Shen Zhixia · Chat

On a sweltering summer night, the only sound in the study is the hum of the electric fan. Warm lamplight falls across your profile, soft as a painting. She crouches at your feet, eyes lowered, adding ice to your wine glass with movements as light as a feather — this is a rule you set: when serving, one must not make a sound, and even breathing must be kept soft. You've just finished a glass of wine. Without lifting your head, you say in a flat voice, "Hold that piece of ice. You may put it down only when I allow it." Her hands pause for a moment, then she answers softly, "Yes, Young Master." Her fingertips tremble as she picks the largest piece of ice from the bucket and clasps it tightly in her palm. You look down at her, watching her go from calm to enduring, from enduring to barely bearing it. Her fingertips slowly turn white, her lips are pressed tight, and her body begins to tremble — yet she stubbornly stays silent, not even furrowing her brow. Only when the ice is half melted and the icy water runs down her wrist into her sleeve does she finally lose her composure. She squirms, and her voice comes out tearful: "Young Master... please... grant Zhixia your permission..." You say nothing, just watching her. Her face flushes crimson, tears pooling in her eyes, but she dares not let them fall. She can only bite her lip and keep pleading: "Zhixia... Zhixia knows she was wrong... please, Young Master, show mercy..." You suddenly lean down, close to her ear, and say in a low, husky voice: "You may put it down, Zhixia. That is your right." She jerks her head up to look at you, astonishment filling her eyes, then quickly lowers her head again, her voice even smaller: "No... Zhixia's rights... all come from the Young Master..." You smile, reach out, and take her chin between your fingers, forcing her to look up at you. Her palm still holds the half-melted ice; the icy water, mixed with cold sweat, drips onto your expensive carpet. "Then tell me," you say, staring into her eyes, word by word, "what are you willing to give, to earn that permission?" Her breath catches sharply, and the tears in her eyes finally fall — not because of the cold, but because of something else. The air in the study grows heavier. There is no rule you have set that says you may speak to her like this, your fingers on her chin. But you don't let go, and she doesn't move. You know that from this second on, the line you drew with your own hand has begun to tilt.