The room lay shrouded in near-total darkness, pierced only by the low crackle of firelight. Shadows writhed and flickered against cold stone walls, twisting like restless ghosts. The scent of burning wood thickened the air, mingled with a faint, metallic trace—something like blood, or worse.
Two men sat by the hearth—if they could be called men. Their forms were unnaturally perfect, symmetrically still, as though carved from marble. But only one truly commanded the room.
Yinguang Lei.
His presence pulled the eye like gravity itself. Handsome wasn't enough—he was breathtaking, a dark statue forged from shadow and flame. Pale skin glowed under the fire's amber light, highlighting high cheekbones and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His raven-black hair fell in artful waves past his shoulders, catching crimson glints from the flames.
He was a name whispered in wealth's most dangerous circles—feared, revered. A billionaire beyond measure, locked in a merciless race to claim the world's second greatest fortune. But this night, none of that mattered.
The silence broke with a low voice, smooth as smoke curling into the chill.
"Tomorrow's your wedding," said Yong Kai, leaning forward, eyes tracing the fire. "Do you love her?"
The question shifted the room's weight. The fire dimmed, the air thickened—as if the walls themselves held their breath.
Yinguang's head turned slowly, deliberate as a predator's stretch. After a long pause, his voice came, cold and measured.
"Love?"
He lifted his chin, a faint gleam tracing the hollows of his face.
"Love is a poor word for something like me."
He reclined, every movement languid, confident. His ember eyes flared fully into view—intense, unblinking, devoid of mercy. The firelight didn't reflect in them; it burned.
"I don't fall in love," he said, a hint of cruel amusement in his tone. "I take loyalty. Respect. The refined taste of possession."
His fingers drummed against the carved armrest, slow and deliberate.
"Love," he added, curling his lips into a smirk sharp enough to draw blood, "is isn't truly word."
That smile—too sharp, too perfect—wasn't a smile. It was a warning. A claim.
---
Jing sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the gown pressing around her like a shroud. Satin and lace clung in places that should have been soft. She shifted; the dress did not.
Her fingers traced the edge of Ling's diary—a worn leather book scented faintly with lavender and dust. She hadn't meant to open it, but tonight, curiosity was louder than fear.
The first pages were light—loopy handwriting in pink, lavender, pale blue. Dresses, dreams, sketches of engagement rings. Ling's name curling repeatedly beside Yinguang Lei's, ink like a spell.
But soon the ink darkened, the writing pressed heavier into the page.
"His eyes aren't kind. They don't promise safety. They promise something else. Something… dangerous. And I don't want to run."
Jing's breath caught. The lamp flickered; shadows crept higher on the walls. She read on, heart tightening.
"Sometimes he looks at me like I'm already his. Not in a sweet way. Like a wolf sizing prey. And I love it. God, I love it."
The room chilled. Her lips parted, uncertain if it was fear or something else she felt. This wasn't love, at least not the kind from the novels Ling had forced her to read. This was surrender. A willing, beautiful surrender.
Jing turned the brittle page.
"He says little, but when his hand touches the small of my back, I can't breathe—not in a bad way. It's like I stop being me, like I'm something… better. Or worse. And I want it."
Her fingers trembled. Ling's glassy smile haunted her eyes—pulled deeper into a darkness Jing barely understood.
"I don't get this," she whispered. "None of it."
Her gaze drifted to the mirror. The reflection staring back wore Ling's gown and red lips—but it was Jing's eyes, full of confusion and fear.
This wasn't love.
Maybe Ling had wanted it. Maybe she had already vanished into something dangerous, something she craved.
The final line gripped Jing's heart:
"If I disappear, he'll come for me. He always said he would. And I think… I want him to."
Closing the diary, Jing's hand lingered on its cover, as if she could coax answers from the worn leather.
For a moment, she wasn't angry. Not scared, even.
She was lost.
Her sister was gone—maybe hiding, maybe trapped. And Jing was left here, wearing Ling's face, reading her final confessions.
She whispered to the cold room:
"I don't understand you, Ling. Did you really run away… or just mess with my head?"
Her voice broke, eyes filling with tears she refused to shed.
"Why am I trapped in this? Where are you, Ling?"
Only silence answered. The cage was real—and Jing was its prisoner.