Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 5

The silence of the bedroom took on a physical weight, pressing heavily against her eardrums. The deathly stillness emanating from the living room was more unsettling than any sudden noise; it acted as an invisible boundary, reminding her of her confined world and leaving her next move suspended in uncertainty.

Leng Tan had issued no new instructions, but this void was a command in itself: stay here and wait.

Jian Anji walked to the edge of the bed but did not immediately sit or lie down. The sheets were made of cold, dark silk, pressed so flat they lacked even a single wrinkle, as if they had never been touched by a human body. She reached out and let her fingertips brush the smooth, icy surface, which felt identical to the texture of her pajamas. This entire room felt like an extension of Leng Tan’s will. It was cold, sophisticated, and meticulous, refusing to allow any stray warmth or foreign trace to linger.

She finally sat on the edge of the bed, her body sinking into the mattress which was soft yet offered firm support. The movement pulled at her back and the pain flared up vividly once more, though it remained somewhat dulled by the medicinal chill and the long hours of tension. Her wet hair clung to the back of her neck and caused a faint discomfort. She knew she should dry it, or at least use a towel again, but a wave of immense exhaustion washed over her. It was not merely physical; it was a weariness that seeped from the very depths of her marrow. She did not want to move, not even for a task as simple as fetching a towel.

Her gaze fell upon her hands, which were clasped over her lap. Her fingers were long and the joints well-defined, yet they appeared pale and strengthless in the dim light. Her nails were trimmed clean without any decoration. These hands had recently held an icy wine glass, supported her pain-racked body, opened the medical kit, and wiped her own cold, damp skin. They had executed every one of Leng Tan’s commands, regardless of what those commands entailed.

She slowly lifted one hand, her fingertips touching the shoulder of her pajamas with a hesitant, ghost-like lightness as she tried to sense the condition of the skin beneath. The silk was too slick, and through the fabric, she could feel nothing except that omnipresent, faint sting. Yet her fingertips seemed to possess their own memory, clearly “seeing” the swollen lash marks and the latent traces of the ointment that were slowly developing beneath the surface.

Outside, the city never truly slept. The distant, low hum of vehicles sliding across the pavement drifted upward, and the skyline glowed with a hazy light pollution that stained the night sky a muddy, dark orange. However, these sounds and lights were filtered and weakened by the heavy glass and curtains, becoming like a blurred echo from a parallel world that had no place in the absolute silence of this room.

Time became viscous and slow during the wait. Every second felt like a solitary, transparent piece of amber trapping her within. She did not know how long she would have to wait perhaps until Leng Tan entered, perhaps until she was “permitted” to sleep, or perhaps she would simply wait indefinitely until her nerves snapped one by one under the strain of suspension.

Just as she thought the silence would last forever, a faint sound finally drifted in from the living room. It was the sound of a wine glass being set gently back onto the glass coffee table. That soft ting acted like a fine needle, puncturing the solidified silence of the bedroom.

Jian Anji’s body stiffened almost imperceptibly for a moment. All her scattered senses instantly retracted and focused on the door that separated the two spaces. The chill of her wet hair, the dull ache in her back, and the slick touch of the silk pajamas were all pushed into the background of her consciousness. In their place stood a total, guarded state of anticipation.

Footsteps did not follow immediately. Another brief, agonizing silence ensued, as if Leng Tan were lingering in the living room for a moment perhaps staring at the empty glass, or perhaps simply enjoying the luxury of controlling the rhythm. Then, the sound of high heels finally returned. It was no longer the muffled thud against the carpet, but the clear, steady, and rhythmic click-clack against the marble floor of the short corridor.

Every strike felt like a precision blow against Jian Anji’s tightened nerves. The sound was unhurried and composed, approaching with a posture of proclamation through the door panel. Jian Anji instinctively tightened her fingers against her legs, her nails digging into her palms. She did not turn toward the door; instead, she maintained her seated position on the edge of the bed, her gaze falling upon the intricate, dark patterns of the carpet as if those interwoven lines held some omen of fate. Her heart accelerated uncontrollably, its thudding against her chest forming a strange and oppressive harmony with the rhythmic footsteps outside.

The footsteps stopped outside the door.

There was no knock.

The door handle was slowly turned, the metal mechanism releasing a smooth, low-pitched click. The door was pushed open.

