The room was shrouded in shadows. Only an oil lamp smoked in the corner, its flame swaying slowly. Suddenly, the silence was broken by the faint creak of wood underfoot.
Zhang Yun crossed the threshold with slow steps; his boots, covered in dust, sank softly into the floor with each step. His face, sharp and tense, was gaunt from sleepless nights.
His heart pounded with restrained violence.
Before him, Meixin lay face down, motionless. Her body was barely covered by a thin blanket, exposing part of her back, where the burned skin gleamed wet, red, raw. Around the wound, the bandage had turned crimson and oozed a thick liquid that soaked the cloth. Her hair, disheveled and stuck to the nape of her neck with sweat, hid part of her face, turned to the side.
Yun swallowed hard, a knot forming in his throat. He approached. Seeing her labored breathing and soaked forehead, he felt a blow to the chest. He slowly knelt beside the bed; his trembling hand was about to touch her, but he stopped. Seeing her like this—broken—was enough for regret to start tearing through his insides.
—What have I done…? —he whispered, barely audible.
Zhen was gone. She had left to find medicine with an old village healer, desperate to find something to reduce the fever.
Meixin murmured in her sleep. Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper:
—Zhen… Zhen…
Yun closed his eyes tightly. His fingers clenched against his knee. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to cry. But pride still held his tongue.
Suddenly, Meixin blinked. Her eyelids trembled and, slowly, as if rising from the depths of a nightmare, she opened her eyes.
Yun leaned toward her. His breathing was restrained, as if afraid of breaking the fragile thread keeping her alive. His lips parted, ready to say her name… to call her…
But he stopped. Meixin did not look at him. She barely turned her face to the side. She was pale, her lips chapped, her eyes narrowed with pain and fever.
—Zhen… it hurts so much… —she whispered.
Yun felt those words tear at his chest. He took a step back, as if he no longer deserved to be near her. Without a word, he left the room, his face dark.
Shortly after, Zhen burst into the room. Her clothes were soaked from the rain; she carried a small wooden box wrapped in linen cloth. She knelt beside Meixin, who barely managed to focus on her face.
—Miss… I've returned. Look, I brought the medicine. The healer said it would ease the pain and the fever…
She helped her drink it slowly. Soon after, a doctor arrived, escorted by a grim-faced servant. The doctor, a man with a white beard and calloused hands, examined the wound in silence, applied ointments with swift, precise fingers, and then gave strict instructions.
Zhen watched everything with a mix of helplessness and suppressed anger. When the doctor left, she closed the door behind him and sat at the edge of the bed.
—How do you feel, my lady?
Meixin breathed with difficulty, eyes open but distant.
—Zhen… I want to leave this place —she suddenly whispered, her voice broken with plea—. I can't take it anymore… I don't want to die here…
Zhen turned pale.
—Escape? But… how…? What if they find out?
—I don't care —Meixin insisted, her voice cracking—. I'd rather die running… than stay here… He… he hates me, Zhen. There's no salvation for me.
From that day on, they began secretly planning their escape. They waited patiently for almost a month, until Meixin regained enough strength to stand.
—Zhen… do you think you could help me get out tonight?
—Yes, my lady. I've prepared everything. When the pavilion sleeps, we'll leave through the back garden entrance.
—Zhen. Just… take me far away from him.
—I will. This time, no one will hurt you again.
But from the hallway, a small, silent figure crept away barefoot. It was Ru, the maid Huang Fei had planted weeks before. She had heard everything. Without raising suspicion, she disappeared toward the chambers of her true mistress.
That same night, Huang Fei, dressed in a yellow silk robe adorned with floral brocade, went to Zhang Yun's study, where he was speaking with his father.
—Brother Yun… —she said softly, dropping into a measured bow—. I've heard something I cannot keep to myself…
He glanced at her while sipping from a cup of warm wine.
—What is it now?
