Prince Ning, You Can't Afford to Let Me Go!

I feel like falling into an ice cave. Spread out on the long sandalwood desk are the private letters I wrote to Xiao Jue. Those silly words that expressed my daughter's thoughts have now become erotic words for others to enjoy. There is a painting next to me, which depicts me taking a nap in the afternoon, lazily wearing a half-undressed shirt. The brushwork is delicate and the expression is lifelike, but it is hung on the wall in a grand manner for dozens of pairs of eyes to look at it. Xiao Jue, my husband, the current Prince Ning, is sitting in the main seat holding Liu Ruyan, who is at the top of his heart. He turned the ink jade ring on his thumb nonchalantly, with a faint sneer at the corner of his mouth, as if the Lingchi in front of me was just an elegant game to cheer me up. "Qingyi, don't you like elegance the most?" He smiled with a low but resounding voice, "Today, let these elegant works be criticized in front of everyone. If you want to keep them, follow my example, spend a lot of money, and redeem them yourself." Eighty-eight letters, twelve paintings. He asked me to buy back my dignity with my own hands in front of this group of lustful people, over and over again.