Chapter 64
Lu Yin could easily distinguish right from wrong, her actions usually controlled and deliberate.
But when it came to Lin Qianqian, she abandoned all reason, her desires a powerful, intoxicating force.
No one could stop her, not even Lin Qianqian herself.
Lin Qianqian’s tearful accusations, her body curled up in a protective ball, only intensified Lu Yin’s feelings, her words a catalyst, igniting a fire that burned within.
The accusations were meaningless.
Lin Qianqian’s gaze, red-rimmed and accusatory, her hand still clinging to Lu Yin’s, the dampness of their intertwined fingers a reminder of their shared intimacy, finally made her look away, a blush creeping up her neck.
Lu Yin retrieved a wet wipe and gently cleaned Lin Qianqian’s hand, then went to wash her own hands.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, returning to the room and tidying up the scattered clothes and discarded tissues.
“Yes,” Lin Qianqian said.
“Then it doesn’t hurt,” Lu Yin replied, her tone matter-of-fact.
“Why are you so cruel?” Lin Qianqian asked, looking at her paint-stained clothes. “They’re ruined…”
Lu Yin gathered the clothes and put them in a bag. “I’ll wash them tomorrow.”
“Then what am I going to wear tomorrow?” Lin Qianqian asked, glancing at the small closet in the corner. “Do you have any clothes here?”
Lu Yin opened the closet. “A couple of shirts, but no pants.”
“Then I won’t wear anything underneath. It’s not like I’ll freeze in the car,” Lin Qianqian said, realizing Lu Yin wasn’t as drunk as she had pretended to be.
So, even Lu Yin resorted to manipulation, playing the victim, knowing Lin Qianqian would believe her.
She glanced at Lu Yin’s pants, thinner than her own fleece-lined ones.
“Hurry up and cuddle me,” she said, not wanting Lu Yin to continue cleaning, knowing she wouldn’t rest until the room was spotless, her need for order a compulsion even in her drunken state.
“In a minute,” Lu Yin said, going back to the bathroom.
Lin Qianqian lay on the bed, listening to the sounds of running water, Lu Yin’s footsteps echoing in the small room.
The bed was smaller than the one at home. She could be close to Lu Yin tonight, their bodies touching.
Lu Yin spent a long time cleaning, several of the sketches ruined, the damp paper useless.
The discarded sketches were a testament to the intensity of their earlier encounter, the lingering scent of arousal a reminder of Lin Qianqian’s pleasure.
She gathered the paintbrushes, placing them in the holder, the alcohol finally hitting her, her head feeling heavy.
She shouldn’t have drunk so much, but she had been trying to escape Yu Miao’s words, her probing questions about Lin Yun, a constant threat, a ticking time bomb.
As she lay down beside Lin Qianqian, the thought returned.
Lin Yun was a constant source of anxiety, her reappearance always a possibility.
She didn’t feel any guilt about her actions towards Lin Yun, her sense of propriety, her carefully cultivated politeness, long gone.
She only cared about herself, and about Lin Qianqian.
As long as Lin Yun remained absent, their fragile peace would hold.
But she couldn’t decipher Lin Qianqian’s true feelings.
Her words were sweet, reassuring, but Lu Yin was still uncertain, her trust a fragile thing, easily broken.
She couldn’t afford any mistakes, not with Lin Qianqian.
“Sister…what are you thinking about?” Lin Qianqian asked, seeing her eyes still open. “Go to sleep.”
“Just some things,” Lu Yin said, her lips pressed together. “I have a headache. I can’t sleep.”
“What things?” Lin Qianqian asked, sitting up and looking at her.
“What do you want to eat for New Year’s Eve?”
“That’s what you’re thinking about?!” Lin Qianqian asked, incredulous. That wasn’t even a real problem.
“Yes, it’s quite a dilemma.”
Lin Qianqian poked her collarbone. “Am I that difficult to please?”
“What do you think?”
“Not really. Where else are you going to find a sister as beautiful, kind, and understanding as me?”
Lu Yin smiled. “Go to sleep.”
