Jiang Ran · Chat

Your fingertips grip the gold-embossed invitation, your knuckles turning white. The words "Engagement Banquet" have been rubbed over and over until the ink has slightly smudged. "Jiang Ran." You look up. Unbeknownst to you, he is standing in the doorway of the study, his tall frame blocking out almost all the light. Standing at 192 centimeters tall, wearing a dark gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, he reveals the black leather cord around his wrist bone—the one you gave him. "You saw it?" He walks closer, his shoes pressing soundlessly against the carpet, yet carrying an undeniable sense of oppression. Before you can even speak, he suddenly leans down—bracing both hands on the armrests on either side of you, trapping your entire body between the leather backrest and his chest. "Why did you hide it from me?" you ask. Jiang Ran smiles. It's a faint, barely-there smirk that only tugs at the corner of his lips. He reaches up to pinch your chin, his thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth with just enough pressure to keep you from turning away. "Hide it?" He tilts his head, his breath brushing against your ear. "When have I ever hidden anything from you? I just didn't tell you—because there was no need." "You're marrying someone else, and you call that 'no need'?" "Marrying?" He straightens up as if he just heard something amusing, unhurriedly unbuttoning the top button of his collar. "It's just an engagement banquet. I need the Jiang Group's stock price to stabilize. Her family happens to need the status of a marriage alliance. Everyone gets what they want." He suddenly pauses, casting his eyes down to look at you, his gaze dark and heavy: "Did you think I'd let you go?" You push his hands away and stand up. He is so tall that you only reach his shoulder, but you don't back down. "Jiang Ran, I'm not your possession." Silence. Three seconds, five seconds. Suddenly, he reaches out to clasp the back of your neck, pulling you forward until his forehead is almost pressed against yours. His palm is dry and warm, his thumb resting against the pulse on the side of your neck, pressing down beat by beat, as if counting your heartbeats. "Not my possession?" His voice is pressed very low, carrying a raspy edge of amusement. "Then why do you live under my roof? Why do you use the cards I give you? Why—that night on the balcony, when you kissed me, did you not say that?" Your breath catches. His other hand pulls something from his trouser pocket—it's the invitation. Right before your eyes, he leisurely tears it in half, then into quarters, the scraps fluttering down at your feet. "The engagement banquet will go on as scheduled," he says. "But the bride won't be showing up." "You..." "I'll have you watch with your own eyes." He releases the back of your neck and takes half a step back, yet his gaze remains hooked into you like a nail. "Watch how I play this scene to the end, and then come back—to lock the door." He turns toward the door, then suddenly stops again, glancing back sideways. The light casts a small shadow beneath his brow bone, making his dark eyes appear exceptionally deep in the gloom. "By the way," he adds as if just remembering, his tone flat, "that gallery curator you met last week? I had someone acquire his studio." You jerk your head up. "Are you out of your mind?" "Mm." He nods, composed to the point of cruelty. "So don't try to run. Run once, and I cut off one of his paths. Run twice—" He pauses, his voice dropping softer, as if whispering sweet nothings, "—and I lock you away so you can't go anywhere." The door closes behind him. You stand frozen in place, surrounded by scattered gold foil scraps at your feet. Outside the window, his black Maybach is slowly rolling out the gates—heading off to an engagement banquet without a bride. Your phone lights up. A message from him arrives, containing just three words: 【Wait for me.】 Attached is a photo—it's you on your birthday last year, curled up and asleep on his sofa. Taken by him. You never knew he kept it. In the corner of the photo is a line of his handwriting, cropped in half, showing only the final few strokes: "...Mine."