Yan Xixi remained silent, her long lashes lowered, her lips trembling slightly. Observing this, Zhou Ting's heart went cold. My goodness, please don't let it be exactly as I suspected, she thought.
"Miss Yan..."
Yan Xixi didn't respond. She just slowly extended one hand and gently placed it on the coffee table.
Zhou Ting's eyes widened. The arm was covered in bruises, some blue, some purple. Just above the wrist was a distinct scar—it was hard to tell if it was from a needle, a pinch, or a burn. Clearly, it was a mix of old and new wounds.
The horrifying scars stunned Zhou Ting. "Did he hit you?" she cried out in alarm.
Yan Xixi only bowed her head.
"Did the Third Young Master do this to you? He really hit you?"
Yan Xixi's eyes reddened, and she lowered her head even further.
From this angle, Zhou Ting could more clearly see the dark bloodstains beneath the white gauze. She dared not imagine the extent of the injuries to her head.
