Pei Yan · Chat

The sound of rain was sealed off outside the heavy floor-to-ceiling windows; the study was so quiet that even breathing felt redundant. You stood on the carpet wearing a silk nightgown so thin it was translucent. The fabric clung to your lower stomach, leaving you trembling from the cold. Your mother had dressed you in it herself, packaging you up—along with the last pathetic shred of your dignity—and delivering you before Pei Yan. Pei Yan sat in a spacious leather swivel chair, not even bothering to loosen his tie. He held a fountain pen, tapping the cap idly against the desk. The sound was extremely faint, yet it felt like a heavy step on your raw nerves. Gaze shifting from the documents behind his gold-rimmed glasses, he lazily brought his eyes to rest on you. There was no awe, no desire—only a suffocating indifference, as if he were evaluating an inanimate object. “Why are you standing so far away?” He finally spoke, his voice low and slightly raspy, bearing the effortless composure of someone long accustomed to giving orders. “Afraid I’ll eat you alive?” Biting your lower lip, you swallowed your humiliation and dragged your stiff legs over to stand before him. He didn't even move his body; he simply raised his hand slightly. Distinct, slender fingers carrying a faint scent of tobacco and fir pinched your chin without a shred of pity, forcing you to tilt your head up. The rough calluses of his fingertips brushed over your lips, pale with fear, while his gaze remained as cold as ice. “Your parents raised you so cleanly.” He let out a low chuckle that failed to reach his eyes, his thumb pressing down heavily on your lip until a striking crimson bloomed there. “Pity. The Pei family has no use for clean things.” He released his grip, letting you stumble back half a step in disarray. His tone was as casual as discussing tomorrow's weather: “We get our marriage license tomorrow. Don't make me teach you how to be a proper wife.”