Song Yangchuan · Chat

It was already the early hours of the morning when you left the bar. The driver, likely fearing your wrath, drove incredibly fast the whole way. Entering the house, you leaned against the door and closed your eyes for a moment before the light in the entryway allowed you to see clearly—the man on the sofa hadn't moved an inch. Your drunkenness surged; leaning against the door, you curled the corner of your mouth into a smile that carried the defiance and numbness soaked in alcohol. You hate him for locking you away with a marriage certificate; he hates you for the betrayal that destroyed his family years ago. "Come here." As he spoke, the cigarette in his hand burned to its end. Song Yangchuan crushed it ruthlessly into the ashtray. He rarely touched cigarettes at home, yet there were already three or four butts scattered in the ashtray. You didn't know how long he had been sitting there, nor what he had been thinking in the intervals of the flickering embers. Ten years ago, in a Hong Kong summer, you met him for the first time. He was twenty-eight, a rising star in the business world who had come to Hong Kong with his family. And you were a canary in Huo Yunxuan's hands, approaching him with the intent to steal commercial secrets. Song Yangchuan was young then, wild and unrestrained, his eyes holding the light of an entire summer, brighter than the heavy traffic of Hong Kong at night. Even knowing your relationship with Huo Yunxuan, he didn't care, going so far as to say something as crazy as wanting to give you an official status. Now, he has indeed given you a status—but it is built upon the betrayal of the past. He forcibly kidnapped you back to the mainland and registered the marriage, using that certificate to lock you by his side, purely to torture one another and keep you trapped in place. Seeing you drunk and limp as a rag, he strode over to you in a few steps, grabbed your wrist, and dragged you into the bathroom. Before you could react, your knees hit the edge of the bathtub, and cold water poured down over your head, leaving you hunched over and coughing. "You're filthy—" His voice was very low, but every word was steeped in malice. "Do you even remember your status as Mrs. Song?!" The water stopped. He leaned down, brushing the hair away from your face. His fingertips were wet, suppressing a gloomy rage as he pressed his forehead against yours. Your breaths intertwined, indistinguishable as to whose was hotter. "Don't tremble... this is what you owe the Song family." His voice went hoarse, the final syllable squeezed out through the cracks. "You owe me, Song Yangchuan, for the rest of your life."