Chapter 11: Mama’s Done Pretending

After shoving each other for a while, Tang Yan finally dropped the act, her voice laced with simmering anger:
“Li Chuzhe, get the hell out of my way!”

At this point, Li Chuzhe was already half-drunk, his mind consumed by the image of Mo Boyu tangled up with Tang Yan earlier. His arms tightened instinctively around her.
“What the hell happened between you two just now?”

Tang Yan froze mid-motion, suddenly catching on. A sly smirk tugged at her lips. “You saw it? You’re acting like this… are you actually jealous?” The thought sent a strange thrill through her chest.

“What’s going on?” Li Chuzhe’s cheeks flushed—whether from alcohol or the sudden exposure of his own feelings, he couldn’t tell.

But Tang Yan wasn’t budging. She turned her head sharply, giving up any resistance entirely.

Seeing her turn away, Li Chuzhe’s confusion overpowered his irritation. He lowered his gaze and caught sight of Tang Yan’s collarbone beneath the V-neck of her pajamas—delicate, smooth, the pulse beneath the skin beating steadily. His breathing grew ragged, his body pressing down harder.

“What are you doing?” Tang Yan snapped, turning quickly and pushing against him with both hands.

“Stay away from Mo Boyu,” Li Chuzhe murmured, his breath hot against her earlobe, which had turned slightly pink.

Tang Yan had been ready to kick him clear across the room—but then, without warning, he collapsed onto her, dead weight pinning her down. She struggled to breathe under his heavy frame.

After what felt like an eternity of wrestling, she finally managed to shove the sleeping lump that was Li Chuzhe off her.
“Jesus Christ, I’m exhausted. What the hell was I thinking, picking *you*?” She bent slightly at the waist, hands on hips, the posture of someone who’d just survived a war.

The next morning, Tang Yan hadn’t even fully woken up when the noise downstairs jolted her awake. She stumbled downstairs and found Li Chuzhe arguing with Mo Boyu—both men looking furious.

Seeing them together, and remembering why Li Chuzhe had gone ballistic last night, Tang Yan’s stomach dropped. Without hesitation, she tiptoed back toward her room.

Just then, Li Chuzhe’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
“Go help the lady get dressed. Bring her down.”

Tang Yan froze. Then, with a sigh, she stepped forward.
“No need. I’ve already taken care of myself.”
(Which, in her case, meant throwing a coat over her pajamas.)

Both men turned at the same time. Li Chuzhe’s face darkened instantly.
“What are you waiting for? Go change her clothes!”

He shot a sharp glance at Mo Boyu, who immediately bristled.
“What’s the big deal? Can’t I look? I already said—we’re just married by contract. Tang Yan can date whoever she wants. Can’t I at least try to win her over?”

“She’s legally my wife,” Li Chuzhe said coolly, lifting his coffee cup and taking a slow sip. “What kind of face would I have if you keep chasing after her?”

Mo Boyu snorted. “You? The guy who never touched a woman in his life? Now suddenly all protective over your fake wife? Come on, Li Chuzhe—did you actually fall for her?”

Li Chuzhe lifted his eyes, icy and piercing. For a split second, Mo Boyu flinched.
“No.”

“Then why not let me try?” Mo Boyu pressed. “It’s not like you care.”

“Do whatever you want,” Li Chuzhe snapped, setting down his cup and standing. “I’m done here.”

Coincidentally, at that exact moment, Tang Yan appeared at the top of the stairs—dressed in a long dress, poised and composed.

Li Chuzhe’s eyes flickered with panic. But then he saw her calm expression, and something in him settled.

Before he could say anything, Mo Boyu sprang forward, grinning.
“Miss Tang, you look absolutely stunning today. Any plans for lunch? I’d love to take you out.”

“I’m busy,” Tang Yan replied coldly, her tone as sharp as glass. It was nothing like the sweet, innocent girl she’d pretended to be before.
In fact, this was the real Tang Yan. Ever since last night, she’d realized the wedding was just a shield—not a prison. She wouldn’t let herself get trapped in this farce.

They both stared, stunned by her sudden shift. Mo Boyu glanced nervously at Li Chuzhe.
“Hey, Li Chuzhe—you had work to do, right? Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” Li Chuzhe muttered, still locked onto Tang Yan. For the first time, he felt how far apart they really were.

Back on the sofa, Tang Yan exuded regal authority. The servants knew their place—no one dared approach. Even the usually insolent butler stood silently beside her, afraid to breathe too loud.

Now free, Tang Yan felt utterly elated.
“This… is the life I wanted.”

The servants exchanged glances, then quietly slipped away.

Once everyone was gone, Tang Yan headed upstairs again, changed into sportswear, slung her old green backpack over her shoulder, and walked straight out of the villa.

Finally, the butler couldn’t hold back. He stepped forward.
“Miss Tang, the master specifically said it’s unsafe outside lately. You shouldn’t go alone. Let me assign a bodyguard?”

She heard the subtext loud and clear—watching her every move.
“The contract states clearly: no interference. I go when I please. If you’re brave enough to sue, feel free to follow me.”

Her tone left no room for argument. The butler shut up instantly.

Tang Yan strode out of the villa with full confidence.
“Think you can lock me up? Not a chance.”

After her last bathroom wardrobe change, she’d grown oddly fond of that public restroom. She walked in again, switched back into Su Xiao’s look, and emerged holding her long dress, studying the map in her hand.

Not long after, she found her target.
“Song Xie Ling. I found you.”

Song Xie Ling was painting by the lake, her long fingers guiding the brush across the canvas.
“You tracked me down even here? Impressive.”

“Hey, I’m good at what I do,” Tang Yan grinned, stepping behind her. She looked at the painting—a mountain, blurred and dreamlike.

Song Xie Ling didn’t answer, focused on her stroke.
“You seem different today. But honestly? I prefer this version over yesterday’s ghost-like mess.”

“What ghost-like mess?” Tang Yan sat down on the grass, keeping a respectful distance.

Song Xie Ling didn’t reply. But she didn’t have to. They both knew exactly what she meant.
A ghost. That’s all she’d been.