Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 27

The darkness was thick and impenetrable, and the silence washed over her like a cold tide, drowning out the brief but terrifying events that had just unfolded outside her door.

Jian Anji lay motionless on the bed, like a lifeless statue. Only the frantic pounding of her heart in her chest proved she was still alive, still conscious, still enduring this silent torment.

Why had Leng Tan come?

What did that silent, lingering gaze mean?

Was it an extension of her need for control, reaching out in the night?

Some twisted, unspoken form of concern?

Or… something even Leng Tan herself couldn’t understand, an unconscious urge to draw near in the solitude of the night?

There were no answers.

Only the lingering chill of that invisible gaze, seeping into her skin like a tangible presence, mingling with the burning pain of the whip marks on her back, tormenting her nerves with alternating waves of heat and cold.

Time lost all meaning.

She didn’t know how long she lay stiff and wide-eyed in the darkness, until a faint, pale light began to seep through the heavy curtains from the horizon outside. It was a diluted, inky blue-gray, struggling to penetrate the thick fabric like diluted ink.

After enduring extreme exhaustion and tension, her body finally began to protest vehemently.

Every whip mark awakened with the morning’s stiffness, sending sharper, more distinct aches through her.

Her throat felt dry and raw, and a throbbing pulse hammered at her temples.

She slowly, with immense effort, sat up. Each minute movement tugged at her wounds, leaving her drenched in a cold sweat.

Barefoot on the icy floor, she walked to the window and cautiously pulled back a sliver of the curtain.

A meager sliver of gray-white daylight squeezed through, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the room.

The city still slumbered on the edge of waking. The streets below lay empty and silent, save for the occasional early-morning vehicle gliding past, leaving fleeting trails of light.

******

A new day had begun.

But what would this day bring?

Would it be a continuation of the eerie “calm” from the night before, or the prelude to a fresh storm?

What face would Leng Tan wear today?

Would last night’s silent visit be erased as if it never happened, or would it leave some subtle, almost imperceptible trace in their daytime interactions?

She didn’t know. In this apartment, the future remained shrouded in a fog cast by Leng Tan’s will.

She went into the guest bathroom and splashed cold water on her face.

The icy water momentarily cleared her head. Her reflection stared back, pale as a ghost, dark circles under her eyes, lips cracked and dry.

She gazed at herself, her eyes filled with exhaustion, fear, and a deeper sense of bewilderment that had taken root after last night’s intrusion—a feeling even she couldn’t quite recognize.

She changed into clean loungewear, still provided by Leng Tan: soft cotton, light gray, utterly devoid of personality.

She hastily tied up her long hair, revealing faint marks around her neck from last night’s collar, and several bruises near her collarbone.

When she stepped out of the guest room, the apartment remained eerily silent.

The master bedroom door was tightly shut.

The secondary study door was also closed.

After a moment’s hesitation, she headed for the kitchen.

She needed water and some food to sustain her battered body and tormented mind.

Just as she poured a glass of water, before she could even take a sip, movement came from the master bedroom.

The door opened.

Leng Tan emerged.

She wore a white silk blouse and black tailored trousers, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing her slender forearms.

Her long hair was neatly pulled back, and her face bore a flawless, light makeup, completely concealing any traces of last night’s fatigue or distress.

Her steps were steady, her gaze clear and sharp, as if she had already taken care of all her personal matters that morning and was ready to dive into the day’s work.

Seeing Jian Anji in the kitchen, she didn’t pause but walked straight over.

Her eyes swept over Jian Anji’s pale face and the marks on her neck without a flicker of emotion, as if assessing the current state of an object.

“Awake?” Her voice was calm and even, betraying no hint of her silent vigil outside the door the night before.

“…Yes, Master,” Jian Anji replied, lowering her eyes and tightening her grip on the water glass.

“This morning,” Leng Tan said, moving to the coffee machine and operating it with practiced ease, her back to Jian Anji. Her tone was her usual flat, commanding tone. “Reorganize the files in the Secondary Study that were archived yesterday. Arrange the index labels alphabetically by project name. The old labels are in the left drawer, the new ones in the right.”

Another tedious, time-consuming task requiring intense focus but no creativity.

Precise labor to occupy her time, energy, and thoughts.

“…Yes,” Jian Anji murmured.

The coffee machine hummed to life, its rich aroma beginning to fill the air.

Leng Tan picked up a white bone china cup and waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

Her profile, bathed in the morning light, was calm and focused, as if last night’s sigh and silent scrutiny had been nothing more than Jian Anji’s exhausted imagination.

“Once you’re done,” Leng Tan said, lifting the full cup and turning to look at Jian Anji again, “make a handwritten copy of the index and leave it on my desk in the study.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Leng Tan turned away, carrying her coffee toward the secondary study.

The crisp, steady clicks of her high heels against the floor echoed through the apartment, the rhythm of absolute authority in the daylight.

The door closed.

Once again, only the lingering aroma of coffee and Jian Anji remained in the apartment.

She stood there, clutching the now lukewarm glass of water, staring at the tightly shut door of the secondary study.

The wound on her back throbbed faintly in the silence, but the silent gaze she’d felt outside her door last night burned more vividly into her memory than any physical pain.

Leng Tan was acting so normal, so nonchalant.

That in itself was the greatest abnormality.

Jian Anji slowly finished the water. The cool liquid slid down her throat, but it couldn’t quench the cold unease that had quietly ignited in her heart, fueled by the unknown and the complex.

A new day began with seemingly ordinary instructions and the aroma of coffee.

But Jian Anji knew things had changed.

The silent visit last night was like a stone dropped into still water. The ripples, invisible beneath the surface, were spreading slowly and stubbornly.

