I stared at the red hijab in front of me, and there was only one thought left in my mind: Have I killed her?
No, I should say, have I written about her?
I wrote the novel "The Bloodthirsty Prince" for three years, with more than three million words and hundreds of characters. But now that I'm searching my brain, I can't remember where the name "Su Wan" appears.
The sound of firecrackers outside made people's ears hurt, and the suona sounded like a funeral. I could feel myself wearing a heavy wedding dress, sitting upright on a bed, and the satin sheets under my butt were as slippery as if they were oiled.
This is definitely not filming.
I pinched my inner thigh quietly, and the pain made me gasp. It's real, more real than my real bank card balance.
