Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 28

The aluminum foil medicine packet felt cold and hard in her palm, its sharp edges digging into her skin.

Jian Anji stared at it for a few seconds, as if she could see through the silver surface to Leng Tan’s face behind it who looked calm and expressionless, yet issuing this contradictory instruction.

Pain relief, yet “best not to use.”

In the end, she didn’t open the packet. Instead, she gently placed it on the corner of the study desk, next to a pile of old and new labels and a fountain pen.

It lay there like a silent, ambiguous symbol from her controller, offering the possibility of relief while simultaneously reminding her of the necessity of pain.

She sat back down and picked up the fountain pen.

The nib hovered over the blank label paper, but she couldn’t bring herself to lower it.

The bone-deep chill from the earlier dressing change still lingered beneath her skin, coexisting strangely with the original burning pain.

But even more unsettling than the physical sensations was the unfathomable intent behind Leng Tan’s seemingly “caring” gesture.

Was it to ensure she could better perform the tasks she might be assigned that afternoon?

Or some more twisted power game involving “endurance” and “reward”?

Or… could there be a sliver of something even Leng Tan herself might not fully recognize—a distorted form of “pity”?

She shook her head, forcing herself to dismiss these useless speculations.

Focusing on the letters, C, D… The pen scratched across the paper again, its monotonous rhythm a futile attempt to drown out the chaos in her mind.

Rewriting and reorganizing the index tabs was an utterly tedious task.

Time dragged on, measured by the friction of pen against paper, the slow rhythm of pulling folders out and putting them back.

The sunlight gradually shifted across the desk, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air and the slight ache in her neck from bending over for so long.

As noon approached, the study door swung open again.

This time, there was no knock. It was Leng Tan.

She had changed out of her morning shirt and trousers, now wearing a light beige cashmere cardigan and matching pants. Her long hair hung loosely down her back, and she carried a glass of water.

Her expression was slightly more relaxed than earlier, the sharpness in her eyes softened, but her aura of absolute control still permeated the room.

She stepped inside, her gaze first falling on the stack of folders, now partially relabeled and arranged more neatly. After a quick assessment of the progress, she turned to Jian Anji behind the desk.

“How’s the progress coming?” she asked, her voice a little softer than in the Secondary Study, but still flat and lacking warmth.

“About halfway done, Master,” Jian Anji replied, standing up and lowering her gaze.

“Hmm,” Leng Tan murmured, walking to the desk and picking up a newly labeled file at random.

Her long, clean fingers, with neatly rounded nails, pinched the small white slip of paper as her eyes scanned the neat English lettering.

“The handwriting is legible enough,” she remarked, her tone neutral, neither approving nor critical.

She set the file back down.

Her gaze then fell on the unopened bag of pain relievers at the corner of the desk.

She paused for a moment.

“You haven’t taken your medicine?” she asked, her voice still even.

“…Not yet, Master,” Jian Anji replied softly. “…I can still endure it.”

Leng Tan’s gaze shifted from the medicine bag to Jian Anji’s face, her eyes deep and penetrating, as if trying to see through her calm (she hoped it was calm) facade to the truth beneath.

“Endurance is commendable,” she said slowly, her fingertips tapping lightly on the smooth desk surface. “But excessive endurance is sometimes unnecessary.”

The meaning of her words was too vague.

Was she encouraging her to take her medicine?

Or was she hinting at something else?

Was she referring to physical pain, or… some other kind of “endurance”?

Jian Anji didn’t know how to respond and remained silent.

Leng Tan didn’t wait for an answer.

She picked up her water glass, took a sip, and turned her gaze back to the bright sunlight streaming through the window.

“Lunch will be here in half an hour,” she said, then turned to leave the study.

At the door, she paused, glanced sideways at Jian Anji’s still-upright but visibly weary figure and the unfinished work piled beside her.

“After you finish this afternoon,” she added, her tone carrying a faint, almost imperceptible nuance, “you can rest for a while. No need to rush with the inventory list.”

With that, she opened the door and left.

Silence returned to the study.

Sunlight, dust motes, paper, a pen, and the small bag of pills on the corner of the desk.

Jian Anji slowly sat back down, her fingertips feeling slightly cold.

Leng Tan’s last words…

“You can rest for a bit.”

This simple permission, at that moment, stirred in her a strange mix of confusion and a faint, almost imperceptible flutter of emotion, far more potent than any complex command.

Was it because she had finished part of her work?

Because she had “endured” the pain?

Or was it… something else, something she couldn’t understand?

She shook off these thoughts and picked up her pen again.

But when the tip touched the paper, she wrote the wrong letter.

She crossed it out forcefully, her mind still reeling from the brief, permitted “rest” and Leng Tan’s inscrutable demeanor. She continued this seemingly endless, meticulously planned labor.

The sunlight outside remained bright, yet it couldn’t penetrate the deepening, perplexing fog in her heart, a fog stirred by Leng Tan.

The smudged ink spread into an awkward gray blot on the white label paper, a reflection of her current mood.

