Pushing Fu Yanhe into the hall, San Fang caught the teacup thrown at him, his brows furrowed, showing a displeased expression as he looked towards Jiang Yun, who was full of anger on the sofa, and Fu Yu, who was covering her face and sobbing in pain.
"Madam, how could you throw a teacup at the young master? Don't you know that the young master has difficulty moving his legs? What if it had hit him?"
Jiang Yun grew even angrier, glared fiercely at San Fang, and said in a cold voice, "Get out! You have no right to speak here!"
San Fang's face darkened, he was about to say something more, but Fu Yanhe, who sat in the wheelchair with an indifferent expression, spoke calmly, "San Fang."
Reluctantly, San Fang stepped back and stood behind Fu Yanhe. Fu Yanhe's eyes slightly lifted, his voice cold and somber, "Isn't Fu Yu's current predicament a result of her own doing?"