“Don’t think about unhappy things, even if you don’t want to tell me what they are,” Lin Qianqian said, sensing Lu Yin’s evasion.
Direct questions only made Lu Yin withdraw further, so she hugged her tightly. “Did you hear me? Say something!”
“I heard you,” Lu Yin said, holding her close, her hand gently patting Lin Qianqian’s back. “Aren’t you on vacation now?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can sleep in tomorrow.”
“So?” Lin Qianqian had expected a more elaborate plan, not this dismissive response.
She watched as Lu Yin closed her eyes, her furrowed brow relaxing, and then she closed her own eyes, a sense of peace settling over her.
The bed was small, their bodies pressed together, but the warmth of Lu Yin’s embrace was enough.
Zhong Shiwu watched the security footage from Ming Yao’s room, fast-forwarding through the mundane details of her daily routine.
Her meals were regular, her medication taken as prescribed, no arguments with the nurses, her behavior a model of obedience.
It seemed she had finally learned her lesson.
Zhong Shiwu called the nurse in charge of Ming Yao’s care and instructed her to allow Ming Yao some supervised outdoor activities.
She then checked the refrigerator, noticing a few new additions: sweet snacks, several packages of unopened chocolate liqueur candies, and a new set of orange cutlery.
The tablecloth was also orange. She looked around the room, realizing she had acquired quite a few orange items recently.
“Too much trouble to put them away,” she muttered, not wanting to change the tablecloth.
She hadn’t used such bright, youthful colors in years.
Perhaps Ming Yao’s presence was having an unexpected effect, a splash of color in her otherwise monochromatic world.
That evening, she declined Yu Miao’s invitation to dinner at the institution and drove to the hospital.
Ming Yao was asleep, her cheeks flushed, her breathing regular.
Zhong Shiwu sat beside her bed, watching her, her gaze a mixture of calculation and something else, something she couldn’t quite name.
A living, breathing burden. But not entirely unwelcome.
As long as she obeyed, she wasn’t a problem.
Ming Yao was surprisingly easy to control.
Ming Yao’s eyes fluttered open, and she saw Zhong Shiwu sitting there, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and a strange, unwelcome excitement.
She moved away, her body pressed against the far side of the bed, her gaze wary.
“How have you been?” Zhong Shiwu asked, her voice calm and even, her expression neutral.
“I’m fine. You already know, don’t you?” Ming Yao mumbled, watching her carefully.
“How would I know?” Zhong Shiwu smiled faintly. “I had to come see for myself. What if they were lying?”
“You’ve seen me now. You can leave,” Ming Yao said, turning her back to Zhong Shiwu, hoping she would disappear.
“I thought you would be happy to see me. I even canceled a date for this,” Zhong Shiwu said.
“A date?” Ming Yao asked, her voice sharp, her body tensing. “With who?”
“Curious, are we?” Zhong Shiwu asked, not elaborating, the question enough to distract Ming Yao.
“She’ll be angry,” Ming Yao said.
“Would you be angry if I went on a date instead of visiting you?”
Ming Yao didn’t answer, confused by the question, a familiar tactic from their time together, Zhong Shiwu’s words a playful tease, a subtle manipulation.
Back then, she had believed she belonged to Zhong Shiwu, that Zhong Shiwu’s affection, her attention, should be solely hers, and she had been angered by such questions, her frustration often escalating into self-harm, banging her head against the wall, the physical pain a release from the emotional turmoil within.
Zhong Shiwu, seeing her distress, would apologize, her words a soothing balm, her touch a comforting reassurance, the earlier cruelty a forgotten dream.
But now, Ming Yao knew better than to interpret these words as genuine affection.
It wasn’t flirting, not anymore.
This woman, her words so sweet, so manipulative, her apologies so easily offered, her smile so condescending, her every action a calculated move, her power absolute.
Ming Yao knew she was completely under Zhong Shiwu’s control, her mind, her body, a willing captive.
Zhong Shiwu’s every word, every action, was for her own benefit, her own amusement. No one else mattered.
So why was she here, after abandoning Ming Yao, discarding her like a broken toy?
Her words weren’t meant to control, but they weren’t meant to comfort either.
