figure beside him. They were walking toward the waiting Bentley. The man’s face was only a vague half-profile; the woman’s face was completely hidden by her long hair and angle, leaving only a graceful, slender back and the curve of her skirt as she got into the car.

‘But you can tell they’re very close,’ the paparazzo added. ‘This kind of secret romance among the wealthy—the more they try to hide it, the more the audience loves it. With a headline like “Mo Group Crown Prince’s Secret Rendezvous with Mysterious Woman,” the traffic will be huge!’

Qiao Mingyi stared at the back in the photo, gritting her teeth.

Wen Yicong.

A poor, unremarkable special education teacher—what tricks had she used to seduce Mo Shaoshang?

What gave her the right? Why her?

After a moment, Qiao Mingyi steadied herself. She took a thick envelope from her bag and slid it across the table toward the paparazzo.

‘Hold onto it for now. Don’t release it yet. Wait for my signal.’ Her voice was cold and firm. ‘I want the perfect timing—let her climb high, so she falls harder.’

The paparazzo weighed the envelope in his hand, grinned, and gave a satisfied, sinister smile. ‘Got it. Fertilizer. Just say the word.’

The deal done, Qiao Mingyi stood up, adjusted her sunglasses and mask, and walked away on her stilettos without looking back.

*

The flight from Nanjing City to Jinggang City took over two hours.

The business jet cut through the clouds; outside the window, the white was soft as cotton candy, with occasional golden light leaking through the gaps, casting faint patches into the cabin.

Because of her knee injury, Wen Yicong sat somewhat stiffly, but what made her even more uneasy was the silent, dark figure beside her.

Mo Shaoshang was, as usual, handling business. His long fingers tapped on the keyboard, his profile outlined by the window light in a cold, sharp silhouette.

He always seemed so busy—busy to the point of not seeming human, more like a machine running at high speed, never making a mistake. Precise and cold…

Wen Yicong’s mind wandered in a jumble.

Neither of them spoke the entire way.

The plane landed in Jinggang City at noon. Lin Ke had already arranged a fleet to pick them up.

A few minutes later, Mo Shaoshang dropped Wen Yicong off at the iron gate of Mo Manor.

‘I have a meeting at the company this afternoon,’ he said, rolling down the window to look at her as she prepared to get out. His tone was flat. ‘I’ll be back tonight.’

For no reason, Wen Yicong’s heart skipped a beat. She paused for two seconds before slowly nodding and whispering, ‘Okay… Mr. Mo, please go ahead.’

He’ll be back tonight…

Back for what?

Why did he specifically tell her that?

Wen Yicong’s face grew warm, her palms damp. She vaguely knew the answer but dared not think about it.

Mo Shaoshang’s gaze was calm. He stared at her for a moment, then said nothing more. The window slowly rose, enveloping his handsome, sharp-featured Eurasian face in darkness.

The black car drove away, gradually disappearing.

Wen Yicong stood there until the convoy vanished at the end of the tree-lined avenue. Then she let out a soft breath and turned to walk through the gate.

The afternoon at Mo Manor was quiet as usual.

After greeting Heng Shu and the others, Wen Yicong returned to her bedroom to rest.

She wanted to sleep, but her mind was a mess. As soon as she closed her eyes, images and words spun like a carousel in her head. One moment it was Mo Shaoshang’s lowered eyelashes as he applied medicine for her, the next it was his words: ‘Don’t look at me like that—your eyes make me lose control’…

Five minutes later, Wen Yicong gave up.

She snapped her eyes open, stared at the ceiling, took a deep breath, and sternly told herself:

Please. Can you stop thinking about him?

You came back specifically to give Airi his lesson!

In a daze, time flew by. At 2:30 PM, Wen Yicong appeared in the playroom on time.

Airi was squatting by the floor-to-ceiling window, building a crooked tower with colorful blocks.

Hearing footsteps, the child looked up. His somewhat vacant gaze lingered on her face for a moment, then shifted away as he continued focusing on his blocks.

But Wen Yicong caught a small, heartening detail.

The child’s lips pressed together very lightly. She knew this was Airi’s micro-expression for ‘happiness.’

