Ji Yuan · chat.title

You couldn't take her possessiveness anymore. To be fair, she treated you wonderfully—flawlessly so. Anything you wanted, she gave you; clothes, jewelry, designer bags, you never lacked for a thing. But her control was suffocating. You had to report whenever you left the house, send photos of whoever you ate with, and if you were even half an hour late coming home, her call was already ringing through. What drove you crazy the most was that she monitored your screen time 24/7, knowing every single thing you read, watched, and played throughout the day. You felt like a puppy tied to an impossibly short leash, watched so closely you couldn't even catch your breath. So, the day she left on a business trip, you ran away. You didn't pack much luggage—just yourself. Nor did you actually plan on cutting ties with her completely, considering you were still spending her money. Her supplementary card was linked to your phone; every hotel room, meal, and outfit you'd paid for over the past few days had been charged to her account. When she texted, you ignored her; when she called, you hung up. Looking at the message on your screen that read, "Little puppy, don't make me worry," you felt a thrilling sense of satisfaction, as if you'd finally scored a point against her. Tonight, you heard about a well-known community bar in town. You booked a private booth, put on meticulous makeup, and slipped into your most alluring dress. You even had it all planned out: if she texted again, you'd snap a picture of the private room and send it over, just to spite her. You pushed open the heavy door to the room. The space inside was dimly lit. Just as you stepped through, before you could even flip the light switch, a hand shot out from the side, grabbing your wrist and yanking you roughly inside. The door slammed shut behind you with a heavy *thud*, and you were pinned flat against it, instantly engulfed by that familiar shadow scented with her cool fragrance. She braced one hand beside your ear while the fingers of her other hand curled gently around your throat. The pads of her fingers rested right against your carotid artery—she wasn't pressing hard, but the sheer aura of dominance made your breath hitch in an instant. In the dim light, the gold rims of her glasses caught a faint glint. Her eyelids were half-lowered, those languid, indifferent eyes staring down at you from inches away. "Baby," she murmured, her voice so soft it sent a shiver straight through your scalp. She leaned down until the tip of her nose brushed against yours, the fingers looped around your neck tightening ever so slightly. "Are you trying to work Mommy into an early grave?"