CHAPTER FIVE

The knock on her door was soft. Hesitant. Like the person behind it wasn't sure if they wanted to disturb her or run away.

Feng Mian sat by the window, knees tucked against her chest, forehead resting lightly on them as she watched the breeze toy with the sheer curtains. She didn't answer. Not because she didn't hear it, but because she'd rather never speak if it were humanly possible. She hated speaking and avoided it at all costs.

Aunt Mei's voice filtered through the door. "Madam… the bath is ready."

She didn't move. Her throat felt scraped raw from earlier, her eyes heavy but dry now, like she'd used up all her tears.

Everything inside her felt brittle.

The soft floral wallpaper, the cloying scent of roses, the oppressive weight of silence—it all pressed in on her until it was hard to breathe. It was too bright. Everything was too pink. She hated all of it.

She waited until she heard the fading footsteps before she moved.

The marble floor was cold beneath her feet as she padded silently to the bathroom.

The tub was grand—ornate, claw-footed, filled with water delicately perfumed with rose oil.

Another thing she hated.

Still, she undressed mechanically, folding her clothes in rigid, perfect triangle before stepping in.

The water swallowed her quietly. She kept her eyes trained on the ceiling, lips parted slightly as her fingers traced invisible patterns over the surface. Lines, sequences, codes only she could see.

When she emerged much later, she dressed herself in simple grey loungewear, avoiding the floral silk robes laid out for her.

She sat by her journal, opened it, but her pen hovered uselessly over the page.

She couldn't write.

She couldn't think.

She couldn't breathe.

And then came another knock on the door. This time Firmer.

Before she could answer, the door opened.

Startled, she turned abruptly to meet a brooding figure standing in front of her.

It wasn't Aunt Mei.

He stepped inside without waiting for permission, his posture relaxed, eyes sharp with curiosity and something unreadable.

"Feng Mian, right?"

She stared.

He was tall, leaner than Liang Zeyan but broader in the shoulders. His eyes, a shade lighter, glinted with something dangerously playful.

He smiled lazily like they were old friends.

"I'm Liang Yuwei .

Zeyan's younger brother."

He glanced around her too-pink room, then at her, noting the stiff way she sat, the way her hands twisted in her lap.

"So you're the new Madam."

She didn't respond.

He stepped closer, studying her the same way people studied strange, untrained animals.

"I came to see if the rumors were true," he said casually. "The fragile little heiress locked away in the east wing."

Her fingers twitched once, twice.

He tilted his head.

"You're quiet. Is it true you don't like people touching you?"

His voice was light, teasing, but the weight of his stare felt heavier than anyone else's.

Her gaze darted to the door, calculating the distance.

He noticed.

"I'm not going to touch you," he said suddenly, raising his hands like he was approaching something wounded. "Relax. I'm not like my brother."

She didn't relax. What did he mean by that? Did it mean that his brother liked touching? She did not like touches.

He let out a soft breath, eyes narrowing as he studied her face closely, reading her silence.

"You know… they're all downstairs talking about you," he murmured, voice lowering. "Whispering about how strange you are. How you don't belong here."

Mian's throat tightened.

Yuwei smiled faintly. "But they're wrong."

That made her look up sharply.

He met her gaze squarely, something unsettling in the curve of his mouth.

"They're wrong because I can already know exactly who you are and what you want—" he leaned forward slightly, his voice a thread of silk. "You're not as fragile as you look."

Before she could process the words, Aunt Mei appeared at the doorway, her expression fraught with polite disapproval.

"Second Young Master," she said, bowing. "The Master is not home."

 Yuwei straightened, glancing back at Mian one last time.

"I know."

He turned to leave, pausing briefly at the door.

"Oh and lest I forget," he added casually over his shoulder. "Tell Zeyan I'll be back for dinner. I want to get to know his wife properly."

The door clicked shut behind him.

Mian sat frozen in place, her pulse a steady drum against her ribs.

She hadn't expected another wolf in the house.

And this one smiled when he bared his teeth.

The door clicked shut behind Liang Zexin, but the echoes of his words lingered longer than they should have.

"You're not as fragile as you look."

She wondered what he meant by that. Did he know? About what she did? What exactly did he mean by that?

Mian sat motionless, her hands balled tightly into the fabric of her loungewear.

Her stomach twisted, not with fear—but something colder, thinner, like the delicate edge of a blade pressing against her skin.

She didn't trust men who smiled like that.

Not when they looked at her like she was an unsolved riddle they were eager to crack open.

Not when they treated her silence like an invitation.

The house was quiet again.

Outside her window, she could see the vast garden stretching beyond the glass—trimmed hedges, tall willows, koi ponds perfectly arranged. It looked beautiful.

Manufactured.

Fake

It irritated her.

Another knock on the door broke her spiral.

Why where there so much knocks on her door. Back at the Feng mansion, the only times she got knocks were when it was time for food. She was never disturbed.

Aunt Mei peeked her head in again, this time softer, gentler.

She had a small tray in her hands.

"Young Madam… You didn't come down for breakfast."

Mian blinked. She hadn't even realized how much time had passed.

Without waiting for a response, Aunt Mei walked in, her steps cautious like she was trying not to disturb a fragile animal.

She set the tray down on the writing table.

"Just some porridge," she murmured. "And fruit. Nothing heavy."

Mian's gaze flickered to the tray—white porcelain, thin slices of apple arranged neatly around a small bowl of warm rice porridge.

Simple, quiet food.

Aunt Mei lingered, folding her hands awkwardly.

After a pause, she spoke again.

"Young Madam… forgive me for saying this but…" Her eyes searched Mian's face, carefully. "You don't have to answer the Second Young Master's questions."

Mian's head tilted slightly, not quite a nod.

"He likes to talk too much," Aunt Mei added under her breath, almost conspiratorially. "And look too closely."

Mian lowered her gaze to the bowl in front of her, fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

She understood the warning beneath those words.

People like Yuwei,

They didn't ask questions because they cared.

They asked because they wanted to own the answers.

Aunt Mei glanced at her one last time, then left quietly.

The door shut again, and for a long moment, Mian remained unmoving.

Eventually, she reached out, taking one of the apple slices between her fingers.

She bit down slowly, mechanically.

It was tasteless, she hated it.