Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 13

Dinner unfolded in an almost suffocating silence.

The occasional clink of dishes was swallowed by the thick carpet and vast space, leaving only brief, hollow sounds.

Jian Anji swallowed mechanically, her taste buds seemingly numb. All her senses were focused on the dull, persistent ache where her back pressed against the chair, and the silent yet omnipresent presence of the woman across from her.

Half the rice and the now-cold soup remained in her bowl.

Leng Tan had already set down her chopsticks, dabbing her lips with a napkin in a precise, deliberate motion.

She didn’t urge Jian Anji to finish, nor did she leave the table. Instead, she picked up the financial briefing again, her gaze fixed on the pages. Yet Jian Anji felt the woman’s peripheral vision never fully left her.

It was an invisible pressure, compelling her to finish eating, to complete this prescribed “daily task.”

Finally, the last mouthful of rice was swallowed with difficulty.

Jian Anji gently set down her chopsticks, placing her hands neatly on her knees as she waited for the next instruction.

Only then did Leng Tan completely set aside the briefing.

She didn’t look at Jian Anji, but instead gazed out the window at the neon-drenched, alien cityscape, her profile half-lit, half-shadowed in the lamplight.

“The medicine on your back,” she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the silence with startling clarity, “needs to be changed.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement, delivered with the same casualness as predicting rain tomorrow.

Jian Anji’s body tensed almost imperceptibly.

Changing the medicine.

That meant exposing the wound again, enduring Leng Tan’s scrutinizing gaze once more, and perhaps even the touch of her fingers.

The cold, sticky sensation of last night’s ointment and that probing touch flooded back in an instant.

“Yes,” she replied softly, her throat dry.

Leng Tan stood up, her dark green skirt cascading in gentle waves with the movement.

“Come to my room.”

With that, she turned and walked toward the master bedroom, not bothering to check if Jian Anji followed.

The master bedroom.

A space even more private than the guest room, a place that embodied Leng Tan’s absolute authority.

Jian Anji was rarely permitted to enter. Each time she stepped inside, she felt a surge of anxiety, as if trespassing in forbidden territory.

She rose slowly, the chair creaking softly again.

Following Leng Tan, she crossed the living room and walked down the hallway toward the half-open door at the end, the entrance to the master bedroom.

Leng Tan pushed open the door and stepped inside. The lights had been dimmed to a soft glow, and the air was thick with her signature icy fragrance, mingling with the damp, post-shower steam.

The room’s decor was stark, almost austere, dominated by deep grays, inky blues, and blacks. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering cityscape stretched out like a framed, detached, and frigid mural.

On the vanity, the silver medicine box lay open, clean gauze and cotton swabs arranged beside it.

Leng Tan sat down on the vanity stool, her gaze meeting Jian Anji’s hesitant figure in the mirror.

“Come here,” she gestured to the space in front of her.

Jian Anji approached, stopping a step away on the carpet.

This carpet wasn’t as soft as the wool rug in the guest room; its texture felt coarser.

“Clothes,” Leng Tan said tersely.

Jian Anji’s fingers curled inward before lifting to unbutton her linen shirt.

One button, two… Her movements were slow and clumsy, hampered by the pain in her back and her inner resistance.

The shirt slipped off her shoulders, pooling in the crook of her arm, revealing the light cotton tank top Leng Tan had prepared underneath.

The tank top covered her chest, but her entire back, from shoulder blades to waist, was completely exposed.

Under the light, the condition of her skin was even clearer than it had been that morning.

The crisscrossing whip marks had begun to subside, but their colors had deepened into a richer palette: crimson, purplish-red, and the bluish-purple Leng Tan had mentioned was starting to bloom at the edges, creating a stark contrast against the surrounding pale skin.

Patches of dried ointment formed a thin, shimmering film on her skin, cracked in places.

Leng Tan’s gaze settled on the reflection of the injuries in the mirror.

Her expression remained unchanged, calm, almost focused.

She picked up the antiseptic spray and cotton swabs, turned around, and faced Jian Anji’s back.

The icy spray landed unexpectedly on the wounds.

Jian Anji flinched violently, biting her lower lip.

“Don’t move,” Leng Tan’s voice murmured close behind her.

Then, the cool cotton swab began wiping away the dried ointment and any traces of seepage.

The movements weren’t gentle, but they were more efficient than the previous night’s application.

The cotton swab glided across the red, swollen skin, leaving a sharp sting and a rough, scraping sensation.

Jian Anji closed her eyes, enduring the fresh wave of discomfort from the wound cleaning.

She could feel Leng Tan’s breath, a soft caress against the nape of her neck. She could also “see” in the mirror her own bare, scarred back, and behind her the woman in the dark green velvet gown, meticulously tending to those marks.

This scene, even more than the previous night’s punishment, radiated a chilling, unsettling strangeness.

The swab’s touch was cold and precise, carrying a subtle, peeling pain.

