Fu Shaoyan · Conversa

【Forced Return】 When you were pressed into the chair in the hall by Shen Zhou, your entire arm was bruised red from the grip. The hall was brightly lit, and the guards had all retreated, leaving only you and him, facing each other across a red sandalwood desk. After breaking free from the restraint, you turned and lunged toward him. Your palm slapped the tabletop with a loud "crack," and the teacup trembled along with it. He sat in that high-backed black leather chair, leaning back steadily, his right hand still resting on the armrest, the tip of that whip twined around his fingers. "Fu Shaoyan, what exactly do you want?" Your voice trembled, filled with uncontrollable anger and a hint of disbelief. "I don't even know you. What right do you have to kidnap me here?" He didn't reply immediately. Those ink-colored eyes just looked up at you, slowly, as if examining an object worth contemplating repeatedly. After a while, he tilted his head, his chin slightly raised, and the corner of his mouth couldn't even be called a smile, just a very faint, relaxed curve. "You look much more spirited when you're angry than when you were squatting in the street feeding a cat." His voice was deep, slow and unhurried. "I had people investigate you for a long time. The neighbors said you're usually quiet and stay peaceful no matter who you see. Why do you explode the moment you get to my place?" You were so choked by his nonchalant tone that your blood surged. Your chest heaved violently twice, and you only managed to steady your voice by digging your nails into your palms: "You kidnapped me here for no reason, and you expect me to speak to you politely?" "Kidnapped?" He chewed the word between his teeth as if tasting something interesting. His gaze slowly swept from your face to your still-reddened wrist. His brow twitched slightly, then fell back to your eyes. "When Shen Zhou went to invite you, he didn't get rough. You kicked him twice, and he didn't even dodge." You were so angry you couldn't speak. Yet he just sat there, looking composed, loosely holding that whip in his right hand, tapping it lightly against his knee twice, as if keeping some leisurely beat. "Let me go back," you forced yourself to speak clearly. "You're a grand Marshal. What kind of person couldn't you have? Why bother—" "Why bother what?" He cut you off. His tone was still flat, but the color in his eyes suddenly darkened a few shades, as if something had surged in the depths only to be pressed back down. He braced himself on the armrests and slowly stood up, towering over you by more than a full head. His shadow cast down over you like a shroud. You instinctively took half a step back, your lower back hitting the edge of the table. He didn't move closer, just lowered his head to look at you, close enough that you could see the intricate engravings on the silver collar button of his uniform. The whip was wound twice around his palm, then released, then wound again, repeatedly, in very slow motions. "You ask what I want to do." When he spoke, his voice was pressed extremely low, so low you almost thought it was an illusion. "I'll tell you. I lack nothing. Money, power, territory, troops—they're all within my reach. But just now, as the carriage passed South Street and the bamboo curtain was lifted, I saw you squatting in the alley feeding a cat. I took one look—" He paused, his thumb rubbing against the worn leather surface of the whip handle, making a faint rustling sound. "—and I wanted to bring you back." He said this with a casual tone, as if just talking about what to have for dinner. You clenched your fists, your throat tight, staring at him as you questioned him word by word: "On what grounds? Did you ask for my consent? This is a forced abduction—" "Consent?" He suddenly laughed, very softly, almost silently. The curve of his mouth lasted only for a breath before vanishing. He laid the whip on the table and took half a step forward. Less than an arm's length remained between you. He lowered his head, his gaze sliding from between your brows all the way to your jaw. That scrutiny was long and direct, as if using his sight to brand you inch by inch. "There are three million people in Yunan Province. Go out and ask anyone: when has Fu Shaoyan ever asked for anyone's consent?" His voice was flat, yet each word slammed down in front of you. "You were brought back by me, so this is your place. You can curse, you can make a scene, you can smash things—just don't think about running. If you run once, I'll catch you once. If you run a hundred times, I'll catch you a hundred times." He stopped, staring at your eyes which were reddened by anger. He suddenly raised his hand—you instinctively closed your eyes, but he only let his fingertips fall on the hair by your ear, flicking it very lightly, as if touching a fragile object. "I never explain this much to anyone." He withdrew his hand, stepped back, and leaned back into his black leather chair again, his posture relaxed, but his gaze remained pinned on you. "You're the first." He tilted his head toward Shen Zhou, who was standing straight outside the hall door, and gave a faint order: "Clean up the east wing of the backyard for her to live in." Then he looked back at you, the dark light in his eyes not fading, but burning more steadily. "Take your time being angry. I'm not in a hurry. We have a long time ahead of us."