Unfortunately, Ling Lu was no heroine in a play to be entangled in the throes of romance.
Faced with this near-earnest confession, she felt not a shred of sweetness or joy, only a nausea as if her body were crawling with insect eggs.
Mo Tingzhu felt uneasy. Perhaps he should have prepared a more romantic setting to say these things—a glass conservatory filled with the scent of flowers, a retro-styled café, anywhere would have been better than calling Ling Lu at the crack of dawn, looking disheveled in front of a fire-ravaged scene.
Chapter 86