"You look pale, cousin."
His words sliced through the hush of dinner like a blade. Even tonight, surrounded by the low murmur of servants and candlelight, my world narrowed to the rhythm of his voice.
His name—cousin—lingered, formal and distant, yet charged with something unspoken. My fingers tightened around my chopsticks. My breath hitched. The porcelain slipped and crashed to the table, soup splattering across his robe.
The hall froze. My face burned as gasps rippled through the guests.
"Merchant's daughter," Qinghe hissed, voice sharp. "So clumsy."
I wanted to shrink into my seat. To disappear. But before I could even blink, Xie Lingyuan rose. Tall. Silent. Resolute.
The soup stain darkened the front of his robe. And still—for one beat—he did nothing. No flinch. No apology. No anger.
He walked to me and retrieved the lost chopsticks, bending low. Our fingers brushed at the same time. Heat seared through me.
Under the table, I curled my fists into my palms, fingernails digging in. Why did he help me? Why did he touch me like that?
The prayer beads around his wrist clacked softly—red sandalwood. One bead split in two, as if echoing his quiet fracture.
"Lord Yuheng," the sect master said sharply. "Your wedding to Qinghe is approaching. We can't have scandal."
He didn't respond. Just shifted the broken bead between his fingers, a silent resonance with my own fractured heart.
My throat was dry. I swallowed. The silence was heavy. My pulse pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it.
When I looked up, his gaze found mine. Not cold. Not hostile. Just pained.
I forced a nod, but the tremor in my stack of dishes whispered the truth: my heart wouldn't obey orders.