Escaping from the Yandere Young Heiress - Chapter 9

The key pressed into her palm, its brass edges digging into her skin with a small, sharp pain.

It echoed the dull ache awakening across her back, creating a dual confirmation. Last night was real, and this moment is real too.

“Yes, Master,” Jian Anji replied, her voice dry but devoid of any discernible emotion.

She tightened her grip on the keys, the metal’s coolness seeming to suppress the thin layer of sweat forming on her palm from tension.

Leng Tan said nothing more, nor did she look at Jian Anji again. She focused on her coffee and the view outside the window, as if she had just finished relaying a trivial matter.

Sunlight streamed across her deep gray silk morning robe, outlining her elegant yet aloof silhouette.

The only sounds in the living room were the occasional clink of the coffee cup against its saucer and the distant white noise of the city.

Jian Anji rose to her feet.

The movement tugged at her back, causing her to wince almost imperceptibly. She quickly adjusted her breathing, striving to maintain a steady posture.

She turned and walked toward the study.

The study door stood ajar.

Pushing open the door, she was greeted by a mixed aroma of old paper, leather bindings, and a faint woody scent.

The spacious room was lined on three sides with floor-to-ceiling dark walnut bookshelves, crammed with books and document folders. The fourth wall was entirely a floor-to-ceiling window, now bathed in sunlight that illuminated every particle of dust floating in the air.

This space stood in stark contrast to the tense living room from the previous night and the dimly lit, oppressive bedroom. It exuded an air of solemnity, rationality, and an almost unnerving stillness.

She walked to the eastern bookshelf.

Third shelf.

There, neatly stacked, was a row of deep blue hardcover folders, some with worn edges revealing the yellowed paper inside.

They felt surprisingly heavy.

She retrieved her key and located the second drawer from the left—a wide, locked filing cabinet drawer. The brass key slid into the lock with a soft click, its sound unusually distinct in the silent study.

Pulling open the drawer, she found it filled with more scattered documents, reports, letters, and even loose pages, all awaiting filing as per Leng Tan’s instructions.

There was no chair.

She could only stand or sit on the carpet.

She chose the latter, carefully kneeling on the thick carpet and pulling the documents she needed to organize close to her.

This posture avoided direct pressure on her back, but maintaining it for long periods still caused discomfort.

Sunlight streamed in from her side, casting long, slanted shadows of her and the stacked documents across the carpet.

She began working.

First, she roughly skimmed the contents, identifying the years and project names. Then, she either inserted the documents into the appropriate blue folders or created new folders for new projects.

Her movements were initially sluggish, not just because of her back pain, but also due to a mental fog.

Her fingers brushed against the cold paper, imprinted with unfamiliar company names, complex financial data, rigorous legal clauses, and Leng Tan’s sharp, resolute signature.

This was just the tip of the iceberg of a world belonging to Leng Tan. One she had never truly understood: rational, orderly, and filled with the cold calculations of capital.

Yet these icy words and numbers formed an absurd juxtaposition with the vivid, colorful memories of pain in her body, and the ambiguous, blurred sensations of the previous night’s darkness.

Her fingertips glided across the smooth surface of the documents, yet her mind uncontrollably flashed with afterimages of a whip cracking through the air, the cool, viscous ointment, and that hand silently patrolling in the darkness.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the images. Focus on the present.

The Q3 2009 report should be filed… here.

The preliminary assessment of the South District land acquisition from 2015 belongs… there.

Time slipped away unnoticed as she flipped through pages and sorted them. The sunlight slowly shifted its angle, gradually climbing from her side to her shoulder, finally settling on the nape of her neck.

The warm touch formed a strange contrast with the lingering ache in her back.

The study was quiet, save for the rustling of paper and her own soft breathing.

Occasionally, she would hear faint footsteps from the living room or the clinking of porcelain, reminders of Leng Tan’s presence and the invisible boundary between them.

She didn’t know how much she had organized, mechanically repeating the motions of reviewing, sorting, and filing.

The pain in her back, from kneeling for so long, had deepened into a dull ache. Fine beads of sweat dotted her forehead.

The collar of her linen shirt felt tight. She loosened the top button slightly, her fingertips brushing against the skin just below her collarbone. There, illuminated by the morning light, a faint bluish bruise was clearly visible, its edges still faintly glistening with traces of ointment.

