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墨書 Inktalez
Chapter 1: Love at First Sight at the Family Banquet
The shards of light from the crystal chandelier pierced my retina like countless sharp needles, bringing a wave of fine pain.
Mechanically, I counted the threads on my skirt that were bent under the weight of pearls—one, two, three...
The thirty-seventh thread caught in the crevice of my nail, sending a slight sting through me, reminiscent of the cold, stiff back of my mother’s hand as she lay dying, the veins bulging and pulsing against my heart.
The sound of the butler's polished shoes grinding against the tiled floor was like rusty gears slowly and heavily grinding together—once, twice, thrice—striking at my taut nerves.
“It’s time to toast, Miss Qing Yu.”
He always placed my name at the end of his sentences, devoid of warmth or respect, like a spell muttered while disposing of kitchen waste, making me feel a wave of nausea.
I turned around, the black satin gown clinging to my calves, making it difficult for me to move.
In the mirror, my reflection resembled a dried leaf butterfly trapped in a spider's web, struggling helplessly yet unable to escape the binds of fate.
Suddenly, twelve champagne corks popped open in the air with a crisp and loud sound, but it couldn’t drown out the fear and unease within me.
Lin Yichen appeared at the corner of the second floor. He loosened his dark blue tie, his Adam's apple bobbing as it drew attention to the faintly visible veins on his neck—seductive and dangerous.
The rim of his whiskey glass bore bright lipstick marks, glaring and ambiguous.
The sound of ice clinking against the glass echoed, one after another, like a relentless tapping on my knees, sending waves of uncontrollable shivers through me.
The scent of cedar wafting from the terrace, once fresh and subtle, now felt unusually sharp, like a cold knife slicing through the thin skin at the back of my neck, bringing a sudden sting.
“Fake Pearl with Real Value?”
The sound of his knuckles rapping against the stair railing resembled a coroner's knocks on a cold autopsy table—one, two, three—pounding against my heart, leaving me breathless.
A Waiter suddenly stumbled into me, dark red wine spilling down the folds of my skirt like arterial blood gushing from a severed vein, shocking to behold.
I curled up in the shadow of the terrace, frantically wiping at the wine stains on my skirt. The wet wipe soaked through, revealing the frostbite marks on my fingertips—red and unsightly.
Lin Yichen's silver cufflink grazed my earlobe, the chill of the metal making me flinch as I collided with the coldly carved railing.
“Su Ya is moving into the penthouse suite.”
His breath carried the scent of crushed pine needles—sharp and ruthless.
The shadow of his Adam's apple fell across my Collarbone, like a cold snake coiling around me, making it hard to breathe.
“After all, she is going to be Mrs. Lin.”
His casually spoken words struck like thunder in my mind.
The sound of my father's leather shoes striking the marble floor echoed from behind, steady and powerful, yet tinged with a hint of coldness.
His shoe tip skillfully avoided the wine stain spreading from my skirt, as if I were a dirty blemish unworthy of his gaze.
The light refracting from the diamond in Su Ya's hair danced upon my father's tie clip, shattering my reflection into fragments, leaving me feeling broken.
Zhou Yi's suit, carrying the scent of gunpowder, suddenly draped over my shoulders. The frayed cuffs oozed a mix of disinfectant and rust, providing me with a strange sense of comfort.
As the applause erupted, Lin Yichen crushed the whiskey glass in his hand.
The dull thud of glass shards embedding into his palm reminded me of the branch that broke when Mother fell, sharp and jarring.
Su Ya's scream caught in the dome of the banquet hall, piercing and shrill like a sword, slicing through my eardrums.
I counted the droplets of his blood, bright red and blinding.
The first drop, the second drop, the third drop...
The seventh drop landed precisely on the scratch I had polished away from his leather shoe that morning, resembling a blooming poppy—exquisite yet deadly.
Pine needles softly fell into the empty whiskey glass, reflecting in the dark red wine stain the sight of blood dried by the sun from twelve years ago when Mother was carried away from the old house's entrance—a haunting image.
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