“I won’t be fooled again,” Ming Yao said, her voice low, her gaze fixed on the floor.
“But you’re still struggling with the chopsticks,” Zhong Shiwu said, sitting on the edge of the bed, close to Ming Yao. “Or am I mistaken?”
Ming Yao’s gaze immediately shifted to the security camera above her bed, a constant reminder of Zhong Shiwu’s surveillance, her control.
“Can’t you just leave me alone?” she asked, her voice trembling, her body shaking with a familiar fear. “We’re not related anymore! You said it yourself! You’re the one who didn’t want me!”
“I’m seeing a doctor! I’m taking my medication! I don’t need you!” she said, pushing at Zhong Shiwu, wanting her to leave, her presence a suffocating weight in the sterile room.
Zhong Shiwu, seeing her distress, opened the window, the cold night air a welcome relief.
“As your doctor, I have to monitor your progress,” she said, ignoring Ming Yao’s outburst, shifting back to her professional persona. “I can’t afford to offend you, not with your family connections.”
She deliberately placed herself in a position of subservience, hoping to gain Ming Yao’s trust, or at least, her defiance, a way to engage her, to draw her out.
“I want orange curtains!” Ming Yao said, her demand a test, her fear of angering Zhong Shiwu still a powerful force, the memories of their shared nights, Zhong Shiwu’s touch no longer comforting, but invasive, her anger a terrifying presence, the feeling of suffocation a visceral reminder.
“They’ve already been changed. And the tablecloth, the cutlery…even the spoons have little orange cat ears. Don’t you want to see?”
“Really…?” Ming Yao looked at her, her hands clutching the sheets, her voice barely a whisper. “I…I don’t believe you…”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe,” Zhong Shiwu shrugged. “It’s getting late. I should be going.”
She poured a glass of water and placed it on the table. “You’re recovering well. We’ll see how you’re doing after the New Year. You might be able to go home then.”
“Who wants to spend the New Year in a hospital…?”
“You can ask Ming Yi to take you home.”
It was an empty suggestion, a cruel reminder of Ming Yi’s indifference.
Zhong Shiwu reached out a hand, as if to touch Ming Yao’s face, then stopped herself.
“Goodbye, Ming Yao,” she said, smiling, then left the room.
Ming Yao glanced at the time. 9:30 PM.
She had been here for days, hadn’t even left the room.
The open window let in a stream of fresh air, a welcome change from the sterile, suffocating atmosphere of the hospital.
She looked out the window and saw Zhong Shiwu walking towards the parking garage, her white coat replaced by a black overcoat, her figure tall and elegant, her movements graceful, her hand holding her car keys.
It was too late to call out to her, to ask to go home with her.
She pressed the call button, asking the nurse for a change of clothes.
She showered and dressed, her appearance carefully curated, a mask for the turmoil within, and then, just before eleven, she left the hospital.
Her heart pounded in her chest as the car drove through the familiar streets, her hands clasped together in a silent prayer, her palms damp with sweat.
As the car pulled up to the familiar villa, her carefully constructed composure crumbled, tears streaming down her face.
She felt strangely detached, her emotions numb, yet the tears kept coming, a physical manifestation of her anxiety, her fear.
She placed her hand on the fingerprint lock, took a deep breath, and then pressed her finger against the cool metal.
A beep. The lock disengaged.
She hesitated, her hand on the doorknob, wondering if she should go inside.
She would trust Zhong Shiwu one last time. This was her last chance.
She opened the door and stepped inside.
Zhong Shiwu was sitting on the sofa, facing the door, as if expecting her.
“Good evening, Ming Yao. We meet again,” she said, standing up and walking towards Ming Yao, stopping a few feet away.
The curtains were orange, the tablecloth, the rug, everything bathed in the warm, inviting glow of her favorite color.
Ming Yao’s throat tightened, and she looked at Zhong Shiwu, her smile a beacon in the darkness, her presence a comforting warmth, and she couldn’t stop herself.
She took a few hesitant steps, then rushed forward, her arms wrapping around Zhong Shiwu, her embrace tight and desperate.
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