Belated Respect

The crystal chandelier's light fell upon the plain hem of my dress, refracting into scattered, shimmering specks. I sat on the velvet sofa in the living room, my fingertips unconsciously tracing the cold, genuine leather armrest. For five years, I have been like a delicate ornament, placed by Jimmy Collins within this villa. Each day's life is confined within a fixed routine, from drawing back the curtains at dawn to glimpse the fountain in the courtyard, to staring blankly into the empty room late at night. Time seems to have solidified into translucent amber, trapping me within. "Wear this dress tonight." He placed a champagne-colored gift box on the coffee table; the metallic clasp clicked with a cold, harsh sound, shattering the silence in the living room. I lifted the lid, and the sequins on the fishtail dress glittered under the light, stabbing my eyes with their glare. This taut yet luxurious style has never been my preference. "Who are you going to see?" When I looked up, he had already turned and was walking toward the liquor cabinet, his posture as straight as a pine, yet radiating an unapproachable chill. He is always like this, habitually arranging every detail of my life with a commanding tone, never once seeking my opinion. "The matter with Mr. Lee—you will accompany me." He poured a glass of whiskey; the amber liquid rippled in the crystal glass, casting a reflection of his impassive profile. My fingertips clenched tightly, my nails digging into my palm; the sharp sting grounded me in clarity: "I won't go." This was the first time in five years that I had said no to him. The moment the words fell, the air itself seemed to freeze. He turned around, his eyebrows slightly raised, his eyes sharp as ice: "Nola Scott, do you know what you are saying?" The warning in his gaze was like a cold knife pressed against my neck. "At such an occasion..." My voice trembled, yet I fixed my gaze on the tie clip on his chest, a gift from a business trip, said to be quite valuable. "They look at me as if I were merchandise." Every time I go to such places, those greasy eyes and frivolous words prick my heart like needles. "You were brought here by me from the start." He set down the wine glass; the sound of its bottom striking the table startled me. "Don't forget who helped you escape from the Shantytown." That sentence was like a needle, piercing precisely into my most vulnerable place. The damp air of the Shantytown, the narrow alleys, the noisy quarrels among neighbors—memories I had desperately tried to escape were effortlessly uncovered by him.