The driver started the car, and Empire Jue's sedan followed behind, until after several streets, they finally shook off the paparazzi tailing them.
Inside the sedan, Mo Nanjue leaned against the seat with his body tilted, drenched as if he had been fished out of water. Tong Ran helped him undo his shirt buttons and ripped the shirt right off him before taking a spare one from the back seat and struggling to put it on him.
Wearing wet clothes like this, he was bound to catch a cold.
After the change, Tong Ran took a wet wipe to dab the beads of sweat on his forehead before gently patting his face, "Mo Nanjue?"
The man's lips were tightly pressed, clearly unable to make out what she was saying.
Tong Ran reached out to touch his forehead. His face was pale, but his temperature was still alarmingly high. She bit her lip and withdrew her hand, "Does it still hurt a lot?"
How could it suddenly flare up...
Hadn't Chen An said it would be six months to three years?
