Chapter 51: The Submissive, Obsessive Top Student

Shi Qingyi’s hand trembled as she held the paintbrush. When she was young and struggled with her studies, her father had made her learn the violin and music. After practicing in that small classroom for a year, she went to a competition and suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of a girl—Jiang Zhiqing.

Some people possessed unparalleled talent that others could never hope to match. Once Shi Qingyi understood that, she abandoned the violin. Later, she fell in love with painting, and that was when she truly grasped what it felt like to love something.

It was the feeling of a proud person knowing they were inferior in skill yet still loving it fiercely, a dream they wanted to protect for a lifetime.

And then later—

She suddenly lowered her gaze, and the vibrant, chaotic colors smeared across her palm, staining her slender fingertips. The hues, so familiar she could distinguish them with her eyes closed, suddenly left her at a loss for where to begin.

The woman by the door wore a khaki scarf, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched quietly. Her gorgeous, brownish eyes revealed an unsettling obsession, though the curve of her lips slowly drooped. “What’s wrong?”

Time ticked by, minute by minute. An hour passed on the clock before Shi Qingyi finally set down the brush and palette.

A desolate pallor settled over her face, like embers gone cold. Her voice was soft. “I can’t paint it—”

The woman at the door seemed not to understand. She tilted her head and looked at her for a moment. Pure and untainted, time had left no marks on her; she still looked like the naive high school girl from three years ago. “How could you not be able to paint it?”

Her expression was so gentle, yet her fingers unconsciously gripped the armrest of the wheelchair tighter. The mask of gentleness cracked inch by inch across her face.

That autumn three years ago, she had seen countless versions of herself in Shi Qingyi’s sketchbook—shy ones, obedient ones, sleeping ones, focused ones…

And now, she said she couldn’t paint it anymore. How was that possible?

Jiang Zhiyi refused to believe it. She pushed the wheelchair forward too quickly, nearly losing her balance. She wheeled right up to Shi Qingyi, and what entered her view was a massive, filthy canvas.

A faint human figure had already emerged, only to be ruined at the last moment by a splash of bright red paint. The wet pigment trickled down the canvas like blood soaking through.

Jiang Zhiyi’s fingertips trembled. She seemed to want to reach out and touch the painting, but when she actually did, she instinctively pulled back. “Why did you ruin it?”

“Why?!” She could no longer hold herself back. She reached out and shoved the easel over, not wanting to look at it for another second.

Next to Shi Qingyi stood a massive table cluttered with palettes, brushes, rice paper, and even a vase. Paintbrushes and pigments were scattered on the floor. She smashed everything in a frenzy, then huddled into herself, trembling and sobbing like a wounded animal.

“I knew it, I knew it! How could you not be able to paint it—you just don’t want to! You don’t want to paint me anymore—”

She nearly screamed herself hoarse. The contrasts were stark and terrifying. The Shi Qingyi from three years ago had captured every detail in her paintings, had taken the initiative to kiss her, had dreamed of a future together. But the Shi Qingyi now only wanted to leave—

She only wanted to leave her.

The thought swirled madly in her mind, a desperate abyss threatening to swallow her whole. In a daze, she leaned forward to hug that person, forgetting her own disability. She tumbled straight off the wheelchair and into the wreckage-strewn floor.

“Qingyi, don’t go. I’m sorry. I just wanted you to stay with me…”

She clung to Shi Qingyi, but then blinding blood caught her eye, freezing her in place.

A beautiful glass vase sat on the table, filled with fresh flowers Jiang Zhiyi delivered every day—roses sometimes, lilies other times. When she wasn’t busy, she personally carried them home, trimmed them branch by branch, and arranged them in the vase on Shi Qingyi’s desk.

She had never imagined it could be a weapon.

When she knocked over the easel, the glass vase had toppled and sliced Shi Qingyi’s arm.

“Qingyi—” Terrified, she looked up. The woman’s jawline was shockingly gaunt. The gaze she turned on Jiang Zhiyi was weary and disappointed. Finally, she slowly closed her eyes and sighed.

She didn’t care about her hand. She only asked tiredly, “Are you satisfied now?”

Jiang Zhiyi, are you satisfied? Is it enough?

Blood gushed out, dripping onto the overturned canvas and mixing with the undried paint, staining the woman’s eyes in the painting a bloody crimson.

The glass had cut deep. This time, Jiang Zhiyi finally didn’t dare handle it at home. She had someone rush Shi Qingyi to the best hospital in the city.

On the way, Shi Qingyi kept her eyes closed and said nothing, no matter how Jiang Zhiyi begged. Blood loss had left her face deathly pale. From holding her too tightly, Jiang Zhiyi could even feel her body temperature plummeting. For a moment, Jiang Zhiyi was terrified she wouldn’t make it to the hospital and would leave her forever.

She nestled into the crook of her neck and whispered, “Qingyi, hold on just a little longer. If something happens to you, I’ll come with you, okay?”

Shi Qingyi’s eyelids fluttered twice, as if she was too exhausted to even open her eyes. Jiang Zhiyi’s tears flowed even harder, seemingly endless.

In the end, nothing major happened. She fainted from blood loss and lay in the hospital for a long time. Jiang Zhiyi stayed by her side without leaving for a moment, terrified she would run if she looked away. Her eyes grew bloodshot from lack of sleep before Shi Qingyi finally woke.

But even awake, she wouldn’t speak to her. She only occasionally stared out the window at the heavy snow and bare branches.

“Qingyi, what’s so nice about outside? Do you want to go home? The hospital’s so cold. Let’s go home, okay?” Afraid to upset her, she only tugged at the blanket corner. “I’ve been curled up by your bed for two nights now.”

Adding a bed in the ward was easy, but even that felt too far. She insisted on huddling right by Shi Qingyi’s bed to watch over her.

The pale-faced woman shook her head slightly. Jiang Zhiyi’s hand quietly tightened, though her tone remained gentle. “Why?”

She seemed to think for a long while. Whether from this injury or from being locked away too long without human contact, her voice was hoarse and faint. She gazed quietly out the window and said softly, “Because the windows here… don’t have bars…”

Jiang Zhiyi’s breath caught. She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

The night after Shi Qingyi was admitted, Shi Mother and Father Shi arrived one after another. They only peeked at her from the doorway, during her sleeping hours. Father Shi, not one for words, had red-rimmed eyes. His fingers clenched tighter and tighter on the glass.

Finally, he begged Jiang Zhiyi, “I can give up the company. It was all my fault three years ago. Please, just let Qingyi go.”

This man nearing fifty had lived a life of glory, only to face disappointment in his later years. He had just one daughter, spoiled from childhood despite his busy work. When had she ever suffered like this?

Yet now she lay quietly on the hospital bed, her fate uncertain, her parents missing and safety unknown, emaciated to the point of looking inhuman. How could they not ache?

Jiang Zhiyi pressed a finger to her lips, her brows furrowing slightly. “Keep your voice down. Don’t disturb her rest.”

She paused, then smiled sickly. “Three years ago, you didn’t say that.”

That had been the darkest time of her life: the car accident, disability, disfigurement, the person she loved leaving for afar. That person’s father had looked down on her suffering and told her to stay away.

What a nightmarish past. She just wanted to keep one person. Why was it so hard? Back then, she had nothing, so she was at others’ mercy. But now it was different. She had everything. So why couldn’t she hold onto the hand of the one she loved?

She had tried so hard, so very hard—

She pushed the wheelchair toward the door, thinking it was fine. Qingyi had gotten too thin; she’d nourish her well once they got home. She’d squeeze her work schedule tighter, spend even more time with her—

“You think she had it good abroad for three years?” Shi Mother suddenly rushed up to block her path. The elegant, beautiful woman had tears brimming in her eyes. Nearby, leaning against the doorframe, stood a short-haired woman in a black shirt, subtly guarding her.

Jiang Zhiyi was disabled herself and always had extra protection. Someone stopped Shi Mother. Jiang Zhiyi paused, slowly lifting her gaze. Her eyes were profoundly dark, like stagnant water, though her lashes trembled rapidly.

“What do you mean?”

A vague unease crept over her.

“She spent three years abroad treating her hand. She can never paint again—” Shi Mother’s voice was hoarse. Jiang Zhiyi seemed stunned for a long time before asking, “What did you say?”

But she didn’t need it repeated. She had heard every word clearly.

She whipped her head back. On the bed lay the frail, emaciated woman with her eyes closed, brow furrowed even in sleep. Her exposed wrist was wrapped thickly in white gauze.

Something cracked in her mind. Unbidden, she recalled the recent accident—the bright red blood merging with the blood from the car crash three years ago.

After three years, she finally dared face that crash. The dashcam footage was with Father Shi, perhaps sent as revenge, delivered to her like a gift.

Her memories of the crash had always been a bloody blur. For three years, over a thousand nightmare-plagued nights, she could finally glimpse the truth in those moments.

The roaring car, shattering glass. Shi Qingyi had indeed pushed her—but to shield her from flying shards. Because of that push, she was deflected, and the glass only grazed her eye corner and forehead, causing her disfigurement.

She still remembered Shi Qingyi pushing her, then her eyes filling with blood, the endless crimson blinding her to everything. So she never knew: Shi Qingyi had taken the hit for her, shards embedding in her wrist.

If Shi Qingyi hadn’t blocked that glass, it would have slashed her throat. With the hand she used to paint, she had saved her life.

Jiang Zhiyi suddenly felt freezing cold, her teeth chattering.

Had she truly known nothing? No, no—she had vaguely sensed it. How could she let her die?

Unaccountable panic made even speaking difficult, only garbled sounds escaping. A metallic sweetness spread in her throat, leaving her trembling like an infant.

That night, she kept vigil outside Shi Qingyi’s room. The doctor on rounds gave her the exam report, hesitating before saying, “Her wound is very deep. If it was just an accident like you said, it doesn’t seem likely. Her family should check carefully. What if the patient…”

The rest went unsaid. The already skittish family member shuddered violently.

Jiang Zhiyi didn’t even know if she should be grateful for the home surveillance. She reviewed the footage overnight. The toppled easel, scattered paints, shattered glass. The person sat thinly clad amid the mess, her back as if drained of all strength.

Blocked by the wheelchair, she never saw Shi Qingyi’s movements clearly—only her shoving the easel, Shi Qingyi rushing to save the painting and getting hit, then fumbling through glass shards to rescue the canvas. Blood trailed with the paint, stinging her eyes.

She watched all night, pausing countless times, never quite figuring it out: accident, or did Shi Qingyi truly not want to live anymore?

She couldn’t understand. Why wouldn’t she stay by her side?

Later, she checked the medical records. Perhaps from prolonged isolation without sunlight or human contact, her condition was dire.

“Qingyi…” Outside, the domineering Jiang Zhiyi could only hug herself in the dead of night, whispering the name from her throat.

How had she driven the girl she loved so much, cherished so deeply—whom she wouldn’t let suffer a scratch, to whom she wanted to give the world—to this point?

Should she… let her go free?

But the mere thought of losing Shi Qingyi felt like a thousand cuts to her heart.