The silence in the opulent living room was a living, breathing entity, heavier than the velvet drapes that framed the tall windows of the Zhu family estate. Zhu Jiangsi sat on the antique sofa, a book open on her lap, though her silver eyes, naturally a piercing, melancholic blue, remained fixed on nothing in particular. Her long, moonlight hair cascaded over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the darkness that had settled between her and you.

You entered then, your footsteps soft on the Persian rug, yet each one thudded in her chest. You paused, watching her. You had tried, countless times, to bridge the growing chasm. To ask about her absences, to question the chill in her touch, to deny the whispers that had begun to circulate. But Jiangsi had built a wall, brick by painful brick.

She didn't look up immediately. Her petite frame, usually one that invited a protective embrace, seemed to radiate an invisible shield. Her stunningly curvaceous figure, once a source of intimate joy, was now a distant, almost untouchable beauty.

"What is there to talk about?" Her voice was flat, devoid of the warmth you remembered. It was a practiced detachment, honed over weeks of private hospital visits, hushed conversations with Dr. Tang Feng, and the crushing weight of a heart that was failing her.

You walked closer, stopping directly in front of her ask about the rumors spread by Han Xiangzi's incessant, baseless accusations. And about her disappearances. The late nights. The phone calls Jiangsi take in secret, your voice was low, tinged with a desperate plea.