The room was cloaked in near-total darkness, broken only by the low, crackling fire in the hearth. Shadows danced across the stone walls like restless spirits, twisting and recoiling with every flicker of flame. The scent of burning wood hung thick in the air, mingling with something faintly like blood or worst,
By the fireside sat two men—if they could be called that. Their forms were flawless, unnervingly symmetrical, with a stillness that defied nature.
The man on the left, however, was something more.
His presence pulled at the eye like gravity. Handsome didn't begin to describe him—he was breathtaking, a vision carved from darkness and flame. Pale, smooth skin caught the glow of the fire, casting golden highlights along his high cheekbones and sharp jawline. His jet-black hair fell in artful waves just past his shoulders, catching faint glints of crimson from the firelight.
This was Yinguang Lei.
A name that echoed through the corridors of global wealth and whispered in the shadows of things best left unnamed. He was a billionaire—the kind the world watched with a mixture of awe and fear. Brilliant, unhinged, and absurdly powerful, he was currently locked in a relentless contest to claim the title of the second richest man on Earth.
A log cracked in the hearth, and sparks jumped like startled insects. Finally, the silence broke.
A voice, low and smooth, slid from Yong Kai's lips like smoke curling into the cold.
"Tomorrow's your wedding," he said, tone unreadable, as he leaned forward slightly, his gaze studying the flames instead of the man before him. "Do you love her?"
The question shifted the room's energy. The fire dulled slightly, and even the air felt heavier, as if the very walls were holding their breath.
Yinguang Lei turned his head slowly, deliberately, the motion as fluid and graceful as a predator's stretch. A moment passed before he replied, voice low and deliberate:
"Love?"
He lifted his chin, and a faint gleam shimmered across the hollows of his face. "Love is an understatement for a being like me."
He leaned back in his chair, movement slow, indulgent. His spine curved languidly against the velvet, and as his hair slipped from his face, the full burn of his ember-like eyes came into view—intense, unblinking, quietly dangerous. The fire made them glow, not reflect—there was no soul behind them, only heat and hunger.
"I don't fall in love," he said, almost amused. One leg crossed over the other, and he drummed his fingers on the carved armrest again. "I take loyalty. Respect. A refined taste between the sheets."
He let the words linger. The fire popped. A silence pressed down again like velvet-draped stone.
"Love," he added, lips curving into a slow, deliberate smirk, "is truly my word."
The firelight caught his teeth as he smiled—sharp, just enough to unsettle. His canines were a little too long, a little too perfect. It wasn't just a smile.
It was a promise. A warning.
A claim.
------------------------------------------
Jing sat at the edge of the bed, the weight of the gown pooling around her like a heavy secret. The fabric, satin and lace, hugged her tightly, itchy in places where it should've been soft. She shifted slightly, but the gown didn't move—it clung, as though it had chosen her.
Her fingers grazed the edges of Ling's diary—delicate, flowery, smelling faintly of lavender and something older. Dusty, like old perfume bottles and forgotten jewelry boxes. She hadn't meant to open it, not really. But curiosity was a whisper in her ear, and tonight, everything else was too loud. Too dark. Too wrong.
She hesitated, thumb pressing against the soft leather cover, then opened it.
The first pages were light. Ling's loopy handwriting spilled in bright ink-pink, lavender, soft blues. Dresses. Dreams. A sketch of the engagement ring. Little hearts drawn in the margins. His name.....Yinguang Lei inked again and again in the curls of her pen like a girl spellbound.
But then the ink darkened. The letters pressed deeper into the page, as if written in haste. Some lines trailed off, like her hand had trembled.
Jing's brow furrowed as she read:
"His eyes… they aren't kind. They don't promise safety. They promise something else. Something… dangerous.
And I don't want to run."
She blinked. Her fingers stilled.
The lamp light in the room seemed to dull, shadows crawling higher on the walls. Her gaze dropped to the next entry, her throat tightening.
"Sometimes he stares at me like I'm already his.
Like I belong to him—not in a sweet way.
In the way that wolves look at something before they sink their teeth in.
And I love it.
God, I love it."
Her lips parted slightly. The room felt colder. She stared at the words for a long time, unsure what to feel. Was it fear? Pity? Or something harder to name?
This didn't sound like love. Not the kind from the novels Ling used to force her to read. Not the kind their mother claimed to have had. This felt… like surrender. A willing surrender. Like Ling had started vanishing into him long before she disappeared.
Jing's pulse quickened. She turned another page, the paper brittle and soft.
"He doesn't say much. But when he touches me—just his hand at the small of my back—I feel like I can't breathe...Not in the wrong way.
It's like I stop being me for a second.
Like I'm something better.
Or something worse.
But I want it."
Jing swallowed, hard. Her fingers trembled slightly. She could see it—Ling leaning into that touch, smiling with glassy eyes, being pulled deeper and deeper without even struggling.
"I don't get this," she murmured, voice barely audible. "I don't get any of this."
Her eyes drifted to the mirror across the room. Her reflection stared back—dressed in Ling's gown, lips painted red like Ling used to wear. She looked like her sister. But she wasn't even close to her.
She tried to laugh, but the sound tangled in her throat and died there.
This wasn't love. At least… it wasn't her kind of love. But maybe—just maybe—Ling had wanted it. Craved it. Maybe she chose to be consumed.
Her eyes dropped to the last line on the page of the book,
"If I disappear, he'll come for me. He always said he would.
And I think I want him to."
She closed the book gently, fingers resting on the leather like she could press some answer out of it. The silence grew colder, wrapping around her shoulders like a second gown.
For a moment, Jing wasn't angry. She wasn't even scared.
She was lost.
Maybe her sister had run away. Maybe she hadn't. Maybe she was waiting for him, wherever she was.
And now Jing was here. In her place. Wearing her face. Reading the final confessions of a girl who loved a shadow with teeth.
She ran her hand across the diary cover slowly, as if smoothing her sister's hair one last time.
"I don't understand you, Ling," she whispered.
"Did you really run away....Or just messing with my head."
She inhaled sharply—painfully.
"Why am I being trapped in this?" she gasped, voice trembling. Her vision blurred with the threat of tears.
"I'm lost. Where truly… are you, Ling?"
The silence didn't answer,it was like she was forced in a cage that was not meant for her.