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The restaurant reserved for their meeting was tucked in a quiet corner of the capital, nestled between plum blossom trees and a lake that reflected the pale blue sky like a mirror. It was private, elegant, and steeped in tradition—fitting for a conversation that would determine the fate of two kingdoms.
Prince Xìn Xuān and Princess Lù Zhāo sat across from each other at a low lacquered table set with delicate porcelain dishes. Steam curled from teacups, the scent of jasmine blending with the sweetness of candied lotus roots. Despite the serenity of the setting, an unspoken tension lingered between them.
Shèng Lín stood a short distance behind the princess—close enough to act if danger struck, yet far enough not to interrupt. His arms were folded behind his back, posture rigid, eyes subtly scanning the area. But every now and then, his gaze would flick toward Lù Zhāo—not as a bodyguard, but as someone who seemed to carry an invisible thread of connection to her. She never looked back at him, yet her stillness suggested she always knew he was near.
Xìn Xuān poured tea into Lù Zhāo's cup with practiced grace. "I suppose we're both here because of duty," he said gently, his voice warm but measured. "But I must ask—are you… ready for this marriage?"
Lù Zhāo lifted her gaze. Her expression was unreadable, as if carved from porcelain, but her dark eyes held a spark of quiet strength. She did not speak. Instead, she gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"I see," the prince murmured, swirling his own cup of tea. "Our parents have agreed the wedding will take place at the end of this month. That leaves us twenty-eight days."
Lù Zhāo lowered her eyes again, hands folded neatly on her lap.
Xìn Xuān hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward slightly. "If you wish… we could use this time to know each other better. A short vacation, perhaps. Away from the palace walls, away from expectations. Just the two of us. No politics. No obligations."
There was a pause. The teahouse bell chimed softly in the wind.
Lù Zhāo raised her eyes once more, and this time, a small smile touched her lips. "I would like that," she said softly.
From behind her, Shèng Lín's fingers twitched ever so slightly. A quiet breeze blew through the open window, ruffling the hem of his cloak. He remained silent, still as a statue—but his eyes, once indifferent, had begun to narrow.
The vacation was agreed.
The countdown began.
And in the shadows of that peaceful restaurant, fate held its breath—for within those twenty-eight days, hearts would stir, loyalties would be tested, and a secret would come to light.
The prince had offered time.
But time, as they would both soon learn, was a double-edged sword.
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