Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 26

The hot water did bring some relief, temporarily masking the stinging pain of the whip marks as it washed over her skin.

But the water couldn’t be too hot, or it would irritate the wounds.

Jian Anji washed quickly and carefully, avoiding the darkest, most swollen areas.

The steamy heat in the bathroom made her dizzy, and she barely managed to stay upright by leaning against the cool tiles.

As she dried herself, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror: a body covered in both fresh and old scars. A wave of numb unfamiliarity washed over her.

This body no longer felt entirely her own. It bore too many marks belonging to Leng Tan: the pain, the restraints, even those occasional, twisted touches in certain situations.

She changed into another set of loungewear Leng Tan had prepared: soft cotton long sleeves and pants that covered her completely, leaving only her neck and wrists exposed.

This made her feel a little safer, even though she knew this layer of clothing meant nothing to Leng Tan.

When she left the guest room, dinner had already been delivered and set out in the dining room.

The warm lighting and exquisite food created the illusion of a normal, even cozy, evening at home.

If you ignored the faint medicinal scent in the air and the heavy, invisible tension between them, Leng Tan was already seated at the head of the table.

She had changed into comfortable dark gray silk loungewear, her long hair loose and her cheeks flushed from her bath. The sharp edges of her daytime demeanor had softened, replaced by a relaxed, at-home air.

She was focused on something on her tablet, her expression intent.

Jian Anji sat down to her right.

The table was neatly set, the food steaming hot.

Leng Tan glanced up from her tablet, gave her a quick look, and without a word, set the device aside and picked up her chopsticks.

The meal began, as usual, in silence.

Only the soft sounds of chewing and the gentle clinking of utensils broke the quiet.

Jian Anji ate very little, her appetite gone.

The exhaustion and pain in her body, combined with the turmoil in her heart, left her unable to taste anything.

She mechanically went through the motions of eating, her gaze mostly fixed on her plate.

Leng Tan didn’t seem to have much appetite either, eating even more slowly than usual. Occasionally, she would set down her chopsticks and gaze absently at the night sky outside the window.

Her profile looked soft under the lamplight, but the usual coldness in her eyes and the faint hint of weariness remained.

Dinner ended in an atmosphere even more stifling than the night before, yet somehow more “ordinary.”

No whips, no restraints, no harsh words.

But this almost “normal” calm only made Jian Anji more uneasy.

It felt like the oppressive stillness before a storm, leaving her wondering when and how it would break.

As Jian Anji cleared the table, Leng Tan didn’t immediately leave the dining room.

She sat there, idly turning the empty white porcelain teacup in her hands, her gaze drifting.

“The wound on your back,” she suddenly said, her voice sounding abrupt in the quiet room, “does it still affect your movement?”

Jian Anji paused, her hand still wiping the table. “…It’s fine. It doesn’t affect simple activities.”

“Mm,” Leng Tan replied, setting down the teacup and standing up. “Get some rest tonight.”

With that, she turned and walked toward the master bedroom without looking at Jian Anji again.

Get some rest tonight.

Did this mean… there would be no “game” tonight?

Jian Anji stood frozen in disbelief until the master bedroom door closed, slowly snapping her out of her daze.

Was this… a reprieve?

Or was it simply because Leng Tan needed rest herself?

Or perhaps some more complex emotion or consideration that Jian Anji couldn’t comprehend?

She couldn’t be sure.

But after a day of taut nerves, those four simple words actually brought a sliver of relief, followed by an overwhelming wave of exhaustion.

She returned to the guest room, locked the door (though she knew it was futile), and collapsed onto the bed.

Her body sank into the soft mattress, the whip marks still throbbing, but the mental pressure seemed to have eased slightly.

At least for tonight, she wouldn’t have to face that extreme pain, humiliation, and control.

Yet just as she thought she could drift off to sleep, nursing her wounds, faint sounds drifted from the master bedroom.

Not the sound of water, nor footsteps.

It sounded like something being gently placed on a table, or the soft rustle of paper being turned.

Very faint, intermittent.

Jian Anji’s ears perked up involuntarily.

She thought of the ledger, of Leng Tan’s likely sleepless night, of the strange calm that had settled over her when Jian Anji left at dawn. Could the noises from the master bedroom be connected to these things?

She knew she shouldn’t be curious, but those fragmented clues, like magnets, drew her attention.

What was Leng Tan doing? Was she looking at those old ledgers?

The sketch… Had she really not found it?

Or had she found it, but was facing it alone?

These questions had no answers, only deepening the unease in her heart and that secret, even to herself, unspoken… concern?

She forced herself to close her eyes, refusing to listen.

But the faint sounds, like tiny insects, burrowed into her ears, impossible to ignore.

The wound on her back throbbed in the silence, forming an eerie echo with the unknown noises from the next room.

