The air in the room was heavy with the scent of sandalwood and the copper tang of blood. Every inch of Lin Qingzhou's back felt like it had been branded with white-hot irons.
Gritting his teeth, he began the agonizing journey from the marble floor to the bed, his fingers clawing at the thick carpet as he crawled.
Each movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his spine.
Finally, he reached the edge of the mattress and hauled himself up, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
With trembling hands, he peeled away the ruins of the blood-red silk. The cheongsam, once a symbol of his humiliation, was now just a wet, heavy rag.
He discarded it on the floor and collapsed onto his stomach, burying his face in the silk pillows.
The silence of the room was broken only by his slow, rhythmic sniffling.
Crying was a luxury he hadn't allowed himself in years, but here, in the dark of his decorated prison, it felt like the only way to wash the salt from his wounds.
What now? His father was gone. The Lin empire was dust. He was no longer a student with a future; he was a captive, an "item" owned by a man who treated human life like a ledger to be balanced.
Fu Jingshen didn't care about his pride, his education, or his soul. To Jingshen, he was just a mistake that needed to be corrected.
I have to watch my tongue, he thought, his eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion. Next time, he might not tell them to stop.
With the phantom sting of the lash still pulsing in his skin, he finally succumbed to a dark, fitful sleep, his lashes still matted with salt.
The next morning, a gentle tap on the door pulled him from the depths of a nightmare.
"Young Master?"
Qingzhou stirred, a hiss of pain escaping his lips as his stiff muscles protested. He turned his head to see a middle-aged woman standing by the bed. She had a kind, weathered face and eyes that held a trace of genuine pity.
"I am Auntie Chen," she said softly, offering a small, encouraging smile. "I'm here to tend to your wounds and help you dress. The Master is waiting for you at breakfast."
The sight of her reminded him so sharply of his childhood nanny—the woman who had wiped his scraped knees and hidden his secret books from his father—that a lump formed in his throat.
He didn't speak; he simply let her lead him to the bathroom.
The warm water was a torture of its own against his flayed skin, but he forced himself to endure it.
Auntie Chen was incredibly gentle, her hands steady as she applied a cooling medicinal balm to the welts. She then helped him into a set of clean clothes—a simple, high-collared white shirt and soft trousers. It wasn't a dress, but the fabric still felt like a weight.
"Follow me, please," she said.
His heart began a slow, heavy thud against his ribs as they walked toward the dining hall.
The moment he stepped into the room, his mood soured into a cold, hard knot of dread.
Fu Jingshen was sitting at the head of the long table, dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, reading a tablet as if the previous night's brutality had never happened.
The scent of coffee and expensive breakfast meats filled the air, but to Qingzhou, it smelled like a trap.
He slipped into a chair at the far end of the table, his eyes fixed firmly on the white tablecloth.
He remained silent, his body tense.
He didn't know if the simple act of breathing would offend the man across from him.
"Eat," Jingshen ordered without looking up. His voice was cold, clipped, and left no room for argument.
Qingzhou looked at the spread before him. There was shrimp congee, stir-fried eggs with chives, and various dim sum platters. His stomach turned.
He wasn't just lacking an appetite—he was looking at a death sentence.
He was allergic to shellfish.
He was allergic to chives.
Almost everything on the table contained ingredients that would shut down his throat in minutes
.
A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. A panic attack began to claw at his chest, making it hard to draw air. He looked at Jingshen, who was now staring at him, his brow furrowed with growing impatience.
"If I tell him, will he think I'm making excuses? Will he call the men back in?"
The silence stretched too long. Jingshen's eyes darkened, the familiar predatory spark returning. "I said, eat. Do not make me tell you a third time, Lin Qingzhou. I don't tolerate waste."
Qingzhou took a trembling breath, bracing himself for the impact of a blow. "I... I can't," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I'm allergic to most of the food here."
Jingshen didn't even blink. He didn't care. To him, this was just another act of defiance from a wild dog.that needed to be broken.
"You think you're in a position to be picky? Eat it, or I'll make sure you never eat again."
"President Fu, I'm not lying—"
"Enough!" Jingshen barked. He gestured to the two guards standing by the door. "He wants to play the martyr. Help him finish his meal."
Qingzhou's eyes widened in sheer horror. "No! Please—"
The men moved with mechanical efficiency.
One pinned his arms back against the chair, the movement tearing into his fresh wounds and making him cry out in agony. The other grabbed a spoonful of the shrimp congee.
"Open up," the guard commanded.
Qingzhou clamped his jaw shut, his head thrashing from side to side. He was terrified, his mind screaming at the impending biological betrayal of his own body.
But he was weak, and the guard was strong. A hand squeezed his jaw, forcing his mouth open.
The first spoonful was shoved down his throat.
He swallowed convulsively, his eyes bulging.
Almost immediately, he felt the familiar, terrifying itch in the back of his throat. His skin began to flush, and his breath hitched as his airway started to narrow.
"There." Jingshen said, his voice cold and satisfied, as he returned to his tablet. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Qingzhou couldn't respond.
He clawed at the table, his fingernails digging into the wood as his vision began to blur. He looked at Jingshen, his eyes pleading, but the tycoon didn't look up. As the allergic reaction took hold, the wild dog could only struggle in silent, suffocating horror, his life once again hanging by a thread in the hands of a man who refused to believe he could feel pain.