Chapter Forty-One: The Storm Approaches

The corners of Mo Qinghan’s lips curled into a faint smile, her tone soft and coy as she whispered, “I am your painkiller.” With those words, she pressed her lips to his once more. Mo Qinghan’s initiative shattered the last remnants of He Zheyu’s restraint, and before long, he seized the upper hand. The couch began to creak beneath them, playing a suggestive symphony that left much to the imagination.

When He Yurou arrived at the Bosun Boxing Club, she found Zhao Qingwu still sitting atop the ring, his face bruised and swollen, looking utterly dejected. She rushed over, pulling tissues from her bag to gently wipe the blood from his face, tears brimming in her eyes as she choked out, “I knew my uncle would go too far because of me. Look at what he’s done to you.”

Han Mo, not seeing He Zheyu, surmised he had already left. He glanced at Zhao Qingwu with concern. “Do you need me to take you to the hospital or home?”

Zhao Qingwu’s expression remained distant, offering Han Mo no reply. It was He Yurou who interjected, “Leave your car here and go on foot.”

Han Mo simply replied, “Alright,” and departed.

The club manager approached, his tone apologetic. “Brother, you’ve been here nearly an hour. It’s already one in the morning. I need to close up.”

Only then did Zhao Qingwu slowly rise and head for the door. He Yurou turned to the manager with a quick, “Sorry to trouble you,” and hurried after him.

Zhao Qingwu didn’t refuse He Yurou’s offer to take him home, but he gave her a different address—not the Zhao residence. If the Zhao family saw him in this condition, the peace between the He and Zhao families would be shattered again tonight, and Mo Qinghan might be exposed. That was the last thing Zhao Qingwu wanted.

When they arrived at Zhao Qingwu’s private apartment, He Yurou insisted on tending to his wounds herself, unwilling to leave him alone. Late as it was, Zhao Qingwu couldn’t turn away a delicate young woman at his doorstep.

Once she finished dressing his injuries, Zhao Qingwu said, “Go rest in the bedroom. I’ll sleep on the sofa.” He walked over to the storage cabinet as He Yurou put away the medical kit. When she emerged, she found Zhao Qingwu sitting alone on the couch, silently drinking.

She strode over, snatched the glass from his hand, and said, “You drank enough at dinner. Any more and you’ll be drunk.”

Zhao Qingwu wrested the glass back, clutching his chest, sorrow etched across his face. “If I don’t drown myself in drink, I’m afraid I won’t survive the pain my heart brings to my whole body.” With that, he poured himself another generous helping.

Knowing she couldn’t dissuade him, He Yurou fetched the red bottle and declared, “You want to drink? Fine! I’ll keep you company!” She tipped her head back and took a fierce gulp.

Zhao Qingwu ignored her, drinking in silence. After a while, the alcohol began to blur his vision, and as he looked at He Yurou, the woman sitting before him, sharing his drinks, became Mo Qinghan in his eyes.

He gazed at her with a foolish grin, reaching out to touch her flushed cheek. “I love you so much, I truly do. And you love me too, don’t you? It’s just…”

Before he could finish, He Yurou pressed her lips to his, afraid the name he would utter was not her own. In Zhao Qingwu’s drunken eyes, the woman he kissed was Mo Qinghan, but it was He Yurou who silently endured, gently wrapping her arms around him and responding to his embrace.