In Karl’s mory, Morrison had always been the dependable elder brother—ever since they were children. From the way he looked after Karl when they were young, to the way he supported him later on when Karl insisted on pursuing academics instead of joining the family business. Sure, Morrison would often grumble about how aningless research was and nag him to co back and help manage the company, but he had never once forced him.
Just as Morrison had said himself—he was the one shouldering the entire weight of MOS Corp., carrying the burdens and responsibilities alone to give their family a prosperous, comfortable life. And because Morrison, as the eldest, was there holding everything up, Karl, the second son, was free to live however he pleased.
He didn’t have to entangle himself in the ssy web of social obligations or corporate banquets. He didn’t have to butter up business partners just to close a deal, didn’t have to watch anyone’s face for approval, nor bow and scrape to keep things running.
In other words, the life he enjoyed now—the freedom he loved—was sothing Morrison had given him.
Thinking about that made Karl feel a pang of guilt. He quickly tried to appease his brother.
"Bro, don’t get mad."
"I’ll go! I’ll go!"
"Just give your assistant’s number, I’ll contact them and get all the details for the etings and negotiations!"
Karl had made up his mind. It was only a few days, wasn’t it? How hard could it be? No way his brother was going to stay in the States forever!
Morrison’s temper finally cooled a little. After giving Karl Norton Sean’s number, he turned back to his room.
The truth was, Morrison had never been one to complain. He had known since childhood the weight he carried, and he had borne it all in silence. But this ti, with everything that had happened with Lilian gnawing at him, his temper frayed. That was the only reason he pushed Karl into taking his place at the etings.
Norton Sean might be his right-hand man, but he wasn’t family.
For ordinary etings, that was fine. But for key occasions, soone from the Mo family had to be there.
Karl had never stepped foot in the business world, but he still carried Mo blood in his veins.
Unlike their father, who was painfully awkward with words, Karl—and even Morrison—had inherited so of their mother’s social grace. Karl, at least, could carry himself well enough at events. For a few days, he would manage.
Once everything was arranged, Morrison left for the U.S. the following afternoon.
Before the plane even took off, a ssage ca through on his phone. One glance, and the color drained from his face.
It was from an unknown number. Attached were several photos—of Lilian.
If they were just pictures of her, he wouldn’t have cared so much. But these were different: they showed Lilian in a cake shop, making a cake for him with her own hands.
The first few photos were almost pitiful—her with a ssy, ruined cake, pouting with a little frown, clearly unhappy with her failed attempt. But then, as the photos went on, the cakes grew neater, more refined—from disasters to delicate perfection. Her expression changed too—from frustrated to joyful.
There were even a few pictures where she was covered in flour, face and clothes a ss, but her smile was bright—sweet, even. She looked like she was enjoying every bit of that struggle, even if it cost her.
Morrison rembered those days—how she had always turned down his dinner invitations, saying she was busy. He had been restless, on edge, back then, but when she said she had no ti, he didn’t press her.
Turns out... she had been secretly learning to bake a cake for him.
Thinking of that exquisite cake he saw in her ho that day, and then looking at these photos now, a sharp pain twisted in his chest.
He imdiately called the number. He didn’t know who sent it, but he was certain—it wasn’t Lilian.
A light, mocking voice answered on the other end.
"hi, what’s the matter?"
Morrison clenched his teeth. "What are you trying to say with those photos?"
"What else? To make you suffer," Bert said without a shred of sha.
"How does it feel?" Bert’s tone was almost gleeful. "Seeing that little girl putting her heart and soul into making a cake for you... feeling how deeply she loved you... and yet you tossed her aside. How does that feel in your heart?"
Morrison couldn’t speak. The pain in his chest roared like a storm. He had to admit, this lunatic—Bert—knew exactly where to stab to hurt the most.
Bert went on, "Oh, and you probably didn’t know—she doesn’t even use that old phone anymore. So all those ssages you sent—’I love you,’ ’I was wrong’—she never saw them. I did."
Morrison felt his blood run cold. He asked, his voice tight with despair, "Don’t you think what you’re doing is despicable?"
No wonder she never replied. No wonder she never answered. She had thrown the phone away.
He had never imagined that soone as gentle and cheerful as her... could do sothing so utterly final.
On the other end of the line, Bert laughed with unrestrained delight.
"hi, don’t get so worked up. I’m not done talking yet. When I was on the plane, I showed her all those ssages you sent. Want to know how she reacted?"
Bert dragged out the words deliberately, savoring Morrison’s desperation.
Morrison’s chest tightened, his heart pulled taut like a string ready to snap. Bert, anwhile, was practically gloating.
"She didn’t really react at all," Bert said. "She just said this is your usual trick—pretty words, smooth talk. She even said that when she broke up with you last ti, you were the sa, clinging to her every day."
"She thinks you never really loved her. Probably just one of those ’you only want what you can’t have’ things. You broke up with her, she didn’t beg you back, and suddenly you couldn’t stand it—so now you’re crawling after her like a dog."
"I did not!" Morrison snapped back, almost pleading.
"I really want to make things right with her!"
It wasn’t that he loved her only when she was gone. No—he had her, and he lost her because he didn’t treasure her.
Bert’s voice was rciless, every word striking deep.
"Doesn’t matter what you say now. To her, your credibility’s already gone. You could talk sweet all you want—it won’t change a thing."
Morrison’s chest clenched again, each word landing like a heavy blow.
For a long mont, he said nothing. Then, finally steadying his breath, he asked quietly, "Let see her. Just once. I’ll talk to her myself."
"Boss, it’s broad daylight where you are, isn’t it? Are you dreaming? Then let kindly remind you—ti to wake up."
Bert said it with a cruel sort of amusent. But that wasn’t the worst part—not yet.
Because right after saying that, Bert suddenly shouted, loud enough for the line to pick up:
"Lilian! Over here!"
Morrison froze, breath caught in his throat.
"She’s with you?!" His voice broke, urgent. "Let talk to her! Just for a mont!"
Bert was clearly in a great mood.
"We just landed in the States. Still at the airport. She went to the restroom—just ca out. She’s walking toward now."
And then—Bert hung up.
One mont, Morrison had felt like she was just a call away. The next—Bert cut the line, and reality ca crashing back in.
There were oceans between them. Mountains. A thousand miles of distance he couldn’t cross.
The feeling was torture—like reaching out for sothing just within grasp, only to close his fingers on nothing at all.
Again and again, Bert’s twisted little gas had dragged Morrison to the edge of a breakdown.
The announcent ca over the cabin speakers then, telling passengers to turn off their devices as the plane prepared for takeoff. Morrison had no choice but to pocket his phone, close his eyes, and lean back into his seat as the long flight began.
anwhile, in the U.S., when Bert ended the call, Lilian happened to walk up to him. She smiled lightly.
"Let’s go, Bert."
"Mm."
Bert pushed the luggage cart forward with a grin, leading her out of the airport hall.
Every single thing he had said to Morrison was true—the photos, the ssages, her reaction, even her brief trip to the restroom.
And because it was all true... the damage cut that much deeper.
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