"Qingluo, please allow my greed."
This sentence was light, yet like a stone cast into a deep pool, it rippled through Qin Qingluo's heart.
She felt the cold touch of the golden hairpin in her hair, as if it carried the weight of the past, all the entangled and resolute stories contained within. She avoided Chen Yi's overly heated gaze; his heroic profile was distinct under the candlelight, with suppressed shame and a faint hint of relaxation, which even she did not want to admit, intertwining with her tightly pressed lips and low-hanging snake-like eyes.
To allow his greed...
