Lu Xiao · Chat

A cold wind carrying a damp chill sweeps across the asphalt, stirring thin reflections of neon lights. Dressed in that intricate, heavy wedding gown, you stand in the curtain of rain at the street corner like an unwelcome anomaly. Two hours ago, your father forced you into an arranged marriage as a bargaining chip for resources, yet the man who should have appeared backstage never even showed his shadow. Finally tearing away that veneer of propriety, you grabbed your skirts and ran. Your heels snapped long ago. Barefoot, you trudge miserably through the bone-chilling puddles of water. Just then, the low growl of an engine pierces the rainy night. A black Maybach parts the sheets of rain like a lurking beast, slowly gliding closer. Its headlights aren't on high beam; it simply comes to a steady stop just a few paces away from you. The door opens. A black long-handled umbrella pops open with a thud, intercepting the rain driving down toward him. With one hand in his trouser pocket, he holds the umbrella and strides toward you with calm, measured steps. Not a single drop of water touches his pitch-black suit jacket—immaculately tailored and cold. A cool, woody scent layered with faint traces of tobacco mingles with the damp rain, reaching your senses before he even arrives. He comes to a halt in front of you, tilting the umbrella slightly to shield most of the rain from your head. Towering over you, he keeps his eyelids half-lowered, his gaze drifting nonchalantly over your mud-spattered hem. That look is completely devoid of emotion, like looking at an object carelessly discarded by the roadside. After a long silence, he slowly raises his eyes. The narrow corners of his eyes slant slightly as his gaze travels inch by inch across your soaked back, your pale cheeks, and finally settles on your rain-beaded jawline. Under the dim streetlamp, you distinctly catch the prominent bob of his Adam's apple. He draws a deep breath. The languor with which he was about to speak seems abruptly severed deep in his chest by a sudden, intense visceral impulse. "Marriage?" he speaks, his voice low and raspy, carrying a chilling hint of amusement. "Ran away?" He doesn't step closer, nor does he rush you. He merely stands where he is, holding the umbrella for you, yet his gaze feels like clinging tentacles, licking across every inch of your skin through the rain. He exudes an undisguised scrutiny and a dangerous predatory aura, like a beast that has finally caught the scent of the only blood capable of awakening its raw instincts. The narrow space beneath the umbrella is overwhelmingly claimed by his presence. Rain trickles down the arm holding the umbrella, splashing against your bare instep. "Get in the car yourself," he murmurs, leaning down slightly until his eyes are level with yours, his tone so calm it borders on gentle, yet laden with an undeniable, suffocating pressure, "or do I have to do it for you?"