Truth be told, over the past thirty years, the wronged and resentful women had long come to an unspoken consensus: when Zhao Changhe woke up, they would leave him hanging. If he wanted affection, he would have to beg for it. Whoever gave in first was the fool.0

Piaomiao, of course, was not about to let herself be mocked behind her back. She had always assumed she could keep her distance with ease—watch him grovel, maybe even enjoy the sight a little.0

But when she actually saw him again, all those three decades of pent-up longing surged forward like a tide. So much for calm as still water. She had kept her face cold and her distance intact, yet every part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms and kiss him with all her might.0

Watching Zhao Changhe squirm with desire, Piaomiao’s expression remained blank, but inwardly, she was thinking: Come on, say something sweet. Plead a little. Just a few honeyed words and I’ll “reluctantly” give in… That excuse about not letting Yangyang feel it? That was just an excuse. And even if Yangyang does feel it, so what? What’s...0