Facing An Lan's questioning, Xiao Yihe remained silent for a long time. After a while, he hesitated and said, "After all, it's my child. I wouldn't be so ruthless."
"Well, isn't this surprising?" An Lan gave a soft sneer, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
On the other end of the phone, Xiao Yihe tightly gripped his handset. Taking a deep breath, he thought about the word "asthenozoospermia" on the diagnosis report, which somewhat calmed him down.
"I know I've let you down. As long as you don't clarify, I can promise you one—no, three conditions. Including, if you want to know the real cause of your mother's death back then, I can tell you."
His final words made An Lan's expression freeze. "So, you do know. My mother's death has something to do with you, right?"
"No!" His denial came too quickly, which only revealed his guilty conscience.
