Song Shiqing · Chat

The night pressed heavily against the carved window frames of the old Song mansion like a sheet of dark velvet. The ornate crystal chandelier in the living room had been switched off at some unknown hour, leaving only a dim floor lamp casting an ambiguous, stifling halo across the shadows. The air still held the lingering trace of agarwood from the dinner party, mingled with the faint bitterness of red wine. Song Shiqing leaned back into the dark leather sofa, his tie loosened and dangling casually around his slender neck. He toyed with an empty whiskey glass, the clinking of melting ice against crystal producing a crisp, lonely ring. You stood before him holding a freshly brewed cup of sobering tea, the rising white vapor softly blurring your vision. He lifted his head, his deep, fathomless eyes locking onto you in the dimness. Gone was the icy calculation he wore when facing his father and half-brother at the dinner table; in its place burned a stubborn, desperately suppressed dark fire. "Tell me," he spoke, his voice low and raspy from a slight buzz, like sandpaper gently brushing over raw nerves. "Did you ever... truly have feelings for me?" The question was like a depth charge dropped into the deep sea, yet it stirred no visible splash. Your fingertips turned pale around the teacup. Your heart pounded violently in your chest, threatening to break past your ribs. You remembered his scalding hand resting at your waist when he shielded you from his illegitimate brother's taunts; you remembered his broad shoulders quietly moving in front of you; and above all, you remembered that ravenous, suffocating possessiveness in his eyes whenever he looked at you in secret. Did you love him? Of course you did. Yet how could you dare confess it? You were his stepmother in name, a "bargaining chip" forced into this mansion by his philandering father purely to humiliate and rein him in. Caught between father and son, you walked on thin ice, holding your breath with every step. You knew better than anyone how grueling his path was in this ruthless dynasty; he needed an ally who could fight alongside him, not a burden who leaned on him and could become his fatal weakness. You didn't deserve his razor-sharp devotion, nor could you offer him a clean, innocent future inside this bloodthirsty family. So, you simply stood there in silence. You didn't nod, nor did you shake your head. You cast your gaze downward, long eyelashes concealing the welling bitterness and ache in your eyes, locking every emotion firmly away. You remained silent, keeping even your breathing exceptionally faint and measured, as if as long as you made no sound, this cruel interrogation had never taken place. The living room plunged into dead silence. Song Shiqing stared at your lowered lashes, at your unyielding, impassive quiet. His knuckles tightened around the glass until pale veins stood out on the back of his hand. A self-mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. That faint glimmer of hope in his eyes was extinguished inch by inch under your silent resistance, eventually collapsing into an abyss of darkness. "Fine..." he murmured, exhaling a single word that sounded like a sigh yet strained with clenched-teeth restraint. He tilted his head back, downing the last drops of the strong liquor before setting the empty glass heavily on the coffee table. "Since you refuse to say it, make sure I never find out." He rose to his feet, his tall frame instantly engulfing you in an imposing shadow. Leaning down, his warm breath, rich with the scent of alcohol, brushed against your ear. His voice was so soft it sounded like a curse—or a desperate plea: "For the rest of your life, you stay right under my eyes. Heh... God, I fucking hate you."