Wen Yicong curved her lips, walked over, and sat down beside Airi, quietly observing his block-stacking technique.

Little Airi was in good shape today. His fine motor skills were more stable than last week. Not only did he successfully build a tower, but he also gently pushed it toward Wen Yicong.

As if showing it off.

‘Wow!’ Wen Yicong was delighted and praised him sincerely. ‘Airi is amazing!’

The child didn’t respond verbally, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

All afternoon, Wen Yicong stayed with Airi, guiding him through sensory integration exercises and language interaction.

Outside, the daylight gradually slanted, painting the wooden floor of the playroom a warm orange.

After an unknown amount of time, Airi, tired from playing, nestled into Wen Yicong’s arms, his head bobbing like a chick pecking at grain.

Looking at the child’s delicate, innocent face, Wen Yicong’s heart softened.

She gently held Airi, lowered her voice, and hummed a European nursery rhyme for him.

In that moment, time was serene, the days peaceful—almost making her forget those burning kisses, those nights of losing control, and the unfathomable undercurrents in those blue-black eyes…

As day was gradually swallowed by night, the sun set, and the western sky was dyed a warm rose by dusk.

After dinner, Wen Yicong took Airi to the garden for a walk, watching ants move their nest. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a familiar figure.

Lin Ke walked through the garden path, steady and composed, stopping before her and Airi.

‘Teacher Wen, sorry to interrupt,’ he said with a slight bow, his tone as warm and respectful as always. ‘Mr. Mo requests your presence.’

At those words, Wen Yicong’s heart tightened.

Mo Shaoshang had said he would be back tonight…

So early?

In just a few seconds, many guesses and thoughts flashed through Wen Yicong’s mind, flustered and chaotic. But soon, she took a deep breath, steadied herself, handed Airi’s hand to the caregiver beside her, then bent down and said softly, ‘Airi, Teacher has something to take care of. Go back to your room with Auntie first. Teacher will come find you later, okay?’

Airi tilted his head, said nothing, seeming a bit reluctant.

‘Alright, Airi, let’s go back to our room. Auntie will play blocks with you.’ The caregiver’s voice was gentle. She took Airi’s little hand and waved it. ‘Come on, say bye-bye to Teacher.’

Airi made a ‘goodbye’ gesture and obediently let the adult lead him away.

Composing herself, Wen Yicong followed Lin Ke through the garden, across the corridor, and arrived at the door of the master bedroom deep in the main house.

‘Mr. Mo is waiting for you inside.’ Lin Ke smiled faintly. Without waiting for Wen Yicong to respond, he turned and walked away, the sound of his leather shoes on the marble floor fading until it disappeared at the end of the corridor.

Wen Yicong was left alone in the hallway.

She stood helplessly before the closed dark wooden door.

Wen Yicong knew what this place was.

On her first day at Mo Manor, Heng Shu had told her this was Mo Shaoshang’s bedroom.

So late at night, why had he asked Lin Ke to bring her here…

The surroundings were very quiet—so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat. A faint line of warm yellow light seeped from under the master bedroom door, like a silent summons.

Wen Yicong stood frozen for a moment, then inhaled, exhaled, took a deep breath, and raised her hand to knock.

But before her fingertips touched the door, it opened from the inside.

She was startled, her thick lashes fluttering as she lifted her gaze.

In the backlit darkness stood a figure—tall, silent, dangerous.

Mo Shaoshang seemed to have been back for a while. His suit jacket was gone; he wore only a well-fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal lean, muscular forearms. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes rested on her face, calm and unruffled, as if he had been waiting for her for some time.

‘Assistant Lin said you wanted to see me,’ Wen Yicong said, her throat tight. She cleared her throat, trying to make her voice sound less flustered. ‘Is there something you need?’

Mo Shaoshang looked at her without answering immediately.

A few seconds of silence stretched like a pulled thread, each inch wrapped in an invisible yet suffocating tension.

Just as Wen Yicong thought he hadn’t heard and was about to repeat her question, the man opposite finally spoke.

‘Come in and talk.’ Mo Shaoshang stepped aside, making way.

The moment the words landed, it felt as if an invisible hand had clenched Wen Yicong’s heart.