Jian Anji stared at the stain for two seconds before pulling out a fresh label and neatly writing the correct letter.

Her movements regained their mechanical precision, but her thoughts could no longer fully focus on the arrangement of A, B, C, and D.

Leng Tan’s casual remark, “You can rest for a while,” was like a pebble dropped into the still waters of Jian Anji’s heart. The ripples, though small, spread persistently outward.

This wasn’t charity, but rather… an adjustment of rhythm?

A quantifiable reward given after she had endured and completed part of her work?

Or was there something else mixed in, something even Leng Tan herself might not fully understand? Perhaps a subtle softening after last night’s silent visit, a softening so faint that even the giver might not have noticed it?

She didn’t know.

Everything about Leng Tan was shrouded in layers of mist. The occasional glimpses of light only deepened the confusion, rather than offering clarity.

Lunch arrived promptly.

It was still for two, but Leng Tan didn’t come out to eat with her.

Jian Anji ate her portion alone in the dining room, the exquisite yet cold food tasting like cardboard.

The silence in the room was broken only by the sound of her chewing and the distant hum of the city.

Leng Tan’s absence made the meal feel more like a task to be completed than nourishment.

After lunch, she returned to the study to finish indexing the files.

The whip marks on her back felt numb from the ointment and prolonged sitting, but a deep, persistent ache remained.

She tried to focus on the endless combinations of letters before her, hoping the sheer monotony would drown out her inner turmoil and physical discomfort.

Around three in the afternoon, she finished labeling the last folder.

The blue folders, now neatly arranged in alphabetical order, stood stacked on one side of the desk like a row of silent soldiers.

The task was done.

Jian Anji put down her pen and rubbed her wrist, which ached from writing for so long.

She glanced at the folders, then at the index list Leng Tan had instructed her to copy by hand—her next task.

But Leng Tan had also said, “No need to rush copying the list.”

“You can rest for a while.”

This brief, permitted pause suddenly stretched before her.

She felt lost.

Rest?

In this apartment, where every corner bore Leng Tan’s mark and privacy was nonexistent, how could she truly “rest”?

Should she go back to the guest room and endure the double torment of silence and pain?

Or should she stay here, staring blankly at the view outside the window?

In the end, she didn’t leave the study.

Instead, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

The sunlight filtering through her eyelids painted a warm, orange-red glow.

Exhaustion washed over her like a tide, not just physical but mental.

Every moment spent with Leng Tan felt like walking a tightrope, demanding immense mental effort to cope, to anticipate, to endure.

Just as she was about to sink into this warm darkness and weariness, the study door creaked open again.

No footsteps preceded the sound.

Jian Anji immediately opened her eyes and straightened up.

Leng Tan stood in the doorway.

She had changed out of her casual knitwear from earlier and now wore a sharply tailored navy blue suit dress. Her long hair was neatly pinned up, and her makeup was flawless, clearly indicating she was about to go out. She carried her black clutch.

Her gaze lingered on the neatly reorganized folders on the desk before sweeping over Jian Anji’s slightly weary face.

“All done?” she asked, her voice even colder than it had been in the study earlier that day, as if she had switched into a different mode before going out.

“…Yes, Master,” Jian Anji replied, standing up.

“Hmm,” Leng Tan acknowledged, stepping into the room. She walked to the desk and casually flipped through the newly labeled folders, confirming everything was in order.

Then her gaze fell on the corner of the desk—the bag of painkillers still lay there, untouched.

Her fingertip tapped lightly on the cold surface of the desk. Her eyes shifted from the bag to Jian Anji’s face, lingering for a moment.

The look was complex. It was scrutinizing, carrying some unspoken depth, and perhaps even a trace of some perfectly concealed, unreadable emotion.

“I have a dinner engagement tonight,” Leng Tan said, her tone returning to its usual flat neutrality, revealing nothing about her thoughts on the painkillers. “I’ll be back late.”

She paused, then added, “Fix dinner yourself. There are ingredients in the fridge.”

With that, she turned and strode toward the door without another glance at Jian Anji. The crisp, steady clicks of her heels faded quickly as she walked away. Then came the sounds of the outer door opening, closing, and locking.

Once again, Jian Anji was alone in the apartment.

The sudden, unexpected announcement of her complete solitude startled her.

Coming back late… figure out dinner yourself… This meant she’d have an even longer, even more “free” night than the one before.

Yet this “freedom” left her feeling empty and uneasy.

Leng Tan’s departure had lifted the ever-present sense of oppression, but it had also severed a certain (albeit twisted) connection and… a reference point for her existence.

Facing this vast, Leng Tan-haunted space alone, with her still-healing wounds and chaotic inner turmoil, hardly felt like liberation.

Her gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, back to the small bag of painkillers on the corner of the table.

The foil packet glinted coldly in the afternoon sunlight.

Take them, or not?

This was no longer a simple choice about pain.

It had become a symbol, a silent commentary on the complex, twisted relationship between her and Leng Tan.

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