Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 8

The soft click of the door closing was like a gate falling, temporarily sealing off the space behind her; a space filled with pain, coldness, and a strange intimacy from the night before.

The living room light was blocked, and the bedroom sank back into the relative dimness and silence unique to early morning.

Jian Anji kept her eyes closed, but every sense in her body stretched out like startled antennae.

She listened intently.

Outside the door, the footsteps hadn’t faded away but moved slowly through the living room, pausing occasionally, punctuated by the delicate clink of porcelain. Leng Tan was likely preparing morning coffee or tea.

These ordinary, mundane sounds formed a sharp, dizzying contrast to the events of the previous night.

Finally, she slowly opened her eyes. The morning light had grown slightly brighter, the gray-blue hues gradually fading to a cold, fish-belly white.

Everything in the room hovered between clarity and blur: the serene outlines of the furniture, the intricate patterns on the carpet, and the empty space beside her. The pillow and sheets still retaining the warmth and scent of another person.

She moved her stiff body with excruciating slowness.

Every minute movement sent searing pain through her back, the hot, aching sensation intensifying as her consciousness sharpened.

Carefully propping herself up on her elbows, she sat up halfway. The silk nightgown slid against her skin, leaving a slick, smooth sensation. The ointment on her back seemed to have dried completely, forming a crust between her skin and the fabric that emitted a faint rustling sound with each movement.

Looking down, she could see a small patch of unnaturally dark, ambiguous red skin near her collarbone, just below the neckline of her nightgown. Faint bruises peeked through at the edges; the area where the wine glass had been pressed against her skin last night, now covered with ointment.

The mark was more vivid than she had anticipated, like a newly developing stamp.

She dared not imagine what her back must look like.

A neatly folded set of clothes lay beside the bed: a light-colored linen shirt and beige casual trousers.

Not the outfit she had worn yesterday; clearly prepared by Leng Tan.

A pair of soft-soled indoor slippers sat nearby.

There were no explicit instructions, but the intent was clear.

She threw back the covers, her bare feet touching the icy floor, sending another shiver through her.

The moment she stood, a wave of dizziness washed over her, forcing her to steady herself against the bedside table.

The movement stretched the wound on her back, causing her to gasp sharply in pain.

After a few seconds, she reached for the clothes.

Changing was a slow and arduous process.

Every lift of her arm and turn of her body had to be executed with extreme caution to avoid aggravating the injury.

The linen shirt felt rougher against her skin than the silk nightgown she’d worn the previous night, its texture more pronounced, especially where it rubbed against the whip marks and medicated areas.

Clenching her jaw, she buttoned the shirt one button at a time and pulled on the trousers.

The clothes fit perfectly, their fine quality wrapping her body as if she were being forced back into a “normal” shell, one that met Leng Tan’s exacting standards.

Slipping into the soft-soled slippers, she walked to the window. After a moment’s hesitation, she gently parted the heavy curtains.

Blinding daylight flooded the room, forcing her to squint.

Outside the window, the city was awakening to a full day. Skyscrapers pierced the sky, traffic was already thickening on the streets, and in the distance, the tower cranes of construction sites slowly rotated.

Everything pulsed with a vibrant, clamorous energy that stood in stark contrast to her inner turmoil.

The world continued to operate according to its predetermined rhythm, utterly indifferent to the secrets, pain, control, and ambiguity that had unfolded in this room the previous night.

Left behind with invisible yet ever-present marks, she stood at the window overlooking the masses, feeling more isolated and helpless than a prisoner.

Behind her, the bedroom door creaked open again.

She didn’t turn, but every muscle in her body tensed instantly. She could feel that familiar, scrutinizing gaze settling on her back, clad in fresh clothes and bathed in the morning light.

The sunlight outlined her linen shirt, revealing the taut line of her spine beneath the fabric.

That gaze seemed to penetrate the cloth, as if it could directly touch the slowly surfacing bruises and dried ointment beneath.