She bit her lip, lowered her eyes, and forced herself to step forward.

Click.

In just a second, a soft mechanical sound came from behind her.

The lock clicked shut.

Wen Yicong’s heart sank. She didn’t dare look up immediately.

Underfoot was a dark gray wool carpet that swallowed all sound. The air was thick with Mo Shaoshang’s clean, cedar scent—stronger than in the Study Room, pervasive, saturating every breath she took.

Finally, Wen Yicong raised her eyes.

The entire bedroom was dominated by black, gray, and deep blue—cold, oppressive, without a single extra color.

The floor-to-ceiling windows were perpetually covered by heavy blackout curtains, letting in no daylight. The only light source was a solitary floor lamp by the bed, its dim yellow glow barely illuminating a small area, leaving the rest submerged in deep shadows.

At the center of the room was a bed. The black leather headboard took up almost the entire wall, and the bedding was a somber ink-black.

It lay there quietly, like a sleeping beast.

Wen Yicong took a step, turning her head. She noticed a display cabinet against the wall opposite the bed. Under the glass surface, something was faintly displayed.

The light was too dim to see clearly.

But on top of the cabinet, a half-open velvet box was clearly visible.

Under the lamp, the contents gleamed brilliantly.

She recognized it at once—the necklace Mo Shaoshang had won at the Auction.

—Devotion.

Now, the sapphire necklace lay quietly on the black velvet lining, as if waiting for something. The spotlight flowed over the gem’s surface; that deep blue seemed to have absorbed an entire night sky, while the pink-orange glow floating at the center of the star was like the first gentle light piercing the darkness at dawn.

It was beautiful—beautiful to the point of unreality.

Wen Yicong stared, unable to look away.

‘The necklace has arrived.’

Mo Shaoshang’s voice came from behind her, calm. ‘Try it on.’

Hearing this, Wen Yicong snapped back to reality. Almost reflexively, she stepped back half a pace, shaking her head and waving her hands. ‘Mr. Mo, I told you before—this necklace is too precious. I can’t accept it.’

There was no response from the other side.

Confused, Wen Yicong hesitated and looked up, meeting a pair of blue-black eyes.

Mo Shaoshang stood before her, staring straight at her, like a bottomless pool—calm on the surface, but beneath it, an abyss of magma.

‘I bid on this necklace,’ he said, his voice low and even, each word clear as it reached her ears, ‘only because I wanted to see you wear it.’

Wen Yicong was speechless. All the prepared refusals stuck in her throat, unable to come out.

This man knew exactly how to handle people.

No forceful demands, no domineering orders, no condescension or arrogance.

Such a powerful, high-ranking figure, when faced with her refusal, simply responded with a sincere, moving request.

Wen Yicong’s fingertips curled slightly. She said nothing.

Across from her, Mo Shaoshang watched her quietly, then spoke again, offering a light question: ‘Teacher Wen, would you grant my wish?’

Wen Yicong had always been like this—soft to gentleness, hard to force.

She hesitated, wavered, debated for a long time. In the end, she surrendered.

‘…Alright, since you put it that way.’ She heard herself answer, her voice very soft, carrying helplessness and a kind of resigned compromise. ‘Then… just a try-on.’

At this, Mo Shaoshang said nothing, but the corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest curve. He turned and took the necklace from the velvet box.

Under the light, that priceless jewel, laden with countless legends, was gathered into his palm.

‘Turn around,’ he told her.

Wen Yicong obeyed, turning her back to him, her heart pounding as if it might break through her chest.

Behind her, the familiar cedar scent invaded her senses, enveloping her again.

Wen Yicong kept taking deep breaths, forcing herself to calm down. Then she felt his hands reach around to the front of her neck.

His cool fingertips gently brushed aside the hair at her nape, and her black hair fell like a waterfall.

Wen Yicong was completely stiff, not moving a muscle.

Vaguely, her skin registered the rhythm of his breathing—just above the back of her neck, warm, steady, yet carrying a certain restrained control. His fingers worked on the clasp, his fingertips inevitably brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck, sending faint electric currents…

One second, two seconds.

The delicate clasp seemed tricky to fasten.

