Back in Hua, Shen Han received news of Lian Zhi's marriage. The moment he heard it, a sharp ache tore through his chest. But he knew there was nothing he could do. He had no right to protest. He himself had already married Lian Yue.
Still, he made a promise to himself that it was temporary, that this was simply a bitter path they both had to walk before reaching their happiness. And one day, he would bring Lian Zhi back to his side.
Days passed after the wedding, yet the warmth between husband and wife never came.
Lian Yue played her role flawlessly before the court, smiling like the happiest bride in the entire empire. She clung to Shen Han's arm during morning greetings, called him "dear husband" at banquets, and praised him whenever the Emperor was near.
But once the palace gates closed and the servants were gone, her smile always faded.
"Why are you never here?" she asked one evening as she sat before her mirror, combing her hair. "Every night, I wake to an empty bed."
Shen Han didn't look up from his documents. "The Ministry of War is busy. I hardly have time to sleep."
"You have time to walk to Consort Ling's residence."
Lian Yue had received reports from her maids. Shen Han was often seen visiting Consort Ling, seemingly to ensure her health, to care for her in place of Lian Zhi. But he knew the truth of it. Consort Ling was the only remaining thread that tied him to Lian Zhi, the last familiar trace that made the longing bearable.
"You have people watching me?"
"I have the right to watch my own husband."
She smiled faintly at her own reflection, as if the title pleased her.
"You never look at me, Shen Han. Not even once."
He closed the papers and stood up. "Because all I see is the Crown Princess. Not the woman I love."
"Then maybe you should start learning who I am now." The curve on her mouth thinned. She turned her head toward him. "I'm your wife."
The title meant nothing to him. He turned to leave. "I'm not interested."
"Shen Han." Her voice was firm enough to stop him.
He turned just as she reached into a small chest by her dressing table and pulled out a folded parchment.
"I didn't want to use this, but you leave me no choice."
He frowned. "What is that?"
"A letter," she replied, unfolding it slowly. "Written by your father. To the Chancellor of Tughril."
Shen Han's chest tightened. "You're lying."
"Am I? I suppose you'd like to see it."
She held it out, placing the letter directly into Shen Han's hand. The handwriting struck him immediately. He recognized his father's strong, bold strokes. The words were sharp and treasonous, offering secret support to a foreign power in exchange for land and influence.
Shen Han's fingers trembled as he gripped the paper. "This… cannot be real."
"You know it is. That is your father's hand. The same hand that wrote every commendation you ever received."
"You're planning to threaten me with this?"
"I'm planning to keep my husband where he belongs." She didn't blink when she said it. "By my side. You keep turning away, clinging to memories of her, that woman who is long gone. I'm tired of competing with a ghost."
Shen Han's voice darkened at the implications. "If the Emperor ever saw this letter, both you and my family would be ruined."
"Then you must make sure I never have a reason to show him."
"I'm not your enemy, Shen Han. I can make you powerful. Loved. But if you keep treating me like I'm invisible, I will become your worst nightmare."
Rage burned in his chest. "You would use my father to control me?"
"You already belong to me." She stepped close enough that he couldn't move without acknowledging her. "This just ensures you never forget it."
"Do you even love me?" Shen Han wasn't sure he even wanted to hear the answer. Whatever it was, it wouldn't change anything.
Her expression faltered for the first time. "Love? I don't know. But I want you. Isn't that enough?"
"You confuse wanting someone with loving them."
She looked up sharply. "Maybe not for you. But for me, it's the only way to keep what's mine."
Shen Han turned away. "You won't get away with this."
"Then I'll drag you down with me."
For a moment, it seemed as though he might respond. Then he chose silence instead. He left with the letter in his hand without taking another glance at her.
That night, he couldn't sleep. He sat in the study, the cursed letter burning in his thoughts. He wanted to believe it was forged, but he knew his father's handwriting as well as his own.
At dawn the next day, he found himself in the training yard, sword in hand. He sliced through the air with sharp, forceful strikes, each one fueled by frustration, betrayal, and helplessness. When he finally stopped, breathing unevenly, he turned and saw Lian Yue standing at the edge of the courtyard, watching him.
"You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Because of me?"
He didn't answer.
She stepped closer. "You look better like this. Angry. Alive."
He glared. "If you came to mock me, you've succeeded."
"No. I came to remind you that what I hold can either destroy you or protect you. The choice is yours."
Shen Han didn't say a word.
"Be the husband I need. Play your part. The Emperor already favors you. You could rise higher than any general before you."
She stepped close enough that he could feel her breath on his throat.
"But if you continue to defy me… everything you care about will burn."
Then she smiled as if she hadn't just promised his ruin.
Shen Han's hand tightened around the sword hilt. For a brief moment, he imagined cutting down the smile on her face.
Instead, he let the sword drop.
"Fine," he surrendered. "You win."
"Good. Then tonight, we will share a room, as husband and wife should."
He didn't respond.
That night, for the first time since their wedding, he entered her chamber willingly. Lian Yue waited on the bed with an expression that was filled with victory.
He sat beside her, but his face gave her nothing. She lifted a hand to touch his cheek.
"See?" she whispered. "It's not so hard to be mine."
Shen Han closed his eyes and, for a fleeting moment, pretended she was someone else.
As the candle burned down, he lay awake beside her, staring at the ceiling.
He had chosen survival.
But lying there, listening to her steady breathing, all he felt was a slow, creeping sense of dying.