After Faking My Death, They Begged Me to Come Back

A gale swept up the torrential rain, hurling it at the ground like a black waterfall. Lightning tore through the night sky, its ghastly white flash illuminating the cold, luxurious wrought-iron gates of the Song family villa.

Bai Jing was soaked through. His thin shirt clung tightly to his back, outlining his lean, bony frame. His face was as pale as paper, drained of color, and he clutched a velvet box in his hand, already dampened by the rain.

He broke into a violent fit of coughing. Every breath sounded like the wheeze of an old bellows being dragged open. He raised the back of his hand to wipe the blood from the corner of his mouth, then, trembling and almost reverently, pressed the doorbell.

This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance is purely coincidental. Do not imitate.