A pair of jade-inlaid rhinoceros horn pillows rested upon an eight-foot ivory bed, draped with silver-embroidered felt over a five-colored dragon whisker mat. This chamber—fit for immortals in its opulence—now felt cold as a tomb, desolate despite its splendor.
Feng Xiyang sat before her dressing mirror, lost in spiraling thoughts. Four days. Four entire days without glimpsing Xia Jingshi even once. During daylight hours, he remained occupied with court meetings or entertaining Xueying's father with chess and martial demonstrations. At night, no matter what hour she dispatched servants to invite him, the response never varied: His Highness still has unfinished business and asks the Princess Consort to retire first.
That day—when he'd walked back to his carriage with such determined steps, loudly commanding the procession to continue—she'd felt as if an invisible thread connected them. It stretched thinner and thinner as distance grew, pulled taut to breaking yet somehow never snapping completely.
She had thought that even if she couldn't possess his deep, ocean-like tenderness the way Yixiao did, it would suffice to see his calm smile daily. But—
Xiyang's self-mocking smile twisted her reflection in the bronze mirror. She loved him with desperate intensity, yet he remained utterly indifferent to her existence.
Since childhood, she had been Susha's precious pearl—concerned only with beautiful dresses and suitable jewels, sheltered from harsh realities. Then she'd set her heart upon him, transforming into the Princess Consort of Jinxiu's Southern King, his wife. She'd imagined they would grow old together in mutual contentment.
Instead, she'd collided with an invisible barrier—barged into his life with overwhelming naivety—and if not for accidentally overhearing those servants' brutal honesty, she would never have comprehended that no one here welcomed her presence.
Loneliness pressed down with suffocating weight. She couldn't find a single person to confide in, to share this crushing isolation. Was life's struggle truly like Zhuangzi's butterfly dream—reality and illusion indistinguishable? But when would the butterfly trapped in this dream see its wishes fulfilled?
The air around her suddenly grew scorching, oppressive. Feng Xiyang turned back in a daze. Through the undulating gauze curtains of the doorway, a blood-red datura had mysteriously materialized—impossibly vivid, almost pulsing with malevolent life.
Wind stirred the curtains into ripple-like waves. Datura petals floated everywhere, releasing an alluring yet somehow poisonous fragrance. The flowers appeared exquisitely, terribly beautiful...
The flower tree moved.
No—realization struck with ice-cold clarity—it wasn't a flowering tree at all.
It was Fu Yixiao.
Amidst the billowing curtains, her face remained unclear, features obscured by shadow and petal-fall. Yet every faint gasp, every wave of hatred emanating from that figure spoke with devastating clarity:
"Feng Xiyang, do you know what despair truly is? It's an endless, icy, desolate feeling that gently caresses your hand at first—so gentle you barely notice. Then it slowly climbs up your shoulder, softly strokes your face with false tenderness, gradually stealing away every fragment of hope you possess. Then it viciously strangles every breath you dare take, until you return my happiness to me!"
The final words emerged as a heart-rending scream wrapped in swirling blood-red petals—a howling accusation hurtling toward Xiyang, crashing into her forehead with physical force.
Everything went dark.
"...As for diet, focus on light, easily digestible foods. With adequate rest and peace of mind, recovery should require only two or three days."
When Feng Xiyang regained consciousness, the physician was reporting his diagnosis to Xia Jingshi, who stood with his back to the bed—spine rigid, posture speaking of duty rather than concern.
He finally came.
The realization struck her with such force that she nearly sat up immediately, nearly threw herself into his arms to release all the tears of pain and grievance she'd suppressed for days upon his chest. But she restrained herself with tremendous effort, carefully holding back the flood and closing her eyes again.
After leaving several prescriptions for convalescence, the physician departed with respectful murmurs. Feng Xiyang listened to deliberately lightened footsteps gradually fading. Her heart grew increasingly tense with each diminishing sound.
He wouldn't leave too, would he?
Silence stretched—endless, suffocating. Just as she could hardly resist opening her eyes to confirm her abandonment, a low sigh emerged from beside the bed.
Clothes rustled. Light on her face dimmed. The mattress shifted slightly as Xia Jingshi sat down at her side, gently adjusting the silk quilt to cover her exposed hand.
His faint tenderness—so sparse, so carefully rationed—surrounded her like morning mist. Feng Xiyang could no longer maintain pretense. Tears escaped despite her will. She opened her eyes and called out with voice breaking, "Husband."
Xia Jingshi started visibly, then arranged his features into a gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You fainted earlier. The physician has prescribed nourishing medicines. I'll have someone prepare them—"
"The medicine can wait!" Xiyang sat up abruptly, not bothering to wipe tears that streamed freely. She clutched his robes with desperate fingers. "Can you stay with me for a while, husband? Please?"
Xia Jingshi patted her hand with mechanical comfort. "Lie down first. I'll stay for a bit longer."
She refused to release his hand, fingers tightening like a drowning person grasping driftwood. "Husband, have I angered you somehow?"
His lips twitched—the only betrayal of internal struggle—before he offered reassurance. "Don't overthink. I've been occupied because I was absent from Jinxiu too long. There's a backlog of affairs requiring attention. It will improve in several days."
Feng Xiyang's heart eased marginally. Color gradually returned to her pale face. Just as she prepared to speak, memory struck—the blood-red datura rushing toward her face, petals like accusations, hatred like poison.
She tensed, instinctively jerking her gaze toward the doorway.
It stood empty.
Xia Jingshi followed her line of sight with puzzled expression. "What's wrong?"
Xiyang asked hesitantly, voice uncertain, "The red datura at the door... did you have someone remove it?"
"Red datura?" Genuine surprise crossed his features. Seeing her nod affirmatively, he pondered briefly. "When I arrived, the doorway was already empty. There wouldn't be such flowers in the royal residence, and who would place plants in a passageway?" His tone grew gently dismissive. "Could you have seen incorrectly?"
Feng Xiyang exhaled slowly, forcing a tremulous smile. "I must have been mistaken. At that moment, I saw a red datura and—" She paused deliberately, eyes fixing steadily on his face. "—and Fu Yixiao."
Xia Jingshi's pupils contracted violently, instantly freezing into ice blades. The transformation was instantaneous, undeniable.
Before Feng Xiyang could process what she'd witnessed, his eyelashes flickered. When his eyes opened again, they held only faint amusement—as if the previous coldness had been imagined.
"That must have been a hallucination. Yixiao is thousands of miles away now. How could she possibly appear here?" His tone remained professionally soothing. "The physician mentioned you're not yet accustomed to the local environment. We should prepare the medicine soon."
As he spoke, he gently but inexorably pulled his robes from Xiyang's desperate grasp and stood.
Seeing him about to depart, panic seized her. Xiyang threw herself forward, arms encircling his neck and shoulders in frantic embrace. In the violent collision, a warm tear splashed from her eye, landing on the side of his neck and meandering down exposed skin.
"I'm sorry," she whispered brokenly. "Please don't be angry..."
Xia Jingshi gently but firmly pulled her arms away, pushing her back toward the bed. His voice emerged calm as still water—emotionless, distant. "I'm not angry. Don't overthink."
Watching her expression darken as she slowly withdrew her rejected arms, Xia Jingshi felt an unwelcome twinge of pity. He softened his voice marginally. "Recover quickly. After Ning Fei's wedding, we'll depart for the imperial capital to pay homage to the Holy Emperor. You haven't visited the imperial capital before, have you..."
At mention of the imperial capital, light sparked in Feng Xiyang's eyes. Her features gained sudden vitality, animation returning like sun breaking through storm clouds. "I have been there. The first time I saw you was in the imperial capital."
Xia Jingshi's surprise appeared genuine. "When was that?"
Xiyang's eyes curved into crescents, but she deliberately withheld the answer. "Don't you remember?"
He pondered, searching memory with visible effort. "I truly can't recall. I didn't spend extensive time in the imperial capital... When was it?"
"It was the day of the Holy Emperor's ascension to the throne." Xiyang's voice softened with tender reminiscence, eyes filling with cherished memory. "I've forgotten the weather that day, forgotten who else surrounded us. I only remember you." She smiled shyly. "Afterward, I kept wondering—was it heaven's destiny that allowed me to spot you among so many people at first glance?"
Seeing him listening in arrested stillness, she lowered her head, color rising in her cheeks. "It was also destined that I would fall in love with you that very day. But I never imagined we would become husband and wife." Her voice dropped to vulnerable whisper. "Husband, I don't ask for your whole heart. In your heart, besides Yixiao, can you spare even a small corner for Xiyang?"
Feng Xiyang gazed at Xia Jingshi with earnest desperation. Xia Jingshi seemed momentarily dazed, his gaze losing focus—lost somewhere in past or future, anywhere but present.
Xiyang bit her lip. Decision crystallized. Suddenly she leaned forward, grabbed his collar with both hands, and pressed her mouth to his.
She kissed him wholeheartedly, instinctively—pouring years of longing into the contact. Perhaps too shocked to respond, Xia Jingshi didn't immediately push her away.
His lips felt thin and soft beneath hers, yet utterly tasteless. Bland as water. Empty of warmth.
Sadness welled from the depths of Feng Xiyang's heart, enveloping her like a quiet, frigid ocean. The water was ice-cold, yet she willingly sank into it—all the way to the lightless bottom where hope went to die.
Her kiss gradually transformed from declaration into desperate plea, into taking what would never be freely given. As if she might somehow provoke his cold, distant, unfeeling soul through sheer force of longing.
Xia Jingshi's eyes suddenly changed—something dark and final settling into place. He roughly shoved Feng Xiyang away with both hands and surged to his feet, wearing an expression of extreme disgust that made no effort at concealment.
His gold-embroidered sleeve rose slowly, forcefully wiping across his slightly wet lips—erasing her touch like contamination.
"This King's heart is too small." His voice emerged cold, absolute, final as grave-stone carving. "In this life, having given it entirely to her, there exists no room for anyone else."
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