One afternoon, while the house seemed to be immersed in a tense calm, Huang Fei walked down the main corridor with a small tray in her hands. She had ordered some lotus and sesame sweets to be made—Zhang Yun's childhood favorites—and was heading to the study, hoping to cheer him up, to earn a glance, a word.
But as she turned toward the west wing, where the walls were thinner, she stopped upon hearing voices coming from inside the study. They were muffled, laden with emotion. Curious, she crept closer on tiptoe, her heart pounding. She first recognized the authoritative, though restrained, tone of Zhang Tao. And then, a broken voice, almost unrecognizable from the pain: Zhang Yun.
Though spying hadn't been her intention at first, the weight of the words she heard rooted her to the ground, frozen.
—I… killed my own child…— Yun confessed between barely restrained sobs, as if guilt were suffocating him.
—But she mustn't know… or you'll ruin everything,— Zhang Tao replied firmly.
—I don't want any more misunderstandings between us… I don't know how to look into her eyes…— Zhang Yun added, his voice barely audible, thick with remorse.
—Do you think she'll forgive you?— Tao sneered. —Do you think that, after telling her you were the one who put the medicine in her food… she'll just forget?
Fei's tray began to tremble in her hands.
—Don't speak of it again,— Zhang Tao said harshly, cutting him off. —Do not confess. What's done is done. Nothing can undo it. The only solution is to forget. Act as if nothing happened. Forget what was and start anew with her. Even if you hurt her, you have to make her forget—make her trust you again.
Zhang Yun remained silent, despair and regret etched into his face. Finally, he nodded slowly, as if accepting the burden his father had placed on him.
—I'll try, Father… I'll do whatever it takes.
The conversation faded into murmurs, and Huang Fei, still holding the tray, silently stepped back. Her mind was spinning with the information she had just acquired. That confession… something she could use to her advantage.
That night, when silence cloaked every corner of the Zhang residence, Yun crept lightly toward Meixin's room. He opened the door with extreme care, as if the slightest creak might shatter his resolve. Seeing her asleep, lying on her side, he approached slowly, removed his robe, and let it fall to the floor. Then he slipped beneath the covers and embraced her from behind, tightly, as if holding her might keep his broken world from falling apart.
The movement roused Meixin, disoriented by the sudden warmth of his body and the pressure of his unexpected embrace. She tried to pull away, to turn, but he held her even tighter, pressing her against his chest.
—What are you doing?— she asked in a faint voice, not daring to move too much.
There was a pause, a silence heavier than words, and then Yun whispered in a pleading tone:
—Please… let me hold you.
Meixin said nothing. Her body remained still—tense at first, then resigned. She felt him bury his face into the curve of her neck like a child seeking refuge, trying to hide from the monster only he could see: his guilt. His breath was trembling, nearly broken. And though she didn't fully understand what was happening, she could feel it… he was on the verge of collapse.
That night, for the first time in many days, Zhang Yun slept deeply, as if the mere contact with her skin had silenced the voices that haunted him. He did not dream of screams, or blood, or Meixin's tearful eyes. Only of the scent of her neck and the warmