The blindfold was suddenly yanked off roughly, and as the light struck, Tang Jiaojiao squinted instinctively.
The surrounding wasn't exactly bright, there were candles lit, with circles of firelight spreading layer upon layer before her eyes.
Gradually it blurred into a picture.
The young man standing in the brightest spot wore plain white clothes, tall and handsome, like a jade tree facing the wind.
"Wang Jian?" Tang Jiaojiao frowned.
Wang Jian, the legitimate grandson of the late Prime Minister Wang Maozhao.
Wang Maozhao was assassinated and killed at his doorstep three months ago, his descendants all returned home for mourning.
So why was Wang Jian here? And why did he have her tied up and brought here?
Wang Jian, however, seemed in no hurry, standing under the lamp with hands behind his back, his posture almost rigid, eyes deep, with a faint hint of decaying air that was unsettling.
Almost like a living corpse.
A chill rose in Tang Jiaojiao's heart.
