The courtyard of the heir's consort had always stood apart from the rest of the estate—quiet, restrained, touched with a delicate fragrance that lingered year-round. It clashed with the opulence favored elsewhere in the household, like a single brushstroke of pale ink on a gilded scroll.
Bai Qingqing gazed out the window. Beyond the high courtyard wall, the servants were stringing lanterns and tying red silks to beams and trees. She knew. Her husband—the heir of Prince Ping—would soon return, and with him, the girl he'd loved since childhood.
On the low table before her sat a lacquered tray holding a slender wine jug, polished to a cold gleam. She reached for it and poured herself a cup. Her hand shook uncontrollably.
If she had known Fu Yi’s heart already belonged to another… she would never have begged her father for this marriage.
She had loved Fu Yi—foolishly, stubbornly—since the day they met at the Spring Blossom Banquet. From that moment, he had filled her eyes, her thoughts, her every breath. His aloofness never scared her. He was cold by nature; she simply offered warmth. He was distant; she leaned in closer.
But now she knew—Fu Yi could feel urgency, passion even. Just not for her.
The chilled cup stung her fingertips. It numbed her hand, then crept inward until her heart throbbed with the same frozen ache.
When the Bai family was accused of treason, her parents and brothers were thrown into prison. She—married out—was the only one left outside. She went to Fu Yi, begged him, wept for her father, who would never commit such crimes. And what did Fu Yi do? The very next day, he left the manor—not to help her family, but to greet the woman he'd been waiting for.
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Her vision throbbed at the edges. She had cried too long, too hard. But to Fu Yi, what were her tears? Could they ever compare to the slightest hurt suffered by the woman he hid in his heart?
It was the Princess Consort who told her the truth. From the day Bai Qingqing begged to marry him, Fu Yi had loathed her. Loathed that she wronged the woman he loved. Loathed that she took the title of the heir’s consort.
"But Yi’er isn’t heartless,” the Princess had said with a sigh. “If the Bai family is in trouble, he won’t look away. But you—being a Bai yourself—tie his hands. Unless… he had a reason.”
Qingqing remembered the regret in her voice. She wasn’t stupid. She understood what the Princess meant.
If he needed a reason to act, she would give him one.
Her fingers trembled as she raised the cup. She closed her eyes, two tears sliding down her cheeks as she tilted her head back and drank it all in one bitter swallow.
She would give up her place beside him, if only he would spare her family.
Pain lanced through her gut. Her strength failed, and she collapsed onto the table. The cup slipped from her hand, rolled to the floor, and shattered. Her vision twisted, blurred, as the clamor outside faded to silence. Somewhere, far away, she thought she heard Fu Yi’s voice.
That year, the plum blossoms had bloomed bold against spring snow. She had stood beneath the tree, unable to look away. A sudden gust shook the branches, and Fu Yi—just passing by—stepped forward to shield her from the flurry. That was the moment she gave him her heart.
Blood filled her throat, warm and bitter. She opened her mouth to breathe, to speak—but only the taste of iron came. She thought she heard him again, voice sharp with panic, a tone she had never heard before.
Even now, even dying—she longed for his care.
“Sister. Sister—wake up.”
Bai Qingqing’s head pounded. She lifted a hand, trying to swat away the voice. Couldn’t she even die in peace?
“Sister! If you keep sleeping, everyone at the banquet will think you’ve lost your wits!”
The voice rang louder, brighter. Her eyes flew open. She turned sharply toward the sound.
There sat her younger sister, Bai Yaoyao, at the edge of the couch. Her round cheeks puffed in mock annoyance, but her eyes sparkled with relief. “Finally! We came here for a banquet, not for you to nap away in the warming chamber like it’s your private boudoir!”