This night, though without whips or restraints, felt just as long and unbearable.

The pain in her body was bearable, but the fog of uncertainty and danger Leng Tan had stirred in her heart left her disoriented. It created an icy, impenetrable distance between her and this night that was supposed to bring her “rest.”

Faint, intermittent sounds drifted from the master bedroom, like the uneasy pulse of something lurking in the darkness.

Jian Anji lay stiffly on the guest room bed, her senses sharpened by the unnatural silence and the noises next door.

The whip marks on her back throbbed in time with the faint rustling of paper, creating a maddening duet.

She lost track of time.

Perhaps only a few minutes had passed, or maybe half an hour.

Finally, the sounds stopped.

An even deeper, suffocating silence followed.

But this silence didn’t last long.

A soft, yet remarkably clear sigh drifted through the thin wall, barely audible.

The sigh was brief, almost like a trick of the mind. But Jian Anji heard it.

It wasn’t a sigh of exhaustion. It sounded more like… a suppressed, heavy breath, carrying an indescribable weight.

Her heart clenched.

Leng Tan wasn’t asleep yet.

What was she doing?

Staring at that sketch of “Tantan”?

Or something else entirely, something that made her sigh like that in the dead of night?

Questions sprouted like vines, growing wildly and choking her breath.

She remembered Leng Tan standing by the car, rubbing her temples, the murmur in her dream, the fleeting darkness that crossed her face when she said, “It looks like blood.”

These fragments, combined with that sigh, painted a Leng Tan utterly different from the one she saw during the day—a Leng Tan who might also be carrying some burden, a Leng Tan who only revealed a sliver of her true self when no one was watching.

This realization brought no warmth of understanding, only a deeper chill and… a strange, absurd resonance.

Wasn’t she herself trapped in this endless silence and pain, alone with her unspeakable humiliations, fears, and confusion?

Just as these tangled emotions were churning in her mind, the master bedroom door creaked open.

Footsteps sounded, not heading for the living room or study, but… toward the guest room.

Jian Anji held her breath, every muscle in her body tensing.

She instinctively closed her eyes, feigning sleep once more, but her heart pounded wildly in her chest, threatening to shatter her ribs.

Footsteps stopped outside the guest room door.

There was no knock.

The doorknob turned with agonizing slowness. The click of the latch sliding open echoed loudly in the silence.

The door creaked open a crack.

Dim hallway light spilled into the room, casting a narrow strip of light across the floor.

A figure stood silently in the doorway.

Jian Anji could feel that gaze, piercing through the darkness and settling on her.

It was a heavy gaze, carrying the chill of the night and a complex weight she couldn’t decipher.

There was no scrutiny, no command, only a silent observation.

Time seemed to freeze.

Jian Anji lay motionless on the bed, not daring to twitch even an eyelash. She forced herself to maintain steady breathing, though her lungs ached with tension.

She caught a faint whiff of Leng Tan’s signature cold fragrance drifting from the doorway.

The gaze lingered for about ten seconds.

It felt like an eternity.

Then, the figure at the door moved ever so slightly.

Was she taking a tiny step forward?

Or just shifting her weight?

Jian Anji’s heart leaped into her throat.

Was she coming in?

What did she want?

But no.

The figure paused for only a moment before slowly backing away.

The door closed with the same deliberate quietness.

The bolt slid back into place with a soft click.

The light from the hallway vanished, plunging the guest room back into darkness.

Outside, footsteps faded away, returning to the master bedroom.

The master bedroom door closed too.

Silence returned.

As if nothing had happened.

But Jian Anji knew it had.

Leng Tan had come to her door in the dead of night, stood there for a dozen seconds, and left just as silently as she’d come.

No entry, no words, not even a sound beyond the softest click of the bolt.

Why?

To check on her?

To confirm she was still there?

Or… was it simply that, on this sleepless night, Leng Tan herself needed some silent, twisted reassurance or comfort?

This visit, with its unanswered questions, its ambiguity, and its unknown purpose, filled Jian Anji with a bone-deep unease far more profound than any clear punishment or command could have.

It shattered Leng Tan’s image as someone always calm, always in control, revealing the complex, unpredictable currents beneath the surface.

For Jian Anji, caught in the eye of this storm, these hidden currents meant even greater uncertainty and danger.

She lay stiffly in bed, her eyes wide open in the darkness.

The wound on her back still throbbed, but the pain had receded into the background.

What consumed her senses now was the weight of that invisible gaze lingering by the door, the echo of that faint sigh, and the widening fissure in her heart caused by Leng Tan’s fractured, terrifying image.

This night, meant for “rest,” had become unexpectedly long and agonizing.

Outside, the city lights flickered silently beyond the heavy curtains, unable to penetrate the room shrouded in secrets and tangled emotions. They offered no illumination for the dark, uncertain path stretching before her.

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