"If you must blame someone, then blame me. I can't wash my hands of your mother's death."
Zhao Zihao was twenty-nine this year, only a few months younger than Qin Zhiyou. Twenty years had passed since his mother's death, yet he swore he had never heard anything as horrifying as what he just heard.
He was stunned, as if tens of thousands of bees suddenly swarmed and buzzed inside his head. By the time he came to his senses and tried to rise, he moved so forcefully that the chair he was sitting on tipped backward.
He didn't bother to pick it back up. Instead, he took off his glasses, wiped the lenses back and forth, and put them back on. While his glasses were now spotless, the person in front of him seemed much clearer—but at the same time, he felt he had never truly seen this person clearly before!
"Uncle, what do you mean by this?"
