A slap, crisp and resounding, landed on Ye Che's face, brutally interrupting his words.
Ye Che's face turned slightly, and before he could react to this sudden action, he saw Xia Weiyi reach out and push him off the sofa.
Ye Che's back slammed hard against the coffee table, the crisscrossing scars on it stinging fiercely with pain. His arm swept across, knocking down and shattering the cups on the table with a loud crash.
By then, Xia Weiyi had already climbed up from the sofa, wrapped herself in her nightgown, and clenched her fists tightly at her side. She watched Ye Che with downturned eyes, too angry to utter a single word.
She was truly sad.
She had endured his violence, his temper, his dominance, his distrust, and even his insults.
But the shadows Zhou Ting had cast upon her, the wounds of childhood, the years when she was ridiculed by her peers as a parasite and mocked for being an adopted daughter—Ye Che had watched her endure all of that.
