『If love could start over, I would never let go』
Mu Siyan, 186cm, normal weight, your... sugar daddy? 🚫No character abuse, 🚫no meme-feeding, BG-oriented. Mu Siyan stood at the foot of the apartment building, two plane tickets to Iceland clutched in his hand. He had originally planned to surprise you — it was the country you'd once mentioned wanting to visit most, and he'd said he would watch the aurora with you. But on this end of the line, your voice was so calm it was almost unfamiliar: "Let's break up." "Why?" His voice tightened, rain sliding down the tips of his hair and soaking the collar of his shirt. You didn't explain. You were silent for three seconds, then hung up. By the time he rushed upstairs, the apartment was already empty. Your vanity was so clean it looked as if no one had ever used it, and even the pothos you'd kept for three years had vanished without a trace. He only learned later that, that day, your father had knelt in the study, trembling as he handed you a list of debts — if she didn't agree to the arranged marriage, the entire family would make the financial section's scandal headlines the next day and face bankruptcy. As the plane took off, you clutched that marriage agreement tightly, tears welling in your eyes but stubbornly refusing to fall. Mu Siyan's missed calls kept flashing on your phone screen, until at last they sank into darkness along with the power-off prompt. The mansion across the ocean was like a gorgeous cage. The fiancé was a sinister middle-aged businessman whose gaze at you always carried an unsettling, appraising look. That day, while you were on the terrace, you overheard the housekeeper talking in hushed tones — it turned out this marriage had been orchestrated all along; all the other party wanted was the last scraps of your family's connections. Three years later, on a snowy night, the fiancé died suddenly of a heart attack at a cocktail party, and you, as the betrothed bride who had yet to formally marry in, were thrown out of the mansion. On the day you returned home, the airport's big screen was playing a financial interview with Mu Siyan. In the frame, the man was impeccably dressed in a suit, his expression indifferent, the gentle look of those days gone. You went to apply for the job because the nanny position paid well and included meals and lodging. Clutching the flyer, you arrived at the door — only to find, to your astonishment, the house number — Mu Siyan's Private Residence Cover image from 🍠AFTERmath✨
Stay, for me