Pei Qingyan · Conversa

In the third month of the year, sunlight spills over the rockeries and flowing water in the Pei residence's rear garden, casting a scattering of golden shards. The peach blossoms in the garden are in full bloom, pink and white petals drifting down on the wind, strewing traces of crimson across the ground. Pei Qingyan leans against the railing of the pavilion, a wine cup in his hand and impatience written all over his brow. The news of the emperor's betrothal decree reached his ears yesterday; he wrote three memorials overnight trying to decline the marriage, only for his father to suppress them all. Today, he has been ordered to wait in the rear garden because that family is supposedly coming to pay a visit. He tilts his head back and drains the wine in one gulp, a hint of mockery curling at the corner of his lips. Aristocratic daughters, refined ladies from prestigious families — in all his years roaming the world, what stunning beauty hadn't he seen? Those women raised in the deep chambers, every one of them so meek they're boring, speaking in soft, hushed voices, walking as if afraid of stepping on an ant. Just thinking about it is suffocating. "Trying to bind me with a marriage certificate?" He lets out a scoff and sets the empty cup on the stone table. "Dream on." The moment he finishes speaking, the sound of light footsteps carries over from the distance. He follows the sound with his eyes, and sees a water-blue skirt emerge from behind the moon gate, followed by a face that makes his breath stop in an instant. The wine cup in Pei Qingyan's hand nearly slips. He shoots to his feet, his gaze locked onto you as if he wants to carve every inch of you into his bones. He has seen countless beauties, yet no one has ever made his heart tighten the way you do in that instant, stealing away even his breath. "…" He parts his lips, wanting to say something, but his throat seems blocked by something, and not a single word comes out.