Lin Qiaoshi rushed in from the corridor in a panic.
When she received Song Qingtang’s phone call, she was completely flustered.
Song Qingtang’s description had been quite specific, and she could roughly guess what kind of place it was.
But only the wealthy and powerful could get into a place like that—if she barged in on her own, she would definitely be stopped.
Too panicked. Too urgent.
Her mind went completely blank, and there was only one voice ringing in her ears.
—Song Qingtang absolutely cannot get hurt.
In such a situation, there was no choice for her to make. She could only go find Jin Zhuochuan.
Even if their relationship was only contractual, they were still technically half a married couple. He couldn’t really just stand by and watch her die, could he?
She went to find Jin Zhuochuan and hastily explained the situation to him.
Things went more smoothly than she had expected—at least Lin Qiaoshi didn’t have to waste too many words. Jin Zhuochuan didn’t hesitate either; he was very decisive.
He came with her.
After they arrived, he didn’t pause for even a second before walking straight in. Lin Qiaoshi couldn’t keep up with his pace at all and could only run behind him.
Now, she had finally caught up.
Her suspended heart dropped with a “thump” as it settled back into place.
The room was in complete disarray. She swept her gaze over it hurriedly.
Finally, she spotted Song Qingtang crouching in the corner.
Song Qingtang looked more disheveled than she ever had before. The delicate skin of her jaw was flushed red, especially striking.
Her hair was slightly messy, loose strands clinging to her ears. The skin around her eyes was tinged with a thick, congested redness.
Her eyes shimmered with tears, and her whole demeanor was one of grievance and helplessness.
Both hands rested on her knees, blood beading on her palms, dirty and grimy.
The fabric over her knees was torn severely, stained with dust.
Song Qingtang usually cared a great deal about such things—she would never allow herself to look dirty.
She had always insisted on maintaining her dignity.
Lin Qiaoshi’s heart ached. She ran over, her voice trembling slightly: “Qingqing.”
Song Qingtang, crouching in the corner, heard Lin Qiaoshi’s voice and looked up.
The moment she saw Lin Qiaoshi, tears welled up in Song Qingtang’s eyes.
Lin Qiaoshi crouched down, took hold of her wrist, blew on it gently with concern, and asked, “Does it hurt a lot?”
Song Qingtang pressed her lips together, tears spilling from her eyes.
Her voice trembled as she spoke, sounding especially delicate and aggrieved: “It hurts so much.”
“Someone yanked me in really hard just now, and I fell. My palms hurt, and my knees hurt too.”
As she spoke, Song Qingtang’s eyes grew redder.
Her voice kept trembling, so wronged she could barely hold herself together, tears streaming down like they were free.
“And these are the pants I just bought—they’re torn now. I can’t even wear them anymore.”
Lin Qiaoshi listened, then reached out to wipe the tears from Song Qingtang’s face.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ll buy you new ones.”
As she spoke, Lin Qiaoshi checked Song Qingtang’s body for any other injuries.
Song Qingtang rarely cried. She only ever shed tears in front of Lin Qiaoshi.
After checking, Lin Qiaoshi breathed a sigh of relief—at least there were no other injuries.
Then she quickly pulled a tissue from her pocket and carefully wiped the dust from Song Qingtang’s hands.
Song Qingtang obediently stayed crouched, letting Lin Qiaoshi clean her hands.
Lin Qiaoshi’s movements were very gentle. She had never been a particularly meticulous person, but ever since she met Song Qingtang, she had become softer in certain details.
Because Song Qingtang was a somewhat delicate girl. You couldn’t be too rough with her.
Song Qingtang watched Lin Qiaoshi’s movements until a pair of shoes entered her line of sight.
Song Qingtang paused, then looked up.
It was Jin Zhuochuan.
He was looking down at her, his clothes slightly dirty, a wound on his arm—not deep—and his knuckles were slightly scraped, with traces of red blood.
Even so, he didn’t look the least bit disheveled.
The emotion in his brows and eyes remained faint, even tinged with weariness.
As if he hadn’t just been in a fight at all. He was far too relaxed, too nonchalant.
Song Qingtang’s gaze lingered for two seconds, and then it suddenly hit her—the tears at the corners of her eyes hadn’t been wiped dry yet.
She quickly lowered her head and rubbed it against the fabric of her shoulder, her movements a little clumsy, wiping away the dampness before raising her head again.
She didn’t want others to see her crying.
Tears could only fall in front of those closest to her. Shedding them in front of anyone else was equivalent to exposing her weakness.
It was also a sign of being in a lower position, of being vulnerable.
Having fought her way through society, through the cutthroat games of the interest circles—if someone got a hold of your weakness.
The consequences would be fatal.
This was a lesson Song Huaiyi had taught Song Qingtang long ago.
Jin Zhuochuan stood to the side, watching calmly as Song Qingtang hurriedly wiped her tears away. Perhaps because she was too flustered, her movements looked somewhat clumsy.
Even after the tears were wiped away, the faint trembling in her eyes—eyes that seemed to hold a pool of spring water—remained.
She looked pitiful and utterly wronged.
Jin Zhuochuan felt a hint of amusement.
She really did value her pride above all else.
Even when she was crying her heart out, she still didn’t want him to see.
Jin Zhuochuan crouched down, reached out, and took hold of Song Qingtang’s other hand, which was resting on her knee.
His movement was somewhat sudden, catching Song Qingtang completely off guard.
A warm sensation spread across her wrist as Jin Zhuochuan held it, his gaze lowered to the wound on her palm.
One of her hands was held by Lin Qiaoshi, while the other was clasped in Jin Zhuochuan’s grip.
The feeling was strange, accompanied by a tingling, numbing itch.
Song Qingtang pressed her lips together, trying to pull back the hand Jin Zhuochuan held.
Perhaps he had anticipated it, or perhaps his grip was like a shackle—Song Qingtang simply couldn’t withdraw it.
She couldn’t even move it in the slightest.
“Can you let go first…”
Song Qingtang spoke in a low voice.
Maybe her voice was too soft, or maybe his attention was entirely fixed on her palm.
He didn’t answer her question, as if he hadn’t heard at all, his entire body unmoving.
After a moment, Jin Zhuochuan loosened his grip slightly and asked, “Does it hurt?”
Song Qingtang shook her head. “It doesn’t hurt.”
Hearing this, Jin Zhuochuan paused for a second.
He lifted his eyes to look at her.
The emotions in his eyes were always indifferent, and when he raised his eyelids to look at someone, it always sent a chill down their spine.
A hint of fierceness lingered at the corners of his eyes—faint, yet still discernible.
Even though the expression between his brows was always lazy and nonchalant.
So fierce. Song Qingtang thought to herself.
But before she could dwell on it, a sudden pain shot through her hand.
Her delicate brows knitted together as she looked down.
Jin Zhuochuan had applied some pressure to her wrist.
A red mark instantly appeared on her porcelain-white skin.
“It hurts so much…”
Song Qingtang complained softly.
Why was he pinching her?
So annoying.
Only when she said it hurt did Jin Zhuochuan release his grip, resting her arm on her knee.
His tone was flat, unreadable: “So you do know what pain feels like.”