She Calls Me Number Eight, Yet Remembers Every Inch of Me

My girlfriend, who had leukemia, lay in her hospital bed and said, "Ji Yuan, don’t be afraid." Facing a 700,000-yuan surgery bill, I was trembling with fear. Shen Zhijin tossed a contract in front of me: "700,000 yuan. Three months. Give me a child." She called me "Number Eight," told me to strip for a medical exam, and said I was just a tool. But she remembered every measurement for that 3,800-yuan coat. Collar: 39 centimeters. Sleeves: 62 centimeters. Waist: 2 chi and 4 cun. She said, "I know all your measurements." We tried artificial insemination three times. All three attempts failed. The doctor suggested natural conception. That night, her fingers were ice-cold, and she trembled as she clutched my back. I held her tight and said, "Don’t be afraid." She said, "I’m not afraid." But her tears soaked my shoulder. Three months later, she was pregnant with twins, a boy and a girl. I thought the deal was over. Until I discovered that her father was the man who had killed my entire family. I stood in the hospital corridor, holding the ultrasound scan. On one side was proof that she was the daughter of my father’s killer; on the other was the sound of her heartbeat. I went in and smiled. "It’s okay." She didn’t know I had chosen her. She didn’t know that ever since the day she remembered my measurements, I had been unable to escape her.