Yan Yunting's gaze was nearly intoxicated.
Across the long palace corridor, he stared fixedly at the graceful figure in the distance, his heart surging with emotion.
Years had passed since they last met, yet Zhao Yang remained as radiantly beautiful as ever. Perhaps with age, her brows now carried an added air of dignified composure.
Like a fine vintage wine, she had only grown more enchanting with time.
Yan Yunting's eyes brimmed with adoration. Time was the truest test of one's heart—after their separation, he had come to realize that Zhao Yang had always been the woman he loved most.
Yet Princess Zhao Yang wore an expression of disdain, as if she had seen a ghost. She frowned slightly, showing no intention of acknowledging Yan Yunting, and turned to enter the palace with Yun'er in tow.
"Zhao Yang!" Yan Yunting stood frozen in place.
He had imagined she would rush to him joyfully, throwing herself into his arms with tears of happiness.
