"Let me go..."

"You bastards, let go of me now..."

At the highest peak of Haicheng, a grand ancient castle loomed over the landscape. Inside, a woman's furious shouts echoed through the halls, but no matter how hard she struggled, she was dragged into the main chamber and pinned to the floor, powerless to resist.

"Is this her?"

Seated on a plush sofa, a man with chiseled, strikingly handsome features studied her with piercing eyes. With a slight gesture of his hand, the butler standing nearby immediately stepped forward, presenting a file with utmost deference. "Yes, Master Mo."

Yan Ge'er.

Age twenty-three. Unemployed. Mother of a five-year-old son, father unknown. A dissolute private life.

The profile was disappointingly sparse.

Mo Zihan handed the file back to the butler and rose to his feet, his movements deliberate. He strode toward the woman, gripping her chin with rough fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. Their eyes locked—hers blazing with fury, his cold and unreadable.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Yan Ge'er spat, her beautiful eyes burning with rage, as if she could reduce the man who had abducted her to ashes with her glare alone.

And why wouldn't she be furious?

On her way back from dropping her son off at school, she had been seized in broad daylight, shoved into a car, and hauled off to this godforsaken place.

Anyone in her position would be seething—and terrified.

Yan Ge'er's fear dissipated like ashes the moment she laid eyes on the unfamiliar man, replaced only by burning fury.

"You've been telling everyone I'm dead?" she spat.

Mo Zihan released her chin from his grip. With a mere glance from him, the two black-clad men restraining Yan Ge'er silently stepped back and exited the room under the butler's lead.

In an instant...

The vast living room was left with only Yan Ge'er and Mo Zihan, their gazes locked in a heated standoff.

"I don’t even know who you are. Why would I go around saying you're dead? Did you grab the wrong person?" Yan Ge'er scrambled up from the floor, disheveled and indignant.

The man studied her, weighing the truth in her words.

Her beautiful eyes blazed with defiance, meeting his without a trace of fear.

"Heh..."

Mo Zihan chuckled softly. It was the first time a woman had dared to hold his gaze so boldly.

Impressive.

No wonder he had been determined to find her, even on his deathbed.

The man settled back into his seat and tossed a document from the table toward Yan Ge'er. "Sign it," he commanded. "From now on, you belong to me—Mo Zihan."

Yan Ge'er...

Is this guy out of his mind?

He just kidnapped me out of nowhere, barely said a word, and now expects me to be his woman?

What, is he so great just because he’s rich?

Or because he’s good-looking?

Yan Ge’er didn’t even glance at the document, tilting her chin up defiantly. "No thanks."

Her refusal was crisp and absolute.

Mo Zihan’s eyes flickered with surprise, his brow arching slightly. "Do you even know who I am?"

"What difference does it make? Either way, I’m not the woman you’re looking for. And sorry, but I have zero interest in being your woman."

Yan Ge’er crossed her arms, her posture radiating wariness.

These rich people were unbelievable—just snatching women off the street if they happened to be pretty, as if they owned the world.

Disgusting.

The man let out a low chuckle, the sound grating on Yan Ge’er’s nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

It only confirmed her suspicions—Mo Zihan wasn’t just a jerk, but a full-blown psycho.

"Sorry, not happening."

"I have other matters to attend to, so I won't disturb you any further, Mr. Mo."

Yan Ge'er turned on her heel and made a dash for the ridiculously oversized doorway.

*Click!*

A crisp snap of fingers echoed through the room, and two men in black suits materialized at the entrance, their predatory gazes locking onto her like hawks.

There was no way she could push past them—not with that kind of blockade.

Her steps faltered. Jaw clenched, she spun back toward the man lounging on the sofa, her voice laced with barely restrained fury. "What the hell do you want?"

"I suggest you take a look at the documents first."

The man crossed his arms—a small, unconscious mirror of Yan Ge'er's own stance, though neither of them noticed.

Trapped. No way out.

