Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 15

The only sound in the study was the soft scratch of Jian Anji’s pen gliding across the paper.

Her back was ramrod straight, not out of proper posture, but to prevent the shirt fabric from rubbing against her wound.

Her movements were mechanical and swift as she recorded the day’s work, transforming yesterday’s labor into neat rows of cold, concise text: year range, project category, document count.

Her handwriting was meticulous and clear, mirroring the surface calm she was desperately trying to maintain.

Yet her peripheral vision kept drifting involuntarily to the other end of the desk.

The three old ledgers, especially the dark brown one on top, stood out sharply in the increasingly bright morning light, their silence almost defiant.

They sat there like an unsolved puzzle, a secret accidentally touched and then forcibly pressed back into place.

Had Leng Tan discovered anything?

Was the sketch still safely tucked in its original spot, or had it been removed, examined, and then… discarded?

Or worse, handled in some way she couldn’t even imagine?

Her thoughts tangled like a spiderweb. Just as she untangled one thread, another, even stickier one would ensnare her.

She forced herself to focus on the notepad in front of her.

The final stroke of her pen landed just as the clock struck 7:55 AM.

She picked up the completed notes and quickly checked the order of the blue folders, making sure everything was in place.

Then she folded the paper in half and held it in her hand.

The sharp edge of the paper pressed into her palm.

Five minutes left.

She stood up but didn’t immediately leave the study. Instead, she walked to the window.

The city was bathed in a thin, golden-gray light. Cars were already flowing like rivers, and the glass walls of distant skyscrapers reflected the rising sun, glaring and cold.

This world remained as busy and orderly as ever, as if it existed in a parallel dimension to the secret-filled space she now occupied, governed by hidden rules and unsolved mysteries.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. The pain in her back seemed to ease slightly when she stood, but the gauze and the lingering coolness of the ointment were still noticeable.

7:59 AM.

She turned, picked up the filing record, and walked toward the study door.

The moment her hand touched the doorknob, the cold, hard sensation steadied her slightly.

She pushed the door open. The hallway was empty, save for the faint clinking sounds from the distant living room, likely the sound of silverware being set out.

She walked toward the smaller study across from the main one, the room Leng Tan used for daily work and meetings.

The door was slightly opened.

She raised her hand and knocked lightly three times.

“Come in,” Leng Tan’s voice called from inside, calm and even, without a trace of emotion.

Jian Anji pushed the door open and entered.

The smaller study was more compact than the main one, but the decor was just as austere and minimalist.

Leng Tan sat behind a large black leather desk chair, a slim laptop and some documents spread out before her.

Morning light streamed through the side window, casting a sharp line of shadow across her figure.

Dressed in a tailored suit skirt, she sat ramrod straight, her gaze fixed on the screen. When Jian Anji entered, she merely glanced up briefly.

“Master, here are yesterday’s filing records,” Jian Anji said, stopping about two steps from the desk. She presented the folded memo with both hands.

Leng Tan’s gaze shifted from the screen to the paper in her hand, lingered for a moment, then she reached out.

Her fingers were long and slender, the nails neatly trimmed into rounded shapes, the tips bare of any adornment, only the healthy, pale pink of her skin.

She took the paper with a casual, natural motion.

The paper unfolded.

Leng Tan lowered her eyes, quickly scanning the contents.

Her expression remained unchanged. Her brow didn’t furrow, her lips didn’t tighten. Her gaze simply swept calmly across the lines of text.

Sunlight streamed through her thick lashes, casting faint shadows beneath her eyes.

A few seconds of silence followed, broken only by the soft rustle of the paper between her fingers.

Then she folded the paper in half and tossed it casually onto the desk beside a stack of files.

No comment, no questions, as if it were just a routine report requiring no further discussion, merely acknowledgment of receipt.

“Mm.”

She uttered a single syllable, a perfunctory acknowledgment. Her gaze returned to the laptop screen, her fingers gliding across the trackpad.

This meant she could leave.

“Yes, Master,” Jian Anji replied softly, nodding slightly as she turned to leave.

“Wait.”

Leng Tan’s voice cut through the air just as Jian Anji’s hand touched the door handle.

Jian Anji froze, stopping mid-step. She turned back, lowered her gaze, and waited.

Leng Tan’s eyes remained fixed on the screen, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the keyboard as if processing something. Her question sounded casual, almost absentminded: “How’s the dust cleaning on those old ledgers going?”

Jian Anji’s heart leaped violently, nearly bursting from her chest.

Here it comes.

The question about the ledgers.

Was it just a casual inquiry, or… a deliberate test?

She steadied her breathing, striving to keep her voice steady. “The surface dust has been removed, Master. I’ve checked the bindings; they’re all secure.”

“Hmm,” Leng Tan replied, pausing her typing for a moment, as if considering something or perhaps simply pausing between keystrokes.

Then she continued, her tone still flat, “This afternoon, put them back where they belong. Top shelf, by the window. Don’t mix up the order.”

Put them back where they belong.

In other words, she wouldn’t need to touch them again, at least for now, maybe forever.

Perhaps that secret could be sealed away once the ledgers were returned to their place.

“…Yes,” Jian Anji replied, but her heart remained heavy. Leng Tan’s question and instruction, delivered with such ordinary timing and tone, felt unsettlingly normal.

Had she truly not noticed anything?

Or had she noticed but simply didn’t care?

Or… was this a more subtle warning?

