Before she even opened her eyes, Lin Wan smelled the faint sting of antiseptic. Her brows furrowed. The scent was clean, sterile — too clean. When she finally forced her eyelids open, the white ceiling and cold lighting confirmed it: she was in a hospital.
It wasn't an ordinary ward, though. The room was big, with polished floors and a faint echo in the air — the kind of space that whispered private suite.
Her gaze drifted across the room until it landed on a nurse sitting on the sofa, flipping through a glossy magazine. The young woman looked up, startled, and broke into a smile.
"Oh! You're awake! How are you feeling?"
Lin Wan blinked, her voice dry and low. "Why am I here?"
"Because you're sick, of course," the nurse replied cheerfully as she reached for the bedside phone. "I'll let Mr. Chen know you're awake."
"Wait," Lin Wan cut in, her tone tense. "What's wrong with me?"
The nurse paused mid-dial, counting off on her fingers as if reciting from a list. "Severe cold, mild concussion, fracture of the right fibula, and…" She hesitated, her cheerful mask slipping.
Lin Wan froze. "Fracture?" Her eyes widened, and then she spotted her right leg — suspended, wrapped tightly in white plaster. Her stomach dropped.
When the nurse left, silence filled the room again. Lin Wan lay there, her mind working backward, stitching together fragments of memory. Not last night — the night before. Alcohol. The man. The pain.
The violence.
Her pulse began to thrum. He'd dragged her back, violated her, and when she'd tried to fight back — she had failed. Her throat still ached, her skull pulsed, and her leg throbbed beneath the cast. She didn't know if it had broken when she fell, or if he'd done it deliberately afterward.
Either way, he'd made sure she remembered who had won.
For a long while she stared blankly at the ceiling, mourning the version of herself that had died that night. Then, suddenly, another face flashed in her mind — Milan.
She sat up, wincing at the pain, and reached for the bedside phone, dialing quickly. It rang several times before someone answered.
"Xiaomi, are you okay?" Lin Wan's voice trembled.
"Wanwan…" Milan's voice was hoarse.
"What happened after that night?"
"I found that woman," Milan said, suddenly sounding energized. "Pulled out a handful of her hair and broke her nose. Can you believe it was fake? One punch and it bent sideways! Served her right."
"And Jianwei?"
"Ha! The idiot froze up. Tried to break up the fight, and I slapped him twice. Those thousand-dollar bottles we ordered were worth every cent — I fought like Tyson. Eventually, the manager brought in security. That witch wanted to call the cops, but Jianwei begged her not to."
"No wonder you didn't come back…" Lin Wan murmured.
"What? You didn't leave?"
"No." Lin Wan hesitated. "And you and Jianwei—?"
"I'm divorcing him," Milan said flatly. "He begged me not to even kneel. Pathetic. Said he didn't sleep with her, swore she was just a client — a rich widow from Hong Kong. Promised he'd earn a fortune. Can you believe that? He's not just stupid — he's pitiful."
Silence.
"Wanwan, enough about me. Where are you? I've been calling for days, your phone's dead. You said you didn't leave that night — why didn't I see you when I came out?"
Lin Wan froze. She didn't know how to answer. Not where to begin.
Then — a quiet chuckle behind her.
She turned.
Chen Jin stood at the doorway in a tailored iron-gray suit, one hand in his pocket, watching her with amused detachment.
The voice on the phone kept calling, "Wanwan? Hello?"
Lin Wan's hand shook. She quickly covered the receiver. "I'm… a bit busy. I'll call you later," she whispered, and hung up.
"Friend of yours?" Chen Jin walked closer, smirking. "I thought you were dialing 110."
The sound of his voice alone was enough to send a chill crawling down her spine. In her mind, scenes replayed like shards of broken glass — the struggle, the darkness, the way he looked at her afterward. Hatred flared, hot and fierce… then dimmed into cold ash.
She looked at herself — the hospital gown, the cast, the bruises — a ruin on display. And he, the architect of that ruin, stood there admiring his work. The irony made her want to laugh.
He pulled up a chair beside the bed, sitting like a man inspecting property he owned. His hand brushed the plaster cast on her leg, his voice dripping with false concern.
"Don't worry. I found the best orthopedic surgeon. You'll heal perfectly."
Lin Wan said nothing. She didn't doubt his influence — or his cruelty.
He smiled faintly. "You gave me quite a scare. I mean, really — fainting like that, breaking a bone? What was I supposed to tell the doctor? That it happened during sex? They'd think I was some kind of sadist."
The words slithered into the air, and for a moment Lin Wan couldn't breathe. Sadist? He'd twisted the truth so thoroughly that she almost laughed. What kind of man could do what he did — and then joke about it?
She lifted her eyes slowly, meeting his gaze for just a second before looking away. She was too weak to fight, too tired to scream. "I want to rest," she said softly. "Please leave."
He leaned in, tugged the blanket back down, grinning. "Rest all you want. Just don't suffocate yourself — this is a hospital. Even if you die, they'll drag you back."
Her eyes met his. Calm, flat.
"Do you feel proud of yourself?" she asked quietly.
He blinked, then smiled — the kind of smile that said You're right, but he'd never admit it.
"Proud? No," he said, almost tender. "I feel sorry for you."
She snorted softly, closed her eyes, and said nothing more.
Before leaving, he tucked the blanket around her shoulders and brushed the stray hair from her collar, his voice deceptively gentle: "Get well soon. I'll check on you tomorrow."
When the door finally clicked shut, Lin Wan opened her eyes again. The ceiling above her was a white void. From the hallway came muffled voices — his voice, cold with irritation:
"What the hell did you put on her face? It's still swollen."
Then the nurse's nervous murmur, too quiet to catch.
A few minutes later, the same nurse returned with a box of ointment. As she dabbed it carefully on Lin Wan's cheek, she whispered, "The previous cream worked fine for others… I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Lin Wan said quietly. "Better slow than wrong." Her eyes drifted toward her suspended leg.
By evening, the quiet was broken again — this time by laughter and chatter. A group of her colleagues from the publishing house crowded in, arms full of fruit baskets and flowers.
"Lin Wan! What on earth happened?" her friend, Xiao Xie, exclaimed. "You broke your leg taking a bath?"
Lin Wan blinked. So that's the story he told.
She forced a faint smile, offering vague answers. They didn't seem to care much — too busy marveling at the size of her room, peeking into the private bathroom.
Once the noise settled, Xiao Xie leaned in, eyes gleaming with gossip. "Alright, spill it. When were you planning to tell us about your rich boyfriend?"
Lin Wan's stomach turned. "He's not my— just a… friend," she said, the last word scraping her throat like glass.
"Come on. He has already admitted it," Xiao Xie teased. Then her gaze flicked to Lin Wan's neck. "And that mark? Pretty convincing evidence."
Lin Wan's hand flew up instinctively, covering the bruises she couldn't see but could feel. "He— he came here?"
"Of course not! Men like that don't need to. One call to the editor-in-chief, and look — VIP suite." She chuckled. "We were hoping to catch a glimpse of him today, actually. Where's he hiding?"
Lin Wan's chest tightened. That bastard.
He wasn't content with hurting her; now he wanted the world to think she belonged to him.
She noticed then that one familiar face was missing — Bai, the colleague who'd always treated her kindly. For some reason, that absence hurt more than the rest.
She had always lived clean, proud, and self-reliant.
But now her name, her reputation, her body — all of it lay in ruins, courtesy of one man.
And there was no one left who would believe her side of the story.