“It’s you… Cheng Yanxia. It has to be you.” Jiang Yue’s voice trembled as she looked up at the camera, as if the lens could somehow answer her. “This has nothing to do with me—believe me. I hate you, yes, but I would never hurt a girl who isn’t even an adult. Please—please spare me. I’ll never fight you again….”
Her hair hung in a tangled mess against her cheeks. Panic twisted her face as she fought the hands that assaulted her, but without fresh orders the men continued with grim determination. They showed no mercy.
Jiang Yue had always been the golden girl, born to privilege and raised on other people’s deference. From childhood she’d occupied a place few could reach. Everything had been the best—food, clothes, the company she kept. Even the people she came into contact with were either wealthy or powerful; she had lived at the very peak of the social pyramid.
She’d burst into Lu Qianzhou’s life like a sun—fiery, fierce, impossible to ignore—and made herself his close companion. Lu himself was quieter by nature; gentle and patient in ways that reminded people of his mother. In his childhood, he’d given all his tenderness to those he cared for. But when fortune turned and he was left with almost nothing, Jiang Yue had been taken away by her father and forbidden to see him again.
She believed she deserved the best—and so, when she grew up, the man she chose to love had to be among the very best. She’d always trusted her own eye, certain Lu Qianzhou would rise to great things. He seemed to prove her right. She wanted him to know she was still the same Jiang Yue; she hadn’t changed. He, however, had. The friendship they once had could no longer be mended.
Her father promised to find her a better match, but she didn’t want that. She clung shamelessly to Lu, hoping that public opinion would force him to marry her in the end. One wrong step, one small mistake—that was all it took to drag her into this ruin.
The men tore at her clothes until white skin was marked by red welts. Her body was exposed; no plea could cover her. One of the thugs had already seized her legs, preparing to violate her.
“Cheng Yanxia! I hate you! I hate you to death! Remember this—I’ll haunt you even after I’m dead!” Jiang Yue’s voice ripped through the broadcast like a curse.
Cheng Yanxia frowned and spoke into the phone. “Stop. Or I’ll call the police.”
Her mobile had no signal for ordinary calls, but emergency numbers could still be reached. It might be too late—that was the terrible truth—but it was the only option she had.
There was no reply. The scene on the screen continued.
As she reached to end the call, a voice on the other end spoke up lazily, as if enjoying the moment.
“You sure you want to hang up and dial 110? I’ve already placed a bomb under Fang Jiangyi’s car. The moment you make that call, he’ll be blown to pieces—no body left.”
A second window split the broadcast. On one side Jiang Yue’s assault played on repeat. On the other, a circular, rifle-scope–like image showed Fang Jiangyi leaving his company and getting into his car—clearly filmed from another vehicle, aimed and ready.
Cheng Yanxia froze. She had doubted this caller’s reach before, but seeing him move against someone like Jiang Yue with utter disregard for consequence proved he would go to any extreme. If there really was a bomb under Fang Jiangyi’s car…
“Save your enemy, or save Fang Jiangyi,” the voice said. “You only get to choose one.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone. Pain flared hot and raw. Why had she been forced to watch such brutality? Why had it fallen to her? She didn’t want to be dragged into this—she wanted no part of it.
“I won’t choose,” she said finally, voice small. “I don’t have the right to decide who lives or dies. Don’t put that on me.”
On the screen, Jiang Yue’s struggles had slowed and then stopped; she no longer fought. Cheng Yanxia couldn’t bear to look. The image of Jiang Yue began to blur in her head, merging with the face of Lan Mengfan in her memory until she couldn’t tell who was who. The sound crawled under her skin. She pressed her palms over her ears, trying to shut it out.
“You can’t walk away,” the voice said, slow and certain. “From the moment you chose to come here, you became part of my game.”
Panic seized her. She wouldn’t gamble with Fang Jiangyi’s life. Asking her to ransom one life for another was moral blackmail.
The connection felt like a hot coal. She slammed the phone down, bolted to the door and shook the lock with all her strength. She pounded and screamed, desperate for anyone in the building to hear.
“Someone—anyone—help! Please, help me!”
Silence answered. No one came.
She slid down the door and curled up on the floor, knees to chest, shaking. The television’s awful noises kept bleeding through: the men’s laughter, their breathing. She tried to make herself stop hearing, but when the images finally cut out the relief was icy and hollow instead. She sat there, coated in sweat, until she checked her phone and realized an hour had gone by.
She had sent Fang Jiangyi a message earlier, with her location attached. If he followed it, he would find her. She must be coming back, she thought—she had to. All she could do was pray he arrived in time.
Before she could wait any longer, someone opened the door.
Two men stood in the doorway. Masks hid their faces; their clothes were disheveled. Cheng Yanxia saw them and felt bile rise in her throat—the same two from the live feed.
Fear dropped over her like a physical thing. She tried to back away, but they said nothing. Rough hands grabbed her arms and dragged her out. In the elevator they took her straight up to the roof.
She didn’t scream. In a place like this, a cry might be the last sound she ever made.
On the rooftop the wind hit like a blade. It stripped the warmth from her skin and whipped the loose strands of hair from her face. The men shoved her toward the edge, and she steadied herself against the gale, every muscle trembling.