Rebirth: My Reclusive Husband Helps Me Get Revenge!-Chapter 38: Bonus - (Christmas Past)

The estate glowed with the warm hues of Christmas lights, a sharp contrast to the cold and quiet corner where Lixue sat. Her room, tucked away in the servants’ quarters, was small and barely furnished—a bed, bathroom, a table, and a tiny cabinet that barely held her belongings.

Through the thin walls, she could hear muffled laughter coming from the main house. Plates clattered, voices chattered, and the sound of carols played faintly from a distance. The grand living room must have been a sight, decorated with a massive tree, shimmering ornaments, and the soft glow of candles.

But none of that was for her. She couldn’t partake in it.

Lixue’s fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the small, makeshift tree she had assembled. She’d gathered branches from the garden earlier, arranging them in a chipped vase she’d found. She’d decorated it with bits of paper, folding them into stars, and tied ribbons she had scavenged from old packaging. It wasn’t perfect— it was far from it—but it was hers.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, her sketchbook open in front of her. Her pencil moved swiftly, sketching a scene of a family gathered around a warm fire. The mother held a child on her lap, the father’s hand resting protectively on their shoulders. It was a scene she had never experienced but desperately wished for.

Her stomach growled, breaking her concentration. She set her pencil down and glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight, and she hadn’t eaten since noon. She knew better than to venture to the kitchen now. The staff was busy serving the guests, and her presence would only draw sharp reprimands from the head maid.

A sudden knock at her door startled her. She quickly shoved her sketchbook under her blanket and stood up.

"Lixue, are you awake?" came the hushed voice of one of the maids.

"Yes," she replied, opening the door slightly.

The maid, an older woman with kind eyes, slipped inside and handed her a plate covered with a cloth napkin. Lixue peeked under it to see a few pastries, likely leftovers from the evening’s feast.

"Merry Christmas, child," the maid whispered, her smile soft but tinged with pity.

Lixue’s throat tightened, and she nodded. "Thank you," she said softly.

After the maid left, Lixue sat back down, the plate resting on her lap. She nibbled on the pastries, their sweetness bringing a rare comfort. But as she stared at her little tree, tears pricked her eyes.

Her mother had promised to visit for Christmas but never came. Not that it surprised her—her mother rarely kept her promises. It wasn’t entirely her fault. Being the mistress of a powerful man meant she lived on the edge, constantly trying to appease Lixue’s father while maintaining her dignity.

But Lixue couldn’t help the ache in her chest. She wanted to scream, to cry, to demand why she was always the one left behind.

Instead, she picked up her pencil and started drawing again. The tears fell silently as she sketched, her strokes growing darker and more intense. She didn’t want to cry. Crying wouldn’t change anything.

Her mind wandered to Yu Jia, her half-sister. While Lixue spent Christmas in solitude, Yu Jia was likely basking in the glow of their father’s affection. She imagined her surrounded by gifts, laughter, and the warmth of family.

The unfairness of it all burned in her chest, but she pushed it down. She couldn’t change her circumstances, but she could dream. One day, she promised herself, she would have a Christmas that felt like the ones she drew in her sketchbook.

For now, she had to survive this place.

*************************** 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

The Mo family’s annual Christmas gala was the pinnacle of high society—an extravagant affair dripping with wealth, power, and ruthless ambition. The estate was dressed to perfection, with golden lights cascading down the walls, a towering Christmas tree adorned with crystals, and the faint melody of a live orchestra filling the air.

Mo Ran stood in the shadows of the grand ballroom, his figure blending into the dimly lit corner. His father was in the center of the room, commanding attention as he laughed loudly with a group of influential businessmen. They hung onto his every word, their eyes gleaming with greed and admiration.

"Mo Ran, come here!" his father called sharply, his voice carrying over the crowd.

Mo Ran’s jaw tightened. He hated being summoned like a dog. With a calm expression masking his irritation, he walked toward the group, his strides confident and deliberate.

"This is my son," his father announced, placing a heavy hand on Mo Ran’s shoulder. "A rising star in our family. He’ll surpass me in no time."

The men around them chuckled and nodded approvingly. Mo Ran forced a polite smile, shaking hands and exchanging empty pleasantries.

"Your father must be proud," one of the men said, his voice dripping with insincerity.

"Of course," Mo Ran replied smoothly, though his tone carried no warmth.

But pride? His father? The man who saw him as nothing more than an heir to his empire? Mo Ran doubted his father even remembered what pride or love felt like.

The small talk dragged on, suffocating him with every fake laugh and calculated compliment. Finally, after enduring far too long, he excused himself and retreated upstairs.

The library was dark when he entered, the only light coming from the faint glow of the fireplace. This was his sanctuary, the one place in the sprawling mansion that felt remotely like home. He closed the door behind him, sealing himself away from the noise and falseness downstairs.

On the desk sat a pile of unopened gifts, all wrapped meticulously and labeled with the names of business partners, distant relatives, and acquaintances. Not a single one felt personal. They were bribes and tokens of obligation, not gestures of affection.

He slumped into the leather armchair, letting the silence envelop him. His phone buzzed on the table, and he glanced at it. Messages filled the screen—Merry Christmas wishes from people he barely knew or cared about. One caught his attention:

Merry Christmas, Mo Ran. Hope you’re doing well.

It was from an old school friend he hadn’t spoken to in years. He stared at it for a moment before putting the phone back down without replying. What was the point? That connection was long dead, like so many others.

His gaze wandered to the window, where snow fell softly against the backdrop of the night. For a brief moment, a memory surfaced—his mother’s voice, humming a carol while decorating a much smaller tree in a much smaller house.

But that was over a decade ago, before she’d passed away. Before his father had turned him into a tool for the family’s empire.

He clenched his fists, a wave of bitterness washing over him. Christmas didn’t mean warmth or family to him—it was just another day of pretense, another reminder of the cold, hollow existence he lived.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Master Mo," the butler said cautiously as he entered. "Your father is asking for you."

Mo Ran exhaled slowly, his anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. "Tell him I’m busy."

The butler hesitated before nodding and leaving.

Mo Ran leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. He hated this house, hated the endless games and expectations. He felt like a caged animal, every move dictated by his father’s will.

But someday, he thought, things would be different. He would make sure of it.