His fingertips lingered longer at the back of her neck. A subtle heat spread from the point of contact, like ripples on a lake, spreading outward, reaching her limbs and bones.

Wen Yicong held her breath.

It felt like an eternity before the necklace was finally in place.

‘Done.’ Mo Shaoshang said softly, his voice carrying a faint, barely noticeable hoarseness.

Wen Yicong wanted to turn around, but the next second, his fingers pressed on her shoulder.

‘…’ Without any words, her body seemed to have a mind of its own, freezing in place.

She dared not move.

Then she felt him come to her side. One arm reached around from behind her shoulder, gently lifting her chin, forcing her to look up at the opposite direction.

It was a large floor-to-ceiling mirror.

The mirror was spotless, reflecting two overlapping figures.

After returning to the Manor House, Wen Yicong had changed into a mid-neck knit dress—a soft cream-colored cashmere that hugged her body’s curves.

She wore the dress, and around her neck was the brilliant sapphire necklace. Mo Shaoshang stood behind her, in a deep black shirt, tall and cold, almost completely enveloping her slender form in his shadow.

The man’s eyes were slightly lowered, carefully studying her reflection.

His angular chin lightly rested on the top of her head, his arm encircled her front—so close, impossibly intimate, their ambiguous proximity impossible to hide.

Wen Yicong’s fingers trembled. Her palms and back were drenched in sweat, and her breathing became difficult.

She wanted to say something, but her throat felt blocked. She could only stand frozen, letting his gaze scan and dissect her over and over.

Suddenly, Mo Shaoshang’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

As if something displeased him.

‘…’

Wen Yicong felt a pang of panic, not knowing what he was dissatisfied with. She only felt that this man’s silence was like an invisible net, tightening around her, making it hard to breathe.

A moment later, as if he had finally found the problem, Mo Shaoshang’s long fingers moved, reaching for the back of her neck—

Rip.

A soft sound of a zipper sliding came through the air.

Wen Yicong’s pupils contracted. Before she could react, the fabric at her back slid open, and a chill hit her exposed skin.

‘Mo…’ she gasped in shock.

Before she could finish his name, the man had already pulled her mid-neck dress down to her shoulder blades.

Her delicate, pinkish shoulders, her slender, graceful neck, her exquisite collarbone—all the beauty hidden by clothing was now fully bared to the cool air, offered to his unfathomable eyes.

Wen Yicong panicked, instinctively raising her arms to cover herself.

But the next second, her entire body trembled violently.

Mo Shaoshang’s fingers covered her.

His fingertips, with their light calluses, traced the rounded curve of her shoulder—slow, gentle, reverent, almost worshipful. Like the softest feather, yet like the most dangerous flame, they sent shivers across her sensitive skin.

Wen Yicong was stunned.

She didn’t know what he was doing. She was even too shocked to resist. Her face flushed crimson, her teeth tightly biting her lower lip.

Outside, the wind howled, rattling the branches against the window. Inside the master bedroom, the heating was on full, the temperature pleasant.

But under his almost imperceptible caress, Wen Yicong’s whole body trembled lightly.

A scorching, burning restlessness.

Her blood boiled in her veins; every inch of skin he touched felt like it was on fire.

Just as Wen Yicong thought she might be burned alive, Mo Shaoshang stopped.

He turned slightly, leaning his head from behind her, his gaze falling on her neck.

Without the obstruction of the mid-neck fabric, the necklace finally rested gently against her collarbone.

Ice-white skin, dazzling gem—the entire composition was breathtakingly beautiful.

Mo Shaoshang stared at the image in the mirror, his eyes as deep as two wells of ink.

‘Look,’

he said softly, at the same time raising his hand, his fingers gently cupping her small face, guiding her gaze to the enchanting scene in the mirror.

‘…’ The beautiful Eastern girl’s face burned like fire, her lashes trembling uncontrollably, forced to look at the two overlapping figures in the mirror.

‘Wen Yicong.’

The man lowered his head, his thin lips pressed against her soft, pink earlobe, his voice low and gentle, uttering a phrase in Italian, like a lover’s intimate whisper in bed: ‘Sei così affascinante, Mi fai impazzire.’

-----------------------

Author’s note: Random 100 red envelopes.