The transition from the auction stage to the black sedan felt like a blur of cold air and rough hands. Lin Qingzhou was no longer being treated like a "Hidden Pearl." Now that the truth of his gender was out, the gloves had come off—literally.
The men handling him didn't care about the delicate silk of his red cheongsam or the way the iron shackles bit into his wrists. They shoved him into the backseat of the car as if he were a bag of trash, his shoulder-length hair falling into his face in a tangled mess.
Fu Jingshen sat beside him, the scent of expensive menthol and rain filling the cramped space.
He didn't look at Qingzhou.
He stared out the window at the passing city lights, his jaw set in a line so hard it looked like it was carved from granite.
The silence in the car was suffocating, heavy with the stench of Jingshen's suppressed rage.
A hundred million for a "Hidden Pearl." only to end up with the "Wild Dog" of the Lin family.
To Fu Jingshen, it wasn't just a mistake; it was a slap in the face.
"If you're going to keep pouting, President Fu, maybe you should have checked the return policy." Qingzhou rasped, his voice cutting through the silence like a jagged blade.
Fu Jingshen's head snapped toward him, his eyes dark with a cold, murderous fire. "Shut up."
Qingzhou didn't shut up. He never knew when to stop. It was his greatest flaw—a foul mouth that had earned him more bruises than a street fighter in his father's heyday. He leaned back against the leather seat, a sharp, mocking dimple appearing on his cheek.
"What? Are you disappointed?" Qingzhou sneered, his gaze sweeping over Jingshen's expensive suit with blatant disrespect. "Do you want me to spread my legs right here? For a big-shot mafia boss, you're acting way too whiny about a bit of extra hardware. Come on, just fuck me so we can both get on with our lives. You and I both know I'm way prettier than any woman you could've bought tonight."
The driver's hands tightened on the steering wheel. The air in the car turned freezing.
Fu Jingshen didn't move for a long moment.
Then, with a speed that made Qingzhou's breath catch, he reached out and grabbed Qingzhou's throat, pinning him against the seat.
"You think your face gives you the right to be disgusting?" Jingshen's voice was a low, terrifying growl. "You're nothing but a debt, Lin Qingzhou. A debt I intend to collect in full."
When they reached the penthouse—a "decorated prison" filled with the scent of sandalwood and rosewood that now felt like a mockery.
The men dragged Qingzhou inside.
They didn't lead him to the soft bed or the bath. They threw him onto the cold marble floor.
Fu Jingshen stood over him, looking down at the "Rose" he had bought, now stained with the dirt of the journey.
The sight of Qingzhou's defiant, mocking expression was the final straw.
"He's forgotten his place." Jingshen said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Auntie Chen, get out. The rest of you—teach him that words have prices."
"President Fu?" one of the men hesitated.
"Flog him." Jingshen commanded, turning his back. "If he likes to speak like a gutter rat, let him feel what happens to rats."
Qingzhou's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, but he didn't beg. He was no stranger to pain; he had grown up in the shadow of the Underworld King. He braced himself, kneeling on the marble, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.
It's just pain, he told himself. I've felt worse.
He was wrong.
The first stroke of the lash tore through the silk of his cheongsam and bit into the tender skin of his back. It wasn't the dull ache of a punch; it was a white-hot fire that seemed to sear his very soul.
One.
He gasped, his forehead hitting the cold floor.
Five.
The air was forced out of his lungs. His vision began to swim. The "foul-mouthed" scholar was gone, replaced by a trembling animal.
Ten.
By the fifteenth stroke, the pride that had sustained him at the auction was shattered.
He wasn't screaming, he wasn't the type to give them that satisfaction but the tears were falling uncontrollably, hot and silent, splashing onto the marble.
His breath came in ragged, pitiful hitches. He looked small, broken, and utterly fragile in the middle of the grand room.
Fu Jingshen, who had been standing by the window with his back turned, finally glanced over.
He saw the blood-red silk torn to shreds, the pale skin beneath striped with angry welts, and the way Qingzhou's shoulders shook with silent, pathetic sobs.
The sight did something strange to Jingshen's chest. It wasn't pity, he didn't believe in pity but it was an irritation so sharp he couldn't stand it.
It was like looking at a piece of art he had accidentally stepped on.
"Stop," Jingshen barked.
The room went still. The only sound was the heavy, wet breathing of the man on the floor.
Jingshen walked over and knelt down, grabbing Qingzhou's face roughly to force him to look up. Qingzhou's eyes were bloodshot and drowning in tears, his face flushed with a mixture of agony and humiliation.
He looked so pitiful that Jingshen's grip faltered for a fraction of a second.
"Mind your words." Jingshen hissed, his voice trembling with an emotion he couldn't name.
"If you can't tolerate the pain, don't provoke the hand that holds the leash."
He let go of Qingzhou's face as if he had been burned.
"Lock him in," Jingshen ordered his men.
"Don't let him out until he learns how to speak like a human being."
The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut, the click of the lock echoing through the empty room.
Qingzhou stayed on the floor for a long time, the cold marble the only thing soothing the fire on his back.
He was alone.
The "Hidden Pearl," the "Wild Dog," the "Scholar"all of those masks were gone.
He curled into a ball, clutching his torn dress, and finally, he let out a broken, choked sob.
He cried for his father.
He cried for the banyan trees of his childhood.
He cried for the pitiful life that had led him from a library to a cage.
In the silence of his decorated prison, the only sound was the cries of a pampered man, weeping into the dirt of his own shattered pride.