The glow of the night-luminous pearl dimmed for no apparent reason, bathing the intimate space in a soft, glistening haze that blurred the edges of everything.
Zheng Yan seized one of Yirong’s hands and nipped at her earlobe, whispering, “Help him out.”
Yirong flinched as if scalded, her fingers jerking back, but she could not break free of the Emperor’s grip.
“I won’t,” she muttered sullenly.
Yirong scooted toward the inner side of the bed, but he pressed close against her until she lay pinned against the wall. The Emperor’s heavy breaths washed over her ear, leaving her nowhere left to hide.
In the profound silence, Yirong heard the Emperor’s low chuckle, as if he were in high spirits.
Her own breathing quickened in response, tension rising for no reason she could name. Then she reminded herself that it was nothing serious—just give in to the Emperor’s wishes and get to sleep sooner, lest he make a fuss again.
Still whispering into her ear, he said, “I will.”
Yirong ignored him and made no further attempt to evade. Within the bed curtains, their breaths rose and fell in uneven rhythm, sometimes mingling together. Even in the hazy light, her face was perfectly visible, her cheeks flushed a deep pink.
It had been far too long since Zheng Yan had been intimate with her. He sucked at her tightly closed lips until they parted, then hooked her soft tongue to draw out her sweet nectar.
Her eyes half-lidded, she lost track of time until her lips went numb and the saliva dribbling from the corners left them sticky and wet. She balled her fist and pushed against the Emperor’s chest.
“Your Majesty.”
Zheng Yan let out a muffled hum but continued to kiss her, refusing to release her clove-sweet tongue. He mumbled indistinctly, “Zhen hasn’t kissed you in such a long time.”
Yirong’s instinctive cold laugh was swallowed back into her mouth.
The two of them were strangers with no connection whatsoever—not to mention kisses, they should not have exchanged so much as a word. Yet the Emperor spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world, glossing over everything that had happened as if it were inconsequential. He seemed utterly absorbed in the delight of their twining lips and tongues, lingering there for quite some time before gradually trailing lower.
In the stillness of the night, every sound and sensation felt amplified a hundredfold.
After what seemed an eternity, Yirong’s arms grew sore. “Your Majesty, it’s very late,” she urged.
Even as she spoke, she shivered uncontrollably, a soft moan escaping her lips.
The Emperor chuckled lightly and withdrew his slick fingers. Holding Yirong close, he said, “You found it quite pleasurable too.”
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her dark hair tousled in disarray as she lay upon the pillow, radiantly beautiful.
There was even a childish note of triumph in his voice.
Yirong’s breath caught. She wrenched free of the Emperor’s arm draped over her shoulder and slowly sat up, fixing him with a pair of crystalline eyes.
In the soft, hazy glow, her pale face seemed even fairer, her raven hair darker by contrast—like some soul-stealing sprite. Yet the corners of her swollen lips slowly curved into a mocking arc.
“Yes, I’m no paragon of chastity. What’s so strange about that?”
Her words shattered the lingering sensual atmosphere within the bed curtains.
She knew full well the consequences of losing her temper before the Emperor. She had endured nearly a month of sleepless nights and meager meals, forcing herself to find things to occupy her time just to get by—even when poisoned, with no one at her side, she had to steel herself and seek help.
If she wanted to live well, she had to submit to the Emperor.
She had endured it all before, but after he said such things, a sudden wave of humiliation crashed over her.
Zheng Yan frowned. Seeing the blatant cold smile on her face, he darkened his expression and scolded, “What nonsense is this?”
Yirong let out two hollow laughs. “How is it nonsense? Has Your Majesty forgotten that I was once the Young Madam of the Cui family? If I were truly virtuous, I should have taken my own life the first time you tricked me into Cool Shade Hall!”
Zheng Yan sat up as well. “You have already divorced.”
His face was stern, and the warm, fragrant air within the bed curtains turned icy cold in an instant, thick and suffocating as congealed frost.
The two of them lapsed into a tense silence.
Finally, the Emperor said flatly, “Go to sleep.”
Yirong blinked, her eyes flowing with calm self-mockery as she nodded. “I’ve spoiled Your Majesty’s good mood.”
At that, he shot a cold glance at her uptilted chin. Her gaze was distant and empty; he itched to unleash a furious tirade but somehow held himself back. Instead, he sneered, “Embarrassed into anger, are you? You didn’t seem the least bit unwilling just now.”
She bit down hard on her lip.
