Bai Qingqing had spoken purely out of anger. She’d known even as the words left her mouth that they were harsh, the kind that would cut deep—especially to a man. Not gentle, not virtuous, certainly not the kind of thing a proper woman should say. She’d half expected Fu Xiao to erupt in fury, ashamed and offended.
But he didn’t. Instead, he looked like a man hollowed out, a shadow of himself, despair slowly rising to the surface like mist from a cold lake.
That brought her a sliver of satisfaction. At least it showed his feelings for Qiyue weren’t entirely false.
“Sister Qiyue said she long gave up on the notion of true love. Most men in this world are fickle. A passion that feels eternal today may fade in a few years—or even months. When that time comes, you’ll regret it. You’ll see how you wasted your future, threw away the wide road ahead…”
Fu Xiao’s eyes were bloodshot. “I swear I won’t! I’m not like my father—I’d never let someone I care for suffer because of me!”
Bai Qingqing recalled how, in her past life, Fu Xiao’s birth mother, Lady Zhou, had come to a terrible end. The Princess Consort, riding high on the favor her son Fu Yi had won, took every opportunity to humiliate Zhou. She had endured a lifetime of silence, and once freed from it, she would never let Zhou off lightly.
They said Zhou had been the beloved of Prince Ping. Yet when she was insulted, Bai Qingqing never once saw the prince lift a finger in her defense.
So much for "beloved"—what a cheap, contemptible word.
Bai Qingqing had never thought well of the Fu family. She curled her lip in disdain. “But haven’t you already made Sister Qiyue suffer? If I were you—knowing full well that my admiration would only bring misfortune to the one I care about—I’d rather keep silent. Endure it. Wait until I had the power to silence the world. Only then would my sincerity have any worth.”
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Isn’t it love? Then force yourself to climb—climb until no one dares to utter a word, until you no longer bring harm to the one you care for. Only then is your heart worthy of being called sincere!
Fu Xiao stared blankly at the tabletop, the fists he'd clenched slowly loosening. His eyes were unfocused, lost in thought.
Bai Qingqing felt bored. She hadn’t said all that to be understood. All she wanted was for Fu Xiao to stop bringing trouble to Qiyue. If he had even a shred of conscience, he’d stay far away from her.
She stood and was about to leave when Fu Xiao suddenly looked up. “You’re right,” he said.
He rose, stepped back, and gave her a deep bow. “I’ve learned much today. Thank you, Miss Bai.”
Fu Xiao no longer looked like the same man who had come. Determination now burned in his expression—fierce, unwavering, like a man who had burned his bridges and found peace in resolve.
Bai Qingqing tilted her head slightly as she watched him go. He really listened? Fine. As long as Sister Qiyue doesn’t have to suffer, anything else is negotiable.
At the Prince Ping Manor, Fu Xiao knelt before Fu Yanghong. All trace of his earlier defiance had vanished.
“I’ve disappointed Father’s expectations. But I’ve come to my senses. After all these years of your guidance and cultivation, how could I bear to waste it? From now on, I’ll change—truly—and bring honor to our name.”
Fu Yanghong helped him up. Though Fu Xiao wasn’t born of the primary wife, he was his firstborn—his son with Chun’er, the one he’d pinned his hopes on.
“Good, good. If you can truly repent, I’ll be at ease. I’ve raised you all these years—how could I let you throw it all away for the sake of some courtesan?”
Fu Yanghong clapped him on the shoulder with satisfaction. Fu Xiao, where his father couldn’t see, clenched his hand tightly but said nothing.
Even the father he’d always respected thought so little of Qiyue—how would the rest of the world speak of her? That Bai girl had been right: he had no right to speak of love.
Only by standing at the summit, so high that others dared not question him, so high they feared even to whisper dissent—only then would he have the right to face Qiyue again.