As the old ointment was wiped away, the scars beneath became more vivid—red, purple, and blue, like a palette violently crushed and forcibly reassembled.

Leng Tan’s movements were methodical, leaving no area untouched. She even lingered over the already bruising patches, wiping them with extra care, as if observing the ointment’s effects or admiring her “artwork” gradually coming into focus.

Jian Anji stood stiffly, her arms hanging awkwardly at her sides, her shirt draped loosely over her elbows.

Every touch on her back felt amplified: the icy antiseptic, the rough scratch of cotton pads, and the steady, undeniable breathing behind her.

She dared not look in the mirror, her gaze fixed on the intricate yet cold patterns of the dark carpet beneath her feet, desperately trying to detach her mind from this humiliating and bizarre caregiving ritual.

Once all the old ointment had been wiped clean, Leng Tan set down the cotton swab.

In the brief silence, Jian Anji heard the faint sound of the ointment tube being picked up, followed by the click of the cap being unscrewed.

This time, the ointment’s touch wasn’t as shockingly cold as it had been the night before.

Perhaps it had warmed slightly at room temperature, or perhaps her skin had grown somewhat accustomed to the sensation. At first contact, she felt only a thick, slightly cool sensation.

But as Leng Tan’s fingertips, now coated with ointment, began to reapply it, that familiar feeling of being invaded and marked washed over her once more.

The pressure of Leng Tan’s fingertips was slightly lighter than the night before, but the way she pressed and rubbed the ointment into her skin still carried an undeniable sense of control.

Leng Tan carefully applied the ointment to every mark, from the prominent ridge of her shoulder blades to the hollows beside her spine, and down to the flatter area of her lower back.

Her fingertips occasionally brushed against the unbroken skin around the edges of the marks, sending shivers through Jian Anji.

Leng Tan’s fingers lingered on the deepest lash mark at the center of her back, pressing gently to work the ointment deep into the swollen flesh.

Jian Anji’s breath hitched, and a stifled groan escaped through her clenched teeth.

“Does it hurt?” Leng Tan’s voice was close behind her, her breath ghosting over Jian Anji’s sensitive ear.

This wasn’t concern, but rather a confirmation, a check that her “work” still held its power.

Jian Anji didn’t answer, only bit down harder on her lower lip, the metallic tang of blood spreading faintly in her mouth.

Leng Tan seemed to need no reply.

She continued her work, applying the ointment more meticulously than the night before, the edges crisp and precise, almost like a carefully applied dressing.

When she was finished, she picked up the clean gauze she had prepared.

Instead of bandaging, she cut the gauze into smaller pieces and gently laid them over the darkest, most swollen marks, securing the edges with medical tape.

The gauze offered a subtle, temporary sense of concealment, but the thin layer served more to emphasize than protect. Look here, this area requires special care.

Finally, Leng Tan pressed her palm flat against Jian Anji’s medicated back, slowly stroking from shoulder blade to waist with firm, deliberate pressure.

The warmth of her palm seeped through the gauze and ointment, not hot, but carrying a strange, soothing yet restraining force.

“All done,” she said, her voice as calm as ever. “Get dressed.”

As if granted a pardon, Jian Anji hastily pulled up her fallen shirt, draping it back over her shoulders.

Her trembling fingers fumbled with the buttons, missing the buttonholes several times.

The newly applied ointment radiated a continuous coolness beneath the fabric, while the gauze’s edge chafed against her skin, a constant reminder of what had just transpired.

Leng Tan had already turned away, tidying up the medicine kit. She discarded the used cotton swabs and capped the ointment.

Her upright, composed figure stood bathed in the vanity’s soft light, the dark green velvet shimmering with a subdued glow. It was as if the meticulous, almost intimate (or perhaps cruel) process of changing the dressing was merely an insignificant task among her many nightly routines.

“Be careful how you sleep tonight,” she said, her back to Jian Anji as she closed the medicine kit. “Don’t put pressure on it.”

Was that a reminder or an order?

Perhaps both.

“Yes, Master,” Jian Anji replied softly, finally buttoning the last button.

Leng Tan picked up the medicine kit and walked toward the bathroom, presumably to wash her hands.

As she passed Jian Anji, her footsteps didn’t falter. Only the faint breeze from her skirt and that ever-present, icy fragrance lingered in the air.

Jian Anji stood motionless until the bathroom door closed and the faint sound of running water drifted out. Only then did she seem to suddenly lose all strength, her shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly.

On her back, the new ointment slowly seeped in, its cool threads intertwining with the lingering burning pain deep beneath her skin.

The gauze felt oppressively present.

She lifted her head and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

Her face was pale, her eyes hollow, and the collar of her shirt was slightly askew from the earlier haste.

Deeper in the mirror’s reflection lay the cold, luxurious master bedroom and the tightly shut bathroom door, from which the sound of water continued to flow.

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