Xie Wanqing always knew that Lu Ziyuan's hands were beautiful—long fingers, wide palms, exuding a sense of security.
But this time, his outstretched left hand was covered in blood, flowing from the wounds on his arm, sticky and red.
This hand unhesitatingly gripped her skirt, slowly staining her clothes.
He kept uttering obsessively, "Come home with me."
Looking at the man kneeling before her, drenched in blood, Xie Wanqing didn't know what expression she wore, but she knew she felt troubled inside.
She once thought, the Lu Ziyuan in her dreams treated her so poorly, even if he died in front of her, he deserved it.
She would absolutely not shed a tear for him.
Yet now, with him before her, bloodied and on his knees, she didn't feel the satisfaction of revenge; instead, her heart twisted, faintly aching.
The love from growing up together couldn't be fake. Even if she wanted to sever ties with him, she somehow couldn't bear to see him so humble and disgraced, fallen from grace.
