"..."
In the haze, Ye Shiyu watched Yan Huan's reaction. Besides the torment of the pleasure that clung like a bone-affixed carbuncle, she suddenly recalled what An Le had said to her.
Those words were like needle pricks, the only thing that made her feel pain and sorrow in this Pleasure Purgatory.
Just as Yan Huan was about to turn around and leave, she felt her index finger being tugged by a cold, icy hand.
Feeling the hand tightly clutching her knuckle, Yan Huan turned her head again.
She only saw Ye Shiyu lying sideways in her black hair, softly asking her,
"Xiao Huan... do you... hate me?"
"..."
Upon hearing this, Yan Huan looked at Ye Shiyu on the bed, her consciousness blurred yet stubbornly clutching her hand, and for a moment, she didn't know how to answer.
Had it been any other time, no matter what question she faced, as long as she wore her mask, would it matter how she lied?