—Meixin plans to escape… they might do it tonight…
For a moment, Yun said nothing. Part of him thought it would be for the best—that she leave, that it all end.
But when Zhang Tao heard of it, his expression hardened.
—And if she leaves, what about the dowry? —he thundered—. We can't return it! That money was invested in the southern lands, in rice and trade with the Han. If the Wen demand her back, they'll have the right to ask for a refund.
—But if she no longer wants to be here…
—This isn't about what she wants! It's about name, honor, and money. That woman is no longer hers, nor is her freedom hers. She is your wife, and she must stay!
— Besides, who's to say she isn't planning to escape and reunite with her lover?" Fei added, her tongue sharp and her voice laced with poison.
Zhang Yun, wounded in his pride, accepted in silence, his jaw clenched and his gaze shadowed. He still remembered how, days ago, he had wanted to confront Chen Lian, but the coward had fled before he could. Since then, the images pierced his mind like daggers: Chen Lian brazenly caressing Meixin's body, and she—within his jealousy-distorted imagination—smiling back at him with complicity.
That night, the door opened without a sound. Meixin, barely awake, looked at him with fear reflected in her eyes. Her body was still weak, trembling.
Yun simply stared at her in silence, his brow furrowed and his eyes clouded with a mixture of emotions even he didn't seem to understand: rage, desire, confusion… and something darker he dared not name. Then, without a word, he shut the door firmly.
She tried to sit up, but he stepped forward, grabbing her by the shoulders.
—If you dare to run, you'll never make it —he said coldly.
—Yun… no… —she murmured, her voice broken.
—You will stay here. Forever.
Then, without another word, he leaned toward her. His lips pressed against her neck, first warm, then insistent. Meixin tried to pull away, but the pain rooted her to the spot. She felt his hands, rough and cold, begin to untie the knots of her nightgown. The trembling in her chest grew with each second, with each breath he stole without her consent.
—No… —she barely whispered, but he didn't listen. Or didn't want to.
That night, he gave her no choice. The kisses turned into bites, devoid of affection. It was a cruel, mechanical act, devoid of tenderness. There were no caresses, no sweet words, only the imposed touch of a man seeking not love, but control. Every movement of his was like a sentence. Meixin, powerless, pressed her lips together as tears silently streamed down her cheeks, soaking the pillow.
He took her without looking into her eyes. His breathing was erratic, uneven, and his body trembled—not with passion, but with restrained rage, as if he wanted to punish her… or punish himself.
And she, broken, tried to resist, but the physical pain mingled with the emotional in a whirlwind that left her paralyzed.
When it was over, he moved away and fell asleep as if nothing had happened. Meixin lay still, trembling. The night's cold seeped between the sheets and into her bones. The wound on her back throbbed harder, but it was her soul that bled the most. That night, she realized she had loved a man who never existed. That the Yun in her memories was just an illusion.
And in the deepest of silences, she cried until she had no more tears, wishing she could wake from a nightmare that, sadly, was real.
At dawn, when light filtered through the slats of the window, Yun awoke. Still seated on the edge of the bed, he turned to look at her. The sheet had a small stain of blood—fresh.
His eyes opened slowly.
Virgin.
His breath caught for a moment. His heart clenched in his chest.He remembered her—and he had believed in betrayal. He had believed she had given herself to another.
And yet… she was his. She had always been.
His eyes dropped, almost unwillingly, to the scar on her skin. He trembled at the sight, as if it burned into his own flesh. He reached out and brushed it with his fingertips, barely grazing it. And in that small gesture, remorse pierced through him like an arrow. It was the mark of his doubt. His doing.
The silence weighed heavier than any scream. But he said nothing.
He stood up, adjusted his belt, and left without looking at her again. Because if he looked at her, he would break.
Meixin remained asleep, curled into herself, with dry lips and a shattered soul.
The blood on the sheet remained, a silent witness.
And that morning, the sun brought no hope. Only more chains. More silence.
And an abyss that could no longer be crossed.