“Go now,” Leng Tan finally looked up, her gaze calm and deep, revealing nothing. “There’s nothing pressing this morning. Manage your time as you see fit.”

Manage your time as you see fit. Another seemingly free rein, yet in reality, a command that defined the boundaries.

“Yes,” Jian Anji replied again, turned, opened the door, and left.

The door closed behind her, sealing Leng Tan and the unresolved question about the ledgers inside.

In the corridor, sunlight streamed through the window at the end, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

She stood at the edge of light and shadow, her hands empty. The wound on her back throbbed faintly, but the secret called “Tantan” weighed heavier on her heart than any physical burden, pulsing with each beat.

The morning hours, under the command of “self-arrangement,” felt vast and heavy.

The apartment was too large, the silence too deep. Every small sound, her footsteps, the pouring of water, even her own breathing was amplified, then quickly swallowed by the silence, leaving an even deeper emptiness.

Jian Anji didn’t return to the guest room.

That room felt more like a night’s prison, its oppressive atmosphere unshaken even by daylight.

Nor did she go to the study, where the illusion of unfinished work lingered (though the tasks were actually complete), and where those old ledgers, which needed to be dealt with in the afternoon, now felt like ticking time bombs.

She finally settled in the living room.

Choosing a single-person sofa that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows, with her back to the master bedroom and study.

From this angle, she could see the city below, shrunk to miniature. Cars moved like toys, and pedestrians looked like ants.

Distance created a false sense of security.

The pain in her back, dull and persistent when she was still, mingled with the chafing of the gauze and the lingering tightness from the ointment.

She tried to relax against the soft sofa back, but the position only worsened her discomfort.

Forced to maintain a stiff posture, she stared blankly out the window.

“Arrange it yourself.”

How ironic.

Had she ever truly arranged anything herself? Not her time, not her body, not even her thoughts.

This empty morning was just another form of filling the gaps between orders with idle waiting.

And waiting itself was the most draining form of punishment.

Her mind replayed fragments from the morning: Leng Tan standing by the bed, her calm, unwavering gaze, that seemingly casual question about the ledger…

She chewed over every detail, trying to extract hidden meanings.

And then there was that faint sound last night, like a phantom echo, followed by an even deeper, deathly silence.

Was there a connection between them?

Or was it just her imagination, fueled by her anxiety?

And then there was that core, haunting image: Tantan on the swing.

The clearer that smile became, the deeper the sense of absurdity and coldness in this place grew.

What had turned Tantan into Leng Tan?

That ledger, that sketch were they deliberately forgotten relics of the past, or unintentionally preserved fragments?

How did Leng Tan view her past self? With indifference? Disgust? Or…

A trace of buried longing she hadn’t even acknowledged?

These questions had no answers, only dragging her thoughts deeper into the mire.

Forcing herself to focus, she looked around the living room’s icy decor: sharp-edged modern sculptures, somber abstract paintings, spotless surfaces reflecting the daylight streaming through the windows.

Everything exuded a meticulously crafted sense of detachment, devoid of any human warmth or trace of life except for…

The pervasive, chilling aura left by Leng Tan herself.

Time crawled by.

Sunlight crept across the room, illuminating different areas before abandoning them to shadow.

Occasionally, she would hear faint sounds from other parts of the apartment perhaps the creak of Leng Tan’s chair as she worked in the study, or the faint gurgle of water from the kitchen (was the housekeeper preparing lunch?).

These sounds reminded her she wasn’t alone, yet they also highlighted the isolation beneath their shared roof.

As noon approached, clearer sounds drifted from the hallway leading to the dining room: the crisp clink of porcelain and silverware being gently placed, the soft scrape of chair legs against the floor.

Lunch was being prepared.

Jian Anji remained motionless.

She waited, like a programmed machine, for the activation signal usually Leng Tan’s appearance or a brief command.

Sure enough, moments later, the study door opened.

Leng Tan emerged, holding a white ceramic coffee cup.

She seemed to have just finished working, her expression still focused and calm as she walked steadily toward the dining room.

As she passed through the living room, her gaze didn’t even flicker in Jian Anji’s direction, as if the sofa were empty.

She sat at the head of the dining table and picked up her napkin.

This was the signal.

Only then did Jian Anji rise from the sofa, her movements slightly stiff from sitting too long and her back aching.

She walked to the dining room and took her usual seat.

Lunch unfolded exactly as it had the day before: exquisite food, absolute silence, Leng Tan’s occasional glances out the window, and that pervasive, unspoken sense of control that hung over everything.

Chew. Swallow.

The food remained delicious, yet it offered no comfort.

She was merely performing the required act of “eating,” acutely aware of the woman across the table whose presence weighed heavier than any food, pressing down on the space above the table and on every nerve in her body.

After lunch, Leng Tan left the table first, as usual.

Jian Anji finished her own meal alone, then quietly cleared her dishes. One of the unspoken rules she was expected to follow.

As she gently placed the dishes in the designated area in the kitchen, she glimpsed the blurry figures of the household staff through the frosted glass door, moving about their tasks in a world separated from hers by two worlds.

Returning to the living room, she found Leng Tan gone.

The door to the study was closed.

Her afternoon task arrived: return the ledgers to their proper place.

She walked toward the main study.

Pushing open the door, she found the morning light had shifted into the slanted, slightly languid rays of afternoon.

The three old ledgers still lay on the desk, silent in the light.

Her gaze fell on the deep brown ledger.

Her heart began to race involuntarily.

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