“Turn around.”

Leng Tan’s voice echoed from the doorway, less deliberately deep than the night before, now carrying the slight rasp of morning, but the commanding tone remained unchanged.

Jian Anji’s fingers unconsciously curled, gripping a fold of the heavy velvet curtain.

She took a deep breath, released her grip, and slowly turned around.

Leng Tan had changed out of her nightgown into a sharply tailored dark gray silk morning robe, the sash loosely tied, her long hair draped casually over her shoulders.

She held a white bone china cup, steaming gently, likely black coffee.

Leaning against the doorframe with an air of languid ease, her gaze was clear and sharp as she scrutinized Jian Anji from head to toe.

Her eyes slid from Jian Anji’s slightly pale face to the meticulously buttoned collar of her shirt, then down, sweeping over her trouser-clad legs before returning to her eyes.

It was like inspecting an object to ensure it had been properly handled and met expectations.

“Does the clothing still fit?” Leng Tan asked, her tone as casual as inquiring about the weather.

“…It fits, Master,” Jian Anji replied, lowering her gaze to avoid the direct scrutiny.

“Come here,” Leng Tan said, turning to walk toward the living room with her coffee cup, without looking back to see if Jian Anji followed.

Jian Anji trailed behind her, her slippers making barely a sound on the plush carpet.

The living room curtains were now mostly drawn open, flooding the space with light. The oppressive darkness of the previous night had vanished, replaced by a clear, bright atmosphere that revealed no trace of the whip’s passage on the wool rug—traces that were either too faint to see or perhaps never existed at all.

The air was thick with the rich aroma of coffee, as if trying to mask the lingering, more complex scents of the previous night.

Leng Tan sat down on the sofa, the very spot where she had administered punishment the night before. She placed her coffee cup on the coffee table and gestured to the armchair opposite her.

“Sit.”

Jian Anji obeyed, sitting upright with her hands resting on her knees in a stiff, formal posture.

The soft sofa back pressed against the wounds on her back, sending a dull ache through her. She struggled to maintain a calm expression.

Leng Tan didn’t speak immediately. She simply lifted her coffee cup and took a slow, deliberate sip.

Her gaze settled on Jian Anji, yet seemed to pierce right through her, as if lost in thought.

In the morning light, the lines of her face appeared softer, but the icy shell in her eyes remained unmelted by the sun.

“What are your plans for today?” Leng Tan asked abruptly, setting down her cup.

The question was so ordinary that Jian Anji froze for a moment.

Plans?

After what had happened last night?

The word “plans” sounded both distant and absurd.

Her original plans or rather, any “plans” she might have had as an independent individual had been shattered long ago.

“…No particular plans, Master,” she replied cautiously.

“Then stay home,” Leng Tan said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “On the third shelf of the bookcase on the east side of the study, there are some documents that need filing. Sort them by year and project.”

She retrieved a small brass key from her morning robe pocket, placed it on the coffee table, and slid it toward Jian Anji.

“The second drawer on the left. Have it organized by 3 PM.”

Was the punishment over?

No, it had merely taken a different form.

The violent pain had transformed into a soft, everyday confinement and servitude.

By filling her time with trivial, time-consuming paperwork, Leng Tan kept Jian Anji confined to this space while simultaneously giving her a clear, concrete task that required focused attention. This was another form of control, a mental imprisonment disguised beneath the veneer of normalcy.

The keys gleamed with a cold, hard luster in the morning light.

Jian Anji looked at the keys, then glanced up at Leng Tan.

The latter had already picked up her coffee cup again, her gaze now fixed on the bright yet distant cityscape visible through the window. Her profile remained calm and impassive, as if she had merely issued an ordinary household instruction.

“Yes, Master,” Jian Anji said, reaching out to take the slightly cool keys.

The brass felt as cold and real as the emerging purplish-blue “reminders” on her back.

Support Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress