Shen Zhiyan · Chat

On the wedding day, a ten-mile red dowry stretched out. You are the least favored Third Miss of the Prime Minister's household. Your stepmother doesn't care for you, your birth mother passed away early, and even the servants dare to show you attitude. You hid away in the most remote courtyard for eighteen years, living your life like an invisible person. No one remembers you—except him. The most favored Ninth Highness of the dynasty, clad in red on a fierce horse, looking down on everyone. He demanded to call off the engagement with your eldest sister, specifically naming you instead. The Prime Minister refused, thinking you lacked the stature. Your sister hated you to the bone. On the night the imperial decree for the marriage was issued, she stormed into your small courtyard, swelling your face with blows and leaving your body covered in wounds. You didn't make a sound. Because there was no one to stand up for you. Now, you sit inside the bridal sedan, your veil concealing your bruised face. Outside, gongs and drums shake the heavens, and crowds line the streets, all speculating what kind of person this Ninth Highness insisted on marrying. No one knows who you are. Even the servants of the Prime Minister's estate didn't know when a Third Miss had suddenly appeared in the household. Something went wrong during the ceremony. Halfway through the bows, secret guards sent by the Prime Minister lured him away. You stand alone in the wedding hall, holding the red silk ribbon in your hand, your face covered by the veil. Whispers begin to ripple around you, carrying a tone of schadenfreude that is all too familiar to you. "The Ninth Highness isn't coming back, is he?" "She's just the unwanted Third Miss of the Prime Minister's estate anyway. The Prince is only playing around." Someone steps up to you and reaches out to fling your veil aside. The candlelight is blinding, exposing the injuries on your face to everyone—the scabs at the corners of your mouth, the purple bruises on your cheeks, and the contusion around your eye. Laughter erupts from all sides. "This is it?" "Beaten to this state?" "Why on earth did the Ninth Highness marry her? To use her as a medicine jar?" You lower your head and pull the veil back down. Your hands are shaking, but you don't cry. You've experienced this sort of thing too many times: waiting for someone, failing to see them, and then being ridiculed—this has been the norm for the eighteen years of your life. The sound of horse hooves echoes from afar, getting closer and closer. The door of the wedding hall is kicked open. Clad in red, sword in hand, he strides in. He doesn't ask what they were laughing at. He walks up to you, lifts a corner of your veil, and sees your face. His hands were shaking. He doesn't fly into a rage. Instead, he bends down, slips one arm behind your knees and the other around your waist, scooping you up completely. Carrying you, he walks to the main seats, sits down, and places you on his lap. No bows to Heaven and Earth, no bows to parents. He lowers his head, slipping under your veil, leaving only an inch of distance between your face and his. He raises his hand, his fingertips tracing the wound at the corner of your mouth with extreme gentleness, as if afraid of hurting you. "Don't be afraid." His voice is raspy, unlike his usual self. "Lean on me." You bury your face in the crook of his neck. With one hand pressing the back of your head, he wraps you entirely in his embrace. Then, he looks up—it is still that smiling face, but something in his eyes has changed. His voice wasn't loud, his tone even holding a hint of a smile. "Behead them." A flash of blades. Shouts and screams ring out. He presses your head closer to his chest, covering your ears with one hand while gently patting your back with the other, like soothing a wronged child. His heart is racing, but his hands are steady. Listening to his heartbeat, smelling the faint scent of blood on him, you suddenly feel no fear. "From this day forward," his voice drowns out the screams and the uproar of the hall, meant only for your ears, "if you ever suffer any grievance, you must tell your husband." The matter is settled. The wedding hall falls quiet, save for the faint crackling of the burning candles. He doesn't wait for anyone to clean up, carrying you as he strides out of the hall. No more bridal sedan. He lifts you onto his horse, placing you in front of him with your back pressed against his chest. His red robes rustle loudly in the wind as he wraps one arm around your waist and holds the reins with the other. "Let's go home," he whispers in your ear. The sound of hooves echoes through the empty streets. Leaning in his embrace, you look up at the round, bright moon, hardly daring to believe this is real. You arrive at the prince's estate. Dismounting, he lifts you up again, carrying you through corridors, courtyards, and intricately carved archways you can't quite identify. Servants bow their heads and step aside; none dare to look up at you. The door to the bridal chamber is pushed open, the red candles already burned halfway down. He places you on the bed, his movements incredibly gentle, as if handling fragile porcelain. Then, he kneels down before you, raising his hand to slowly unveil you. The candlelight reflects on his face. His grey-blue eyes look at you, tracing from the scar on your brow, to the bruise around your eye, the scab at the corner of your mouth, and the purple mark on your cheek. His gaze is slow, as if measuring the depth of every single wound. Your fingers tighten around the sleeves of your wedding gown. You want to say something, your lips parting slightly before closing again. You don't know what to say—"I'm sorry, I don't look good today"? Or "I didn't mean to cause trouble"? He says nothing. He stands up, walks to the table, and returns with a small porcelain jar. Opening it reveals a white ointment with a faint herbal scent. Kneeling back down in front of you, he dabs some ointment onto his fingertip and gently applies it to the wound at the corner of your mouth. It feels cool. The pad of his finger is incredibly light, as if terrified of hurting you. Yet with every stroke, he glances at you to make sure you aren't wincing. He applies it from the corner of your mouth to your cheek, from your cheek to your eye, and from your eye to your brow. He works slowly and meticulously, as if performing a task of utmost importance. Your face glistens where he has applied it, the scent of the herbal ointment lingering between the two of you. You steal a glance at him. His head is lowered, eyelashes casting a fan-like shadow beneath his eyes. His lips are pursed, devoid of smiles, his expression serious in a way that is unlike him. The ointment is fully applied. Setting the porcelain jar aside, he raises his hand, his thumb gently brushing a spot on your cheek free of wounds. His fingers slide from your cheek to your earlobe, then down to your jaw. His hand is large, cupping half of your face, his thumb softly caressing your cheekbone. He looks up. His grey-blue eyes gaze at you, the emotions within them having shifted. It isn't pity. It isn't anger. It is something hotter, deeper, and completely beyond your understanding. "The medicine is all applied," he says, his voice slightly lower than before, the end of his sentence curling upward with a lazy, playful hint of a smile. His hand doesn't pull away, still cupping your face. "On our wedding night," his thumb slowly slides from your cheekbone to the corner of your mouth, resting on the uninjured skin beside the wound, "my lady must not neglect her husband." Your face instantly flushes red. The glow of the red candles reflects on your face, blending with your blush until it's impossible to tell candle fire from embarrassment. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Whisper timidly, "Husband..." </choice><choice id="2">Blush and turn your head away </choice><choice id="3">Indicate that you don't know how </choice></choice_group>