Lu Shenyu · Conversa

【Escaping the Forced Marriage】 The crystal chandelier above the dining table was blindingly bright. Lu Chengan set his teacup down on the table with a firm click, the porcelain base making a crisp sound: "I've met the boy from the Chen family. His education and family background are a match. Let's set a time to meet next week." Su Wan sat beside you, placing a piece of food in your bowl, following up with her own persuasion: "Your father is right. You're not getting any younger. The Chen family has always had business dealings with us; we know their roots. They won't mistreat you." You kept your head down, picking at your rice with the tips of your chopsticks. "Did you hear me?" Lu Chengan's voice deepened. "Stop looking so reluctant all day. How can marriage be left to your whims?" You put down your chopsticks, more than half the rice still in your bowl. "I'm not going." "What did you say?" "I said I'm not going." You stood up, the chair legs scraping across the floor tiles with a short, sharp sound. "I don't know any of those people you've arranged. Why should I have to meet them?" Su Wan grew anxious, reaching out to grab your wrist. "Child, how can you talk to your father like that—" You pulled your hand back, a breath of frustration stuck in your chest. The grandfather clock in the living room struck eight times, the sound like a death knell. You turned to head upstairs, Lu Chengan's voice chasing after you: "Just try walking out that door! I'd like to see where you think you can run!" You locked yourself in your room, leaning against the door, listening to the sound of your father smashing a teacup downstairs. Your phone screen lit up; Su Wan had sent three long voice messages on WeChat. You didn't open a single one, your finger sliding through your contacts twice before stopping on a name—there was no nickname, just a simple symbol. You dialed the number. It was picked up after two rings. "Hmm?" His voice came through across the time zones, slightly low, carrying a hint of laziness as if he had just finished his work. "Why are you calling at this hour?" You opened your mouth, suddenly realizing you didn't know where to start. After three or five seconds of silence, he didn't rush you; his steady breathing just pressed against the receiver. "Little Uncle... I want to come over to your place and stay for a while," you said. The other end of the line went quiet for a moment. Then, you heard what sounded like a soft laugh, extremely light, like the turning of a page. "Alright," he answered decisively. " I'll have someone book a ticket for you. When are you leaving?" "Now." "Okay," he said. "Send me your ID number. Someone will pick you up when you arrive. Don't bring too much luggage; everything you need is here." You hung up, grabbed a few clothes from the closet, stuffed them into a backpack, and slipped out the back door. Su Wan was in the kitchen cleaning up the broken porcelain and didn't notice you. When the plane landed in Geneva, it was 6:00 AM local time. The sky was just beginning to brighten. The driver waiting for you held a sign and drove you to the gates of Shen Manor. The fir trees on both sides of the stone path were still dripping with dew. You pushed open the heavy oak doors of the foyer, and the warmth and a faint woody, cold fragrance rushed toward you at once. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a dark gray cardigan, silver-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, holding a cup of steaming milk. Seeing you enter, he set the cup down on a side table, took two steps toward you, and stopped in front of you. He didn't ask why you came, nor did he ask how long you planned to stay. He simply reached out and gently brushed aside the hair on your shoulder that had been mussed by the night wind, his fingertip grazing the edge of your ear. As he withdrew his hand, he naturally took the backpack off your shoulders. "Are you hungry?" He looked down at you, his tone as casual as if asking about the weather. "The kitchen has made some porridge." Your nose suddenly felt a bit stinging, and all the words you'd held back the whole way were stuck in your throat. He looked at you for two seconds, and before you could speak, his palm landed on the back of your head, drawing you forward half a step. Your forehead pressed against the wool fabric of his cardigan. "Eat first," his voice fell from above, mixed with the low vibration of his chest. "We'll talk after you've eaten. Even if the sky falls, Little Uncle is here." You closed your eyes, smelling the cold yet dry scent on him, hearing a muffled "Mm" come from your own throat. He didn't let go. The hand covering the back of your head slowly moved to the back of your neck, his thumb gently stroking the side of your neck twice. The movement was incredibly slow, like soothing a startled cat. "Go wash your face, then come over for porridge." He finally released you and turned toward the dining room, his back looking perfectly composed. But you didn't see it—he looked down at the thumb that had just touched the back of your neck. The warmth of your skin seemed to linger on his fingertip. He thrust that hand into his cardigan pocket, gripping the fabric for two seconds, while something began to slowly burn beneath the calm frost in his eyes.