In the span of a few seconds, Yan Ge'er weighed her options and reluctantly stalked back to pick up the file.

Her grip slipped.

A stack of photos spilled out, scattering across the floor.

Her breath hitched.

Every single frame captured the same radiant smile of a young woman—and the tender, adoring gaze of a young man.

*Her. And him.*

Her eyes widened in shock as she looked up, only to meet Mo Zihan's icy, obsidian stare.

*They looked exactly alike.*

However, the boy in the photo was only about ten years old, his youthful face beaming with an innocent smile—nothing like the man before her, whose very bones seemed to radiate an icy aloofness that warned others to keep their distance.

"You... we..."

Yan Ge'er's mind went blank, her thoughts scattering like mist. Every time she tried to grasp at the fragments of memory, a sharp, needle-like pain throbbed at her temples.

"The paternity test results aren't back yet, but I suspect Nan Beichen is my biological son."

The man's voice was cold and detached, his words hitting her like a physical blow. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed to the floor. "N-no, that's impossible! Beichen can't be your son. No... it can't be..."

Suddenly, as if struck by a realization, she jerked her head up to meet his gaze. "Beichen's father is dead! We—we even visit his grave every year. If you don't believe me, go check for yourself. His name was Mo Zihan!"

A low, mocking laugh escaped his lips.

"Mo Zihan?"

"You dare tell my son I'm dead, woman?"

Though his lips curved into a smile, his dark eyes glinted with something far more sinister—something predatory and cruel.

It finally dawned on Yan Ge'er. The butler had addressed him as "Young Master Mo." Mo... Could it really be him? Was this man also named Mo Zihan?

That heartless scoundrel who had slept with her and vanished without a trace?

"You... you're Mo Zihan?"

Even as the realization struck, she couldn't bring herself to believe it. She needed to hear it from him.

His lips twisted into a smirk, wicked and knowing. Though he didn't nod, his silence spoke volumes—it was confirmation enough.

**Oh my God!**

Yan Beichen, your scumbag father is here.

Yan Ge’er sprang up from the floor, jabbing a furious finger at Mo Zihan as she screamed, "You shameless bastard! How dare you show your face here and claim he’s your son? Have you no shame at all?"

Mo Zihan was stunned.

The contrast was jarring—here he was, a man of undeniable presence and authority, yet this woman had the audacity to point at his nose and curse him out.

The two black-clad bodyguards at the door gaped in disbelief, staring at Yan Ge’er as if she were a complete idiot. Honestly, anyone who dared to point at Young Master Mo and hurl insults like that usually ended up six feet under.

"So, you admit he’s my son?"

Mo Zihan casually switched seats, stretching his long legs onto the coffee table with an infuriatingly relaxed air. His nonchalance only stoked Yan Ge’er’s fury.

*Bastard!*

Not a shred of guilt, and now he had the nerve to lounge around like some entitled lord.

Yan Ge’er had spent her life despising men like him—the kind who took what they wanted and vanished without a second thought.

"Pfft!" she spat.

"Yan Beichen is *my* son—the one I carried for ten months and raised through blood, sweat, and tears. He’s got *nothing* to do with you! If you want a son so badly, go find some other woman to pop one out for you. With your money, I’m sure there’s no shortage of gold-diggers lining up to crawl into your bed."

The moment the words left her mouth, the two bodyguards at the door sucked in sharp breaths. Everyone in the Mo family’s ranks knew—Young Master Mo had an aversion to women, bordering on pathological.

Rumors swirled that he preferred men, given that his inner circle was exclusively male. Others whispered that despite his rugged masculinity, he was… *lacking* in certain areas.

One thing was certain: Mo Zihan would never casually knock up some random woman. The few who had ever tried to seduce him had met gruesome ends.

And yet, here was this woman, not only cursing him out but *spitting* in his face.

The way everyone looked at Yan Ge’er now—it was as if they were already mourning the dead.