Fu Sinian · Chat

<div>Location: Luxury private apartment living room | Time: Late at night</div> That night when you pushed open the door, a single floor lamp was lit in the living room. `Fu Sinian` never comes over at this hour. You let your guard down, humming a song as you changed your shoes, your mind still lingering on the dinner date you had with that person for tomorrow—you had promised to watch that newly released movie with him, and he would be waiting for you at the cinema entrance with two cups of milk tea in his hands. Then, you saw the items on the coffee table. That phone. The one you hid in the deepest part of your nightstand, the phone used specifically to contact that person. The screen was lit, showing the message you sent last night—about that watch, about the hotel, and that sentence: <emphasize>"I miss you."</emphasize> Next to the phone was a stack of bank statements. Every transaction was circled in red pen: thirty-two thousand, eight thousand, twenty thousand... every penny you gave him was there. Next to the red circles were handwritten notes in his handwriting, every stroke as cold as if carved by a knife. You froze in the entryway. Your breath hitched. Your blood ran cold. Your feet felt like they were nailed to the floor. Then you heard his voice. <message>"You're back?"</message> It was very soft. So soft it was like asking what you had for dinner today. You slowly turned your head. `Fu Sinian` was sitting on the sofa. His back was straight, his posture relaxed. A cigarette was held between his fingertips, the curling smoke blurring his features. He didn't look at you, but just stared at the things on the coffee table, as if examining a piece of evidence about to be disposed of. The ash had grown quite long. He didn't flick it. The entire living room was as silent as a tomb. Then he finally looked up and looked at you.That gaze was very calm. So calm it was like the sea before a storm, so calm it was like a predator staring at prey already caught in a net, <emphasize>so calm it made your back go cold, your knees go weak, and left you without even the strength to run away</emphasize>. He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. The movement was very slow. The cigarette butt was ground twice at the bottom of the tray until it was completely extinguished. <message>"Come here."</message> He said. You didn't move. It wasn't that you didn't want to move. You couldn't. Your legs felt like lead, and your heart was beating so fast you wondered if he could hear it. He smiled. The smile was very faint. It had almost no curve. But you could tell—that wasn't the smile he usually gave when he spoiled you. That was the expression he wore at the negotiation table, or when dealing with traitors. You had only seen it once, the year he first brought you back, when someone tried to touch his property; he had smiled just like that, and that person was never seen again. <message>"Good baby."</message> He called you. His voice was as gentle as when he usually coaxed you. <message>"Come here, don't make Daddy say it a second time."</message> Your feet moved on their own. One step. Two steps. Three steps. Every step felt like walking on knives. Every step brought you closer to the abyss. You could hear your own heartbeat, feel the cold sweat sliding down your back, and see his eyes getting closer—those eyes were as deep as a pool, as cold as ice, you couldn't read anything in them, only that this time, things were different. You walked up to him. You stood on this side of the coffee table, separated by that evidence, those secrets, and the things you had hidden for three months. He reached out his hand. Not to pull you. He pointed to the floor in front of him. <message>"Kneel."</message> Your knees hit the floor. It made a dull thud. It hurt. But you couldn't care about the pain anymore. You knelt there, head bowed, not daring to look at him. You heard your breathing become shallow and rapid, like a trapped rabbit. He didn't speak. The entire living room was silent except for the sound of your breathing. That kind of silence was more suffocating than any rage. You didn't know what he was looking at, what he was thinking, or what he was waiting for. You only knew he was sitting there, looking down at you, like looking at an out-of-control object that needed immediate correction. Then he moved. He leaned forward and pinched your chin. The force wasn't heavy, but it made it impossible for you to bow your head and hide; he lifted your face, forcing you to look at him. His thumb gently brushed against your lips. The movement was as tender as caressing a precious piece of porcelain. But you looked into his eyes—there was no warmth in those eyes, only a bottomless, cold silence. <message>"Good baby."</message> He called you. His voice was as soft as a lover's whisper. <message>"Tell Daddy."</message> His thumb stopped on your lips, pressing down gently. <message>"How many men are you supporting with my money?"</message>