CHAPTER 69: CHAPTER 69; WHEN HE WAS DONE...

With that, she turned and walked towards the living room, her small, silent footsteps disappearing into the golden morning light.

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Finally, Shen Xiao inhaled a deep, silent breath and rose slightly, shifting his weight just enough to sit upright on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped faintly beneath him as he adjusted his posture, his tall frame hunched forward in the dim morning light filtering through the thin curtains.

He glanced down at his hands. Crimson smears darkened his knuckles and the side of his palm where her blood had dried, cracking slightly when he flexed his fingers. His dark shirt was rumpled, streaked faintly with dried brown where her tears and blood had stained it the night before.

For a moment, he simply stared at his hands, his expression blank and unreadable.

Then, with a sigh that sounded more like a low, humourless chuckle, he turned away and walked into the adjoining guest bathroom. The overhead light flickered to life, illuminating the sterile white marble counters and chrome fittings.

He rolled up his sleeves slowly, exposing his pale, veined forearms, and twisted the faucet handle. Cold water rushed out, splattering against the basin. Shen Xiao placed his hands beneath it, rubbing them together methodically, watching as pinkish water swirled down the drain in silent spirals.

He scrubbed at the stubborn smears until his skin reddened slightly from friction. Reaching for the soap dispenser, he pumped a generous amount into his palm, lathering it over his knuckles and under his nails with practised precision. The scent of bitter antiseptic foam filled the air.

When he was done, he rinsed thoroughly, shook off the excess water, and grabbed a small white hand towel, drying each finger and crevice meticulously. He folded the towel neatly after use and placed it back on the rack, perfectly aligned.

Stepping back, he caught his reflection in the mirror. His dark eyes looked sunken, haunted, rimmed with fatigue. His hair fell messily over his forehead, shadowing the sharp, angular lines of his face.

Without looking away from his reflection, he reached for the top buttons of his shirt, unfastening them one by one until the collar loosened.

He slid the stained shirt off his shoulders, revealing the smooth, hard planes of his chest and abdomen beneath. The cool air kissed his skin, raising goosebumps along his arms.

He retrieved a fresh black shirt from the wardrobe in the corner of the guest room, slipping into it swiftly, his movements efficient and silent. The fabric slid smoothly over his broad shoulders and moulded against his lean, muscled torso.

Finally, he rolled his sleeves down, buttoned the cuffs, and smoothed the front of his shirt before picking up his charcoal suit jacket draped over the chair. He slid it on with practised ease, adjusted the lapels, and fastened the top button.

His eyes flicked once around the guest room, taking in the untouched breakfast tray on the side table, the crumpled sheets on the bed.

Without another glance, he stepped out into the corridor, his tall frame casting fractured shadows along the cream marble walls as he walked silently towards the master bedroom.

The heavy mahogany door opened with a quiet click, revealing the dim, silent bedroom beyond.

She lay beneath thick ivory silk sheets, her frail form curled up tightly as though trying to disappear into the mattress. Stray strands of tangled hair spilled across her bruised cheek, and her swollen eyelids fluttered faintly in restless sleep.