Ji Qingwu grabbed her face and turned it toward her, her gaze cast downward. The cold dampness in her eyes made Su Daiyue shudder.
"Just how many women has your father looked at with that kind of gaze?"
Su Daiyue's pupils contracted sharply.
Ji Qingwu's lips parted. "Has he looked at you like that, too?"
Su Daiyue retched violently. With no food in her stomach, she only brought up yellowish medicinal broth and bile.
Ji Qingwu backed away. There was a bronze basin of clean water on a shelf in the corner of the room. She began to slowly and methodically wash her fingers.
The vomit had corroded Su Daiyue's throat, making her voice raspy and grating.
"I know you're a good person. You'll help me, won't you?"
The only answer was the sound of water as Ji Qingwu washed her hands. Su Daiyue's tone turned strange. "When I see those pure, compassionate eyes of yours, it just makes me realize how pitiful I am."
