The courtyard was hushed in the early morning light, the stone paths still damp from last night's dew.
Bai Lian walked slowly, her sleeves trailing like whispers, her mind turning over pieces of memory she hadn't touched in years. Lu Hao's smile, the one that had once disarmed her. The lies hidden behind it. The debt collectors he'd kept from her, the mistress he'd sworn never existed.
Every betrayal was still sharp, etched into her bones.
She paused near a carved lattice wall, the faint murmur of voices catching her attention.
On the other side, two men stood half-hidden by the garden pines. One was Lu Hao, his posture stiff with anger. The other, a younger associate in a tailored jacket, leaned in close.
"…you can't delay payment again," the man was saying, his tone edged with frustration. "The creditors are growing impatient."
Lu Hao's voice snapped back, low and fierce. "Keep your voice down. Do you want the whole household to hear? I'll take care of it—just make sure no one runs their mouth."
The words sank into her like hooks.
In her past life, she had learned the truth far too late—that Lu Hao had been drowning in debts long before their marriage, hiding everything behind a polished smile. She had become his shield, his scapegoat, the fool who believed in him until ruin had already swallowed her whole.
But this time, she heard it early. Clear as day.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the silk handkerchief in her sleeve.
Not yet, she told herself. Patience. A single thread was enough to unravel the finest robe, if tugged at the right moment.
With a cool expression, Bai Lian turned away from the wall. The voices faded behind her as she walked on, every step steady, deliberate.
The first secret was already hers.
The matriarch's quarters smelled faintly of sandalwood. Sunlight streamed across the polished floor, catching on the old lady's jade bracelets as she poured tea with steady hands.
Bai Lian knelt gracefully across from her, sleeves folded neatly, gaze lowered just enough to appear demure.
The old lady set a porcelain cup before her. "Drink."
Bai Lian lifted it with both hands, sipped quietly. Her movements were smooth, respectful—no words wasted.
Her eyes lingered a fraction too long on the carved phoenix seal of the teapot, then shifted toward the doorway where a servant lingered, waiting. The girl's belt sash was crooked, tied in haste. Bai Lian's gaze flicked down, then away again.
She set the cup back onto its saucer with a soft click. The sound made the matriarch's eyes lift.
Bai Lian adjusted her sleeve lightly, revealing just the edge of a faint crease, as if she'd been walking through the courtyard in a hurry. Her lips curved—small, almost apologetic.
The matriarch's fan paused mid-wave.
Bai Lian did not explain. She simply lowered her gaze again and reached for the teapot, refilling the matriarch's cup before her own.
The silence stretched, unbroken except for the drip of hot tea into porcelain.
Finally, the matriarch's eyes narrowed, a flicker of curiosity sparking behind the veil of composure. She tapped her fan against her palm once, twice—thinking.
Bai Lian's face remained serene, but under the table, her fingers brushed the silk of her handkerchief. A signal to herself. A seed planted.
No accusations. No direct words. Just enough for suspicion to take root.
The corridor outside the matriarch's quarters was quiet, the air sharp with the faint bite of cedar.
Bai Lian stepped down the stone steps, her sleeves brushing her ankles, when the sound of leather soles on stone drew her head up.
Lu Zhan emerged from the far end of the walkway.
Black suit. Crisp lines. His tie matched the steel glint of his watch. He carried no escort, yet his presence filled the space as though ten men had entered.
Their eyes met across the courtyard.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then, without breaking stride, he came toward her. His expression was unreadable, carved in stillness, but the weight of it pressed against her all the same.
Bai Lian lowered her lashes briefly, then raised them again, gaze steady. When he drew close, she stepped aside just enough to let him pass.
But he didn't.
He stopped. Right before her.
"You chose me." His voice was low, even, but the edge in it was unmistakable. "Why?"
Bai Lian's lips curved faintly. "Because I saw clearly."
His brows ticked, almost imperceptible. "And what is it you think you saw?"
Her gaze didn't waver. "A man who doesn't need to shout to be heard."
Silence stretched. The faint rustle of pine needles overhead was the only sound.
Lu Zhan's eyes lingered on her longer than necessary, as though weighing the truth of her words. Then, without response, he moved past her, his steps measured, unhurried.
The faint trace of his cologne—cool, restrained—drifted in his wake.
Bai Lian turned her head slightly, watching his back recede into the morning light.
Cold as ice, yes. But not unreachable.
Not to her.
In a shadowed study across the estate, Lu Hao slammed his palm against the desk. Papers scattered, the inkstone rattling dangerously close to the edge.
"She dares," he hissed. His cousin, the one who had always trailed quietly in the background, had humiliated him in front of the family. Once. Twice.
A servant flinched nearby, head bowed so low the man's forehead nearly touched the floor.
Lu Hao's eyes burned, his jaw tight. "She thinks marrying Lu Zhan will shield her. Let her try. She won't last a month."
The words dripped like venom, low and vicious.
Far across the compound, in the quiet of her own courtyard, Bai Lian lit a small oil lamp. The flame trembled, painting her face in gold and shadow.
She unrolled a thin booklet, its pages still blank. Slowly, carefully, she began to write.
Debts concealed. Associates in the city. Mistress in the West Garden. Bribes to officials.
Each stroke of the brush was deliberate, a thread of memory drawn from the life she had lost.
Her lips curved faintly, though her hand never faltered.
This time, she would not play the fool.
The candlelight flickered, catching in her eyes—cold, steady, unyielding.
Page after page filled, until the silence in the room felt heavier, sharper, as though the shadows themselves leaned closer to read her secrets.
When she finally set the brush down, she pressed her palm flat against the paper. The ink was still damp, staining the tips of her fingers.
It didn't matter.
This was the beginning.