She paused, her fingers lingering over the mark.

At that moment, she heard the softest of footsteps approaching the study door.

She didn’t turn immediately, but her hand froze, her spine straightening almost imperceptibly.

The footsteps stopped at the threshold, but the person didn’t enter. A long shadow stretched across the scattered documents and navy-blue folders on Jian Anji’s desk.

The shadow remained motionless, carrying a sense of scrutiny, as if observing her progress or, perhaps, simply observing her.

Jian Anji’s fingers remained pressed against the purplish bruise below her collarbone.

She could feel the weight of that gaze, perhaps focused on her slightly loosened collar and the fresh “mark” beneath it.

She didn’t move or try to cover herself, merely slowly withdrew her hand and picked up an unclassified letter. Her gaze fell on the date field, but her fingertips felt slightly cold.

After a few seconds of silence, Leng Tan entered the room.

She wasn’t wearing heels; her soft indoor slippers made almost no sound on the carpet.

Yet the sheer presence she exuded was more oppressive than any noise.

She stopped a few steps away from Jian Anji, her gaze sweeping over the neatly stacked documents on the carpet before settling on Jian Anji’s lowered profile.

“How’s the progress?” Leng Tan asked, her voice particularly clear and flat in the spacious study, betraying no emotion.

“About halfway done, Master,” Jian Anji replied softly, her eyes remaining fixed on the document in her hand, not looking up.

Leng Tan hummed, her tone ambiguous. She took two steps forward, bent down, and casually pulled a folder from the already archived stack, flipping it open.

The paper rustled softly under her fingertips. She quickly scanned several pages, her gaze focused and sharp—her usual expression when handling official matters.

Jian Anji could faintly detect Leng Tan’s icy fragrance, mingling with the warm, sun-drenched scent of her silk morning robe.

The distance was so close that Jian Anji could feel the faint warmth radiating from Leng Tan’s body and sense her invisible, all-encompassing aura of control. The scent and proximity brought the memories of the previous night flooding back, vivid and invasive.

Leng Tan closed the folder and returned it to its place.

Her gaze, however, remained fixed on Jian Anji, slowly tracing the line of her straight back downward until it settled on her slightly tensed calves and bare ankles, visible beneath her beige trousers. She had slipped off her slippers and was standing barefoot on the carpet.

“You can rest if you’re tired,” Leng Tan said abruptly, her tone still flat. “There’s water and snacks in the living room.”

This wasn’t concern, but rather a detached assessment of the “object’s” operational status and a suggestion for minimal maintenance.

It was like treating a delicate instrument that required careful handling, or a horse that needed to be worked judiciously.

Jian Anji’s fingers tightened, crumpling a corner of the document in her hand before immediately relaxing.

“Thank you, Master. I can continue.”

Leng Tan said nothing more.

She straightened up and paced the study, her fingertips gliding over the spines of the heavy books on the shelves, as if casually browsing or deep in thought.

Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft sheen on the silk of her morning robe and stretching her long shadow across the dark wooden floor, occasionally intersecting with Jian Anji’s curled-up silhouette.

“After you finish organizing this afternoon,” Leng Tan said, her back to Jian Anji as she gazed out the window, “take down the old leather-bound ledgers from the top shelf, the ones closest to the window.”

“Dust them off and check if the binding threads are loose.”

Another task.

A meticulous, time-consuming task that would keep her firmly anchored to this space and its rhythm.

“Yes,” Jian Anji replied.

Leng Tan finally turned and walked toward the door. At the threshold, she paused and glanced back.

Her gaze swept over Jian Anji again, this time lingering for half a second on her loosened collar and the purplish bruise beneath.

“Fasten your collar,” she said flatly, her tone devoid of emotion, before leaving the study.

The door closed softly behind her.

Silence returned to the study, broken only by the shifting sunlight and the silent breath of paper.

Jian Anji remained kneeling for several seconds before slowly raising her stiff arm to re-button the top button of her collar.

The linen fabric brushed against the bruise, causing a faint sting.

She lowered her head and resumed reviewing the documents in her hands.

2018, Fourth Quarter, Summary of Import-Export Trade.

The dense columns of figures blurred before her eyes, yet her gaze seemed to penetrate the paper, seeing something beyond the numbers.

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