The celebration was over.
Not with joy, but with something colder—like the end of a war no one had truly won.
Jing and Yinguang stepped into the waiting car. The door shut with a soft, deliberate click, and silence swallowed them whole.
It wasn't the silence of peace.
It was the silence after a bereavement ceremony.
Jing sat beside him, wrapped in layers of silk and perfume, but the weight pressing on her shoulders had nothing to do with fabric. Her fingers lay motionless in her lap. Her heart beat slow, reluctant—like it, too, hadn't agreed to any of this.
Yinguang didn't look at her. He didn't need to.
His presence filled the car like smoke—cool, inescapable, and thick with something unspoken.
Then came his scent.
Not cologne. Nothing man-made.
It was ancient. Inexplicable.
Burned amber. Cold iron.
And something darker—like wild earth after rain, blooming with rot and memory.
It slipped into her senses in slow, ruinous waves. A scent that didn't belong in this world, yet clung to him like a crown.
It made her throat tighten.
Her skin prickle.
Her pulse stutter, then quicken.
Even now, seated in the velvet hush beside him, her body remembered his touch. Her lips still burned from the kiss she hadn't meant to return.
But it was his scent—that impossible, unnatural scent—that lingered deepest.
Like a warning.
Or a promise.
"Why so quiet?" Yinguang's voice broke the silence—low, measured. Less a question, more a blade.
She kept her gaze fixed on the darkness sliding past the window.
"It's been a long day," she said softly. "I'm just tired."
"Tired," he echoed, like the word left a bitter taste. "Strange. Most brides are breathless with excitement by now. But you…"
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper near her ear.
"You're silent."
His breath brushed her skin. It wasn't warm. It was cold.
The space between them vanished.
Tension snapped taut. Her lungs locked.
Without thinking, Jing inched toward the edge of her seat, silk whispering against leather. She didn't answer. She couldn't.
Still, he watched her. Without moving. Without touching.
The car slid deeper into the dark, headlights cutting through mist and trees like knives.
Jing sat stiff and rigid, her hands clenched in her lap. Breathing felt wrong—too shallow, too loud.
This wasn't supposed to be her life.
It should've been Ling in this car. Ling in this dress. Ling beside this man who didn't look at her, yet filled every inch of space with his presence.
And yet... the truth scraped against her bones.
She could still feel his kiss. Still taste something electric on her lips—something she hadn't wanted, hadn't expected... but hadn't pulled away from.
The distance between them didn't ease the tension. It deepened it.
She turned her face to the window, watching shadows smear past. Anything to avoid his eyes.
She wasn't ready to see what might be in them.
Or worse—what he might see in her.
Want.
Guilt.
A hunger that didn't belong to her.
It was supposed to be Ling.
But the longer the silence stretched, the more it felt like the truth had already made its choice.
The car slowed. Tires crunched over gravel, loud in the hush. Ahead, gates opened—not with noise, but with a silence that felt reverent. Expectant.
The estate emerged from the fog like a ghost.
Vast and pale beneath the moonlight. Sharp rooftops piercing the sky. Windows glowing like watching eyes.
The car door opened with a click.
The driver said nothing—just bowed and stepped aside. Jing barely had time to gather herself before a hand reached for hers.
"Let's go," he said,his voice sounded velvet.
His grip was like that off iron,holding her hand like he owned it. Like it wasn't a gesture—but a warning to flee from.
She looked up, startled—and froze.
Yinguang's gaze held her. His eyes gleamed like a predator's. The corner of his mouth curled—not into a smile, but something colder. Amusement, perhaps. Or possession.
Her blue eyes caught the light.
Something in his expression shifted.
Darkened.
He was pleased , not by her beauty....but by her helplessness.
He wouldn't let this night pass.
She saw it in him.
This wasn't a welcoming, it was a seal.
More cars pulled in behind them. Jing turned—and her breath caught.
Dozens of bodyguards in black, moving into formation with frightening precision.
Overkill, she thought. But then again, he was unimaginably wealthy.
Still... there was something off.
They didn't move like protectors.
They moved like jailers.
Like men guarding a secret.
Or keeping a prisoner from fleeing.
They stepped into the mansion—and Jing froze at the threshold.
Her breath caught in her throat.
How could a place like this exist outside of a dream—or a nightmare?
The grand foyer yawned before her like the entrance to a palace. Velvet-draped walls. Gilded arches. An enormous chandelier above, its crystal arms twisted like frozen vines. Droplets of light shimmered across polished marble like broken rainbows.
An ornate staircase curved upward like a fairytale's lie. Its banister carved with vines and thorns.
The air smelled of jasmine. Of old paper. Of something older still—timeless, costly, and unsettling.
Everything gleamed with unnatural perfection. Not lived-in. Curated.
This wasn't a home.
It was a shrine.
To wealth.
To power.
To something colder.
Jing swallowed hard.
She didn't belong here.
She wasn't even supposed to be here.
But the door shut behind her all the same.
The sound echoed like a verdict.
She stood frozen for a moment, her spine rigid, her heart pounding.
What is this place?
Why do I feel like I'm being watched?
What in the hell have I gotten into?