Oh dear.
He got angry, didn't he?
Chu Yao stared at the homewear, which matched the trousers, black—as was his consistent style.
But wasn't her own outfit also conventional? Even more conservative.
A flicker of light flashed through her eyes but quickly disappeared, with a deeper smile at the corners of her mouth.
When she stepped out, Mo Tingshen was on the balcony smoking, one hand in his pocket, his back facing the walk-in closet.
Without a word, Chu Yao took his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. "You have a bad stomach, don't smoke."
Mo Tingshen's face was somber, showing no emotion.
"Have you decided where you'll stay?"
"That newly renovated apartment of yours."
As soon as she spoke, Mo Tingshen grabbed his coat and put it on. "Let's go."
Downstairs, the scent of chicken soup wafted from the kitchen.