Light spilled in first. The relatively brighter light from the living room casting a narrow, blurred beam across the dim bedroom carpet. Then, Leng Tan’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. She stood against the light, her deep red hem looking like a shadow of congealed blood, while her upper body and face remained hidden in the darkness, her outline sharply cutting through the light.

She did not enter immediately but stood at the threshold with a leisurely posture, as if she were merely passing by and had decided to take a look. Her gaze swept through the room before naturally landing on Jian Anji, who sat on the edge of the bed in the gray silk pajamas. It was a look of scrutiny, carrying a silent weight of ownership and the confirmation of the current status quo.

The air seemed to stop moving. The soft lamp in the bedroom, the seepage of light from the living room, and the unique scent of wine and cold fragrance that Leng Tan carried all converged and clashed in that moment. Jian Anji felt that gaze as a physical weight resting on the crown of her head, her shoulders, and her clasped hands. She did not look up, maintaining her lowered gaze; it was the rule, and it was the only fragile defense she could maintain. The injuries on her back seemed to wake up in her tension, sending a clear throb of pain through her.

Time flowed through the silent measurement of that gaze, every second stretched thin. Leng Tan finally moved. She stepped into the bedroom, her heels hitting the carpet with a muffled sound that only made her approach feel more imminent.

She left the door wide open, and the light from the living room beyond functioned as a gaping, unignorable suggestion of an exit, yet her own silhouette stood there, firmly blocking the way.

She came to a halt a few paces from the bed and crossed her arms naturally over her chest, her deep red gown casting dark glimmers in the dim light. Her gaze finally shifted from the top of Jian Anji’s lowered head and settled on her forearms, which were exposed by the short-sleeved pajamas, and the damp hair clinging to the skin at the nape of her neck.

“Your hair is still wet,” Leng Tan remarked. Her tone was flat, making it impossible to discern if it were a reproach or a simple observation.

Jian Anji’s fingertips curled. She had indeed forgotten, or perhaps the overwhelming exhaustion and tension had left her with no capacity to care.

“…I am sorry, Master,” she whispered, her voice low and dry.

Leng Tan did not acknowledge the apology. Instead, she turned and walked toward the entrance of the walk-in closet on the other side of the bedroom, which connected to a small vanity area. A moment later, she returned carrying a wide-toothed comb and a dry, soft towel. She did not hand them to Jian Anji but walked directly behind her.

When Leng Tan’s hand touched the cold, damp ends of her hair at her nape, Jian Anji’s body went as rigid as a stone. This was not an expected development. Punishment, treatment, directives, or even cold neglect all fell within a certain comprehensible logic. But this act of… care?

It was more disquieting than the whip because it blurred the boundaries and muddled the simple, antagonistic relationship that had just been established through pain and humiliation.

The towel descended and wrapped around her long, wet hair. Leng Tan’s movements were not exactly gentle, yet they were not rough either; she simply set about absorbing the moisture with methodical efficiency. Occasionally, her fingers would brush the skin of Jian Anji’s neck through the towel, her warmth slightly higher than the fabric but still carrying that familiar, characteristic chill.

Next, the comb slid into the damp tresses. Starting from the ends, she worked her way up slowly. Whenever she encountered a knot, she would pause for a heartbeat before firmly combing through it. The tugging at her scalp brought a slight sting, yet this pain was entirely different from the lash marks on her back; it was more mundane, more… personal.

The sound of the comb’s teeth gliding across her scalp felt exceptionally clear in the silent room. Jian Anji remained seated in a stiff upright position, her hands deathly tight against the bedsheets beneath her. She did not dare move, did not dare breathe too heavily, and did not even dare shift her eyes.

Was the woman behind her, the one currently drying and combing her hair, truly the same person who had left those marks on her back with a whip such a short time ago? Or was this, in itself, a more sophisticated form of control? Was it a tactic to confuse her perceptions and dissolve her last bit of clear hatred or rebellious thought with this near-considerate gesture after inflicting such extreme pain and shame?

Leng Tan did not utter a single word throughout the process. There was only the rustle of the towel, the faint sound of the comb through her strands, and the heavy, viscous silence between them. The brushing continued for a considerable time until her long hair was damp-dry and smooth, draped across her shoulders and back.

Leng Tan set the towel and comb carelessly on the nightstand. Her hand lingered on the crown of Jian Anji’s head for a moment, the touch so light it was almost a hallucination. Then, the hand withdrew.

Leng Tan circled back to stand before her, her gaze resting once more on her face.

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