“Since you still pine for the Cui family, very well. Zhen will have Cui Cheng dragged back and made into a eunuch slave to wait on you in your chambers every day.”
The Emperor rose from the bed as if to leave but halted mid-step.
She said nothing. Zheng Yan could not tell whether to be pleased that she had not begged for mercy or enraged by her attitude. After lingering for a few moments, he flicked his sleeve and stormed out.
Left alone in the chamber, Yirong took a while to process it all before realizing the meaning of the Emperor’s final threat.
She had no idea if he truly meant it, but the earth-shattering pain she had once felt at the thought of harm coming to Cui Cheng was gone.
All that remained in Yirong’s heart was guilt and helplessness.
She straightened her disheveled nightclothes and lay back down, closing her eyes. She regretted it deeply—what was done was done, so why dwell on the Emperor’s words? Angering him over some pointless scrap of pride was laughable, even to her.
She guessed it would not be long before Zhu Jin and Dan Liu arrived, politely helping her change clothes and escorting her to the palace maids’ quarters to stay until the Emperor remembered her or she neared death once more.
It was not such a bad fate, really.
Tears rolled from Yirong’s eyes into her hairline.
Some time passed—perhaps a long while; she reckoned it must be around three in the morning—when she heard footsteps. She hastily wiped away her tears.
But it was the Emperor who entered.
He reached out to touch the dampness beneath Yirong’s eyes from her crying, his gaze dark and intent upon her.
He had known from the very start that she was another man’s wife. The Emperor lay down beside Yirong once more, his fingers tracing inch by inch over the skin beneath her eyes.
With a soft sigh, he covered her mouth.
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” he said, his tone hard and unyielding. “It is Zhen, the lecherous tyrant, who stole you away. You are not to think any more of it.”
With that, he glanced at Yirong, who showed little reaction, and commanded, “Sleep.”
A moment later, as if to confirm she would neither retort nor mock him, he withdrew his hand from her mouth.
Yirong slowly closed her eyes, the final teardrop rolling to her earlobe.
She listened as the Emperor’s breathing evened out into steady rhythm, her heart a tumult of unnamed emotions.
The night deepened further.
The bed curtains hung askew, allowing the full glow of the night-luminous pearl to spill inside—like tears shimmering in the moonlit sea. She gazed at it for a moment before letting out a faint, wistful laugh.
–
Yirong passed two peaceful days in Little Ling Prefecture.
The previous day, she had awoken to find the Emperor already gone. He neither sought her out nor summoned her to Purple Chen Hall.
Early that morning, a palace servant reported a major development in court affairs.
Marquis Pingyang had bribed palace staff to spy on the Emperor’s movements and plot against him. He, the Pingyang Marquis Heir, and over a dozen accomplices had all been sentenced to death by beheading. As for the rest of the Marquis’s household, they were to be exiled three thousand li away.
Many ministers had already noticed that the Qiao family had vanished en route back to the Imperial Retreat Palace. With such irrefutable evidence of reaching into the palace itself—and with the Emperor personally overseeing the case—the harsh death sentences, though severe, accorded fully with the law.
No one raised objections in the moment. Only the brother of the Madam of Marquis Pingyang hesitated at length before stepping forward to plead for mercy.
According to the eunuch who reported the matter, the Emperor pondered briefly before declaring that, in consideration of the Old Marquis Pingyang’s illustrious war merits, the title would be demoted but permitted to pass on. However, with only one son and one daughter—and the son guilty of an unforgivable crime—the Ministry of Rites was to select a suitable successor from among the Qiao family relatives.
No further pardons were granted.
The Marquis’s crimes were grave, but most ministers felt it a distant matter from their own concerns. Shocked though they were by his audacity, no one panicked for themselves. With no in-laws implicated, the court session concluded smoothly.
Yirong remained silent for a long while after hearing it all. She waved a hand, signaling Shuilian to reward the servant and send them away.
It was an utterly fitting resolution, quietly aligning with every hope she had harbored: her uncle executed, yet her great-grandfather’s hard-won title preserved.
Demoted though it was, it was already a fine outcome.
Still, thinking of her uncle’s family—dead or exiled—left her melancholy. She had never wished death on them, no matter how much she despised them. They, on the other hand, had hatched vicious schemes against her. People changed; her mother had always believed her uncle cared for her deeply and thus brought Yirong back to the capital. Yet life with the Qiao family had been miserable from start to finish, even worsening her mother’s illness.
