chapter 22
Jian's hands trembled, not just from fear, but from the cold shock that had seized her veins the moment she stepped over the threshold. The room was not a bedroom, nor a library, but a meticulously curated gallery.
The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with canvases, not of landscapes or historical figures, but of her.
There were hundreds of photos and portraits, all of Jian. A monochrome print of her laughing, captured mid-sentence at the convinence shop. A vibrant oil painting of her sleeping, the morning light dappling her face, taken through a slightly parted window curtain. A series of blurred, yet recognizable, images of her walking down a rainy street, head bowed, holding a paper bouquet of flowers a child gifted her.
Jian stumbled backward, clutching her throat. This wasn't stalking; this was months of meticulous surveillance, an encyclopedia of her life compiled without her consent. She saw a close-up of the tiny mole behind her ear, a detail she barely knew herself. Every frame was technically superb, horrifyingly intimate, and utterly silent. It was a museum dedicated to a life she thought was private.
A low, resonant sound broke the silence of the gallery. A sound she now recognized as the sound of the man who held her captive.
Jian whipped around to face the doorway. Standing framed in the archway, his eyes dark and unwavering, was Jinman. He looked calm, almost pleased, like a collector observing his favorite piece.
His intense gaze drifted from the portraits back to her, a faint, possessive smile touching his lips. He took one slow step forward, the sound of his dress shoe on the polished floor echoing in the vast room.
"Are you lost, baby girl?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous velvet. The question was not an inquiry, but a statement—a confirmation that he had guided her precisely where he wanted her to be, to witness the depth of his devotion.
💔(Defiance)
"L-lost?" Jian finally managed, forcing the word past her constricted throat. Her voice was shaking, but she anchored it with a core of pure, burning outrage. "You think I'm lost? I was stolen! This… this isn't love, Jinman. This is a crime scene."
She marched toward the nearest portrait—a close-up of her face, unaware and vulnerable. She slapped the glass with the flat of her hand, the sharp sound echoing through the room.
"Did you enjoy this?" she spat, her eyes blazing with fury. "Did you enjoy being a ghost in my life? Following me to work, watching me sleep? You didn't just see me, you erased me, piece by piece, until I was just an image for your sick collection!"
Tears threatened, but she blinked them back fiercely. She wouldn't cry. Crying was a weakness he might savor.
"I don't know who you think I am," Jian continued, taking a defiant step back from him. "I am not an object you get to track and capture and hang on your wall. You saw me for months , but you don't know me at all. And I will never, ever belong to you."
Jinman remained unmoved, his expression shifting from triumphant to darkly empathetic. "You're angry," he observed simply, as if discussing the weather. "That's natural. But you will understand. The time I waited, the time I watched... it was preparation. Now, you don't have to be lost anymore, Jian. You're home."
Jinman watched her outburst with a stillness that was far more unnerving than shouting. He processed her rage, not as a valid protest, but as a temporary phase he was obligated to manage.
He allowed a moment of silence to settle, letting the echoes of her voice die down against the walls of her portrait gallery. Then, he raised a hand, not to strike her, but to gently touch the frame of the portrait closest to him—the one of her laughing.
"A crime scene," Jinman repeated, his voice dangerously soft, yet carrying an unshakable weight. "Perhaps. But only for the man who was about to take you. The man you were about to pledge your life to."
He turned his gaze fully back to her, and now his intensity was overwhelming.
"You were wearing a dress,a fucking wedding dress , Jian. A perfect vision. Standing beside a mistake. I watched you, dressed for a future that was never meant to be his. Do you know how much discipline it took, how much restraint, to wait until that final, desperate moment?"
Jinman took another step, closing the distance between them. "I didn't steal a woman from her home, Jian. I rescued my destiny from a binding contract. The cost was high, the act was public, but it was necessary. I didn't kidnap you from that boy; I simply claimed what was already mine from a placeholder."
He reached out, his hand moving slowly toward her cheek. Jian flinched, but she held her ground, refusing to shrink away.
"This gallery," he murmured, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw, "was my sanctuary while you were out there, lost. Now, you are the sanctuary".
He lowered his hand and stepped back, his expression now becoming one of cool authority. "Time for you to adjust to the truth of this room, and the truth of me.
You will see that I am not a ghost, but the one man who truly sees you, even the parts you hide from yourself." He paused, his gaze hardening. "Your anger is acknowledged. Now, it is time for a bath and a meal."