And she, trapped at the center of this watery expanse, could only wait, unsure whether the ripples would carry her to some unknown shore or swallow her whole.

The coffee’s fragrance, like a thin veil, tried to mask something heavier in the apartment, but it was a futile effort.

Jian Anji rinsed her empty cup and placed it back on the counter, the porcelain’s chill lingering on her fingertips.

She took a deep breath and walked to the study.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating rows of dark blue folders with sharp clarity.

The files she had meticulously organized yesterday were now to be relabeled and reindexed.

A pointless, repetitive task, much like her current life.

She found the old labels in the left drawer, their edges yellowed and curling, bearing her clear but slightly hurried handwriting from the previous day.

In the right drawer were brand-new, white labels of the same size.

The task began.

She pulled out a folder, checked the project name, and copied it from the old label to the new one. Then she reinserted the folder into the transparent slot on the side, arranging them alphabetically.

The movements were mechanical, repetitive.

The study was quiet, save for the scratch of her pen across paper and the occasional soft click of a folder opening or closing.

The whip marks on her back throbbed with each prolonged sit and repeated bend, a persistent reminder of their presence.

At first, the pain was sharp and piercing, but it gradually numbed, transforming into a deep, aching soreness that seemed to seep into her bones.

The pressure mark left by the collar around her neck also itched slightly against the friction of her collar.

Yet her thoughts refused to be as mechanical as her actions.

They drifted uncontrollably to the previous night, that muffled sigh, the silent, watchful shadow outside the door.

Leng Tan was in the secondary study, just a wall away. They were so close, yet separated by a chasm that seemed impossible to bridge.

That chasm was filled with whippings and ointments, restraints and touches, murmured dreams and sighs, the enigmatic phrase “like blood,” and the innocent smile of “Tantan” in the ledger.

What kind of feelings did Leng Tan harbor for her?

Beneath the pure desire for possession and control, did other, equally dark but perhaps more complex emotions stir?

What had grown within her, day after day, amidst the fear, humiliation, and this suffocating entanglement?

Was it pure hatred and terror, or… beneath those layers, had a twisted, even self-denied dependence quietly taken root? Or something else entirely?

These questions had no answers, only tightening her chest and making her fingers tremble slightly as she gripped the pen.

She forced herself to focus on the letters before her: A, B, C… The pen pressed down hard, as if trying to carve all the chaos into this tiny label.

Time slipped by slowly, marked by the pen’s movements and the rustle of file folders.

The sunlight gradually climbed higher, illuminating more dust motes dancing on the bookshelf.

The city outside the window began to stir, but the thick glass muffled the noise, making it distant and indistinct, like background noise from another world.

She didn’t know how long had passed when the clock struck around ten in the morning, and a soft knock sounded at the study door.

It wasn’t Leng Tan.

Leng Tan never knocked.

Jian Anji paused, startled, before murmuring, “Come in.”

The door opened to reveal the middle-aged woman who had delivered her medicine the previous day.

She was still wearing her dark blue uniform and carrying the small medical kit, her expression as calm and professional as ever.

“Miss Jian, Mr. Leng instructed me to change your bandages,” the woman said, her voice utterly flat.

Change the bandages again?

Didn’t I just have them changed yesterday?

A flicker of doubt crossed Jian Anji’s mind, but she didn’t show it.

She set down her pen and stood up.

“Thank you for your trouble.”

They went to the living room again, where Jian Anji sat sideways on the sofa.

The woman opened the medical kit and expertly examined the wounds, disinfected them, and applied fresh ointment. Her touch seemed gentler than yesterday, especially when treating the deeper whip marks on the back of Jian Anji’s thigh.

“The recovery is progressing well, with no signs of infection,” the woman said calmly as she worked. “Today’s ointment contains ingredients to promote absorption and reduce blood stasis. It may feel slightly cooler.”

Sure enough, the new ointment brought a more pronounced, even piercingly cold sensation. It quickly penetrated the burning wounds, creating a strange, complex sensation of ice and fire mingling.

Jian Anji silently endured the treatment, not uttering a word.

The woman’s professional detachment paradoxically gave her a strange sense of “safety,” however pathetic.

The dressing change was quickly completed.

The woman packed up her supplies, stood up, and paused before leaving. She retrieved a small, sealed aluminum foil packet from her medical kit and handed it to Jian Anji.

“Mr. Leng instructed me to prepare this,” the woman said, her tone still flat. “It’s an oral painkiller and anti-inflammatory. Take one as directed if the pain interferes with your rest or daily activities. But,” she paused, glancing at Jian Anji, “if you can bear it, it’s best to avoid using it. To prevent dependency or masking the true extent of your injury.”

Jian Anji took the packet, the cold foil pressing against her palm. Painkillers? Ordered by Leng Tan?

This subtle, almost “considerate” gesture, like the silent visit last night, deepened her confusion and unease.

Was this merely about maintaining the utility of her “property,” or… something else entirely?

“Thank you,” she murmured.

The woman nodded slightly, said nothing more, and turned to leave.

Jian Anji was left alone in the study again, the air now thick with the mingled scents of old and new medicinal creams, the cool, sharp aroma even more intense.

Clutching the bag of painkillers, she stood by the sofa, gazing at the bright sunlight streaming through the window. The fog in her heart seemed to thicken with this small bag of pills and the woman’s cryptic message.

What is Leng Tan really thinking?

Behind that tightly shut door of the secondary study, what turbulent emotions churned within that woman who always appeared so calm and composed?

And what should she, caught in the eye of this storm, do?

There were no answers.

Only the sharp, tingling pain on her back, intensified by the icy cream, and the small bag of pills in her hand, weighing as heavy as a thousand pounds, silently reminding her of the complexity and uncertainty of it all.

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