She penned a careful letter to her mother, filling several pages with comfort and detail. Yirong wrote another to Song Mama, asking her to watch for an opportunity to influence the Ministry of Rites in selecting an heir who would be kind and filial toward her mother.
Composing the letters took considerable time. Shuilian, fearing Yirong might grow sorrowful over the matter, tugged her outside for a stroll.
Early autumn air was warm and mellow, laced with the sweet, heady fragrance of ripening fruits drifting from somewhere unseen.
With so many eyes in the palace, Yirong did not wish to draw attention or venture far. She settled in a pavilion just ahead of Little Ling Prefecture.
The pavilion was overgrown with lush green vines, a few leaves turning red and swaying in the breeze. One drifted lazily down onto her face.
Her nose twitched, and she let out a series of yawns.
Shuilian and Xingxiang fussed over her, hurriedly wiping her face. Yirong smiled and bade them all sit and chat with her.
Her mood was excellent that day; even the most ordinary remarks drew laughter from her.
Bathing in the mild sunlight, with the weather neither cold nor hot, Yirong comfortably narrowed her eyes. The matter with her uncle’s family was now settled for good; she had no intention of wasting any more thought on it.
But she couldn’t go on without seeing the Emperor forever.
Yirong let out a self-mocking bitter laugh. She needed to understand exactly what the Emperor thought of her—and whether she still had any chance of leaving the palace.
Last time, she still didn’t know if the Emperor had truly gotten angry afterward.
Though he had told her not to overthink it and had admitted once again that the fault lay entirely with him, he hadn’t come to see her since.
As Yirong lost herself in these thoughts, a bright red butterfly fluttered past in the distance. Xingxiang suddenly recalled a joke she’d heard and began telling it with a grin.
By the time the Emperor approached, he saw Yirong doubled over with laughter in her maidservant’s arms.
His expression darkened immediately.
He had originally ordered his attendants not to disturb her, but with a slight lift of his chin, someone understood at once and clapped their hands sharply.
Yirong hurried to her feet, smoothed her tousled hair, and curtsied deeply to the Emperor. The two maids she had brought with her knelt in greeting before retreating to one side.
Zheng Yan took hold of one of Yirong’s arms and, heedless of the onlookers, drew her down to sit upon his lap.
Back when she lived with the Cui Family, Yirong hadn’t minded the maids witnessing such intimacies—though she had still felt a touch of shyness. But here in broad daylight, with so many people present, she glanced at the eunuchs and palace maids standing nearby with heads bowed low. She knew they wouldn’t dare peek, yet the knowledge only heightened her embarrassment and shame.
“Your Majesty, please put me down,” she whispered.
The Emperor made no reply. Instead, he leaned in and inhaled the scent at her neck.
She squirmed with discomfort, trying to sit upright only to be drawn back against the Emperor’s firm chest. One slender shoulder pressed against his heart, as though no barriers remained between them, the steady thrum of his heartbeat echoing in her ear.
“Are you happy?” he murmured from behind her ear.
Yirong nodded and replied softly, “Your Majesty is wise.”
He gave a low chuckle. He had heard her bright, pealing laughter from afar and felt a flicker of displeasure that she could be so merry with just a handful of maids. She had never laughed so freely and from the heart in his presence.
And yet her joy stirred an unconscious delight in him as well.
The Emperor set her down gently and said with a solemn expression, “Zhen has a troubling matter at hand—one that requires your assistance.”
Yirong straightened her skirts, her brows knitting in puzzlement. “What troubles Your Majesty?”
What sort of trouble would need her help?
Gazing into the Emperor’s eyes, Yirong’s thoughts inexplicably drifted to their passionate entanglement amid the bedcurtains a few days earlier. Shame and embarrassment flooded her, turning her cheeks pink. She silently scolded herself for her wandering mind and turned her face aside, fiddling innocently with her earring as if nothing were amiss.
How could the Emperor possibly guess what ran through Yirong’s head? Her charming demeanor—and that rare, startled look on her face moments before—made him clench his fist against his lips to suppress a laugh.
In short order, his face grew serious once more. “Gao Fuliang, you explain.”
Gao Fuliang stepped forward a couple of paces, head bowed. He glanced at the Emperor, who gave a nod of confirmation, and understood the matter at once. It was odd—His Majesty had always dismissed such things out of hand. Hadn’t he already casually pronounced judgment on those dozens of people during the journey here?
Why involve Madam Lu in the handling of it now?
He gave it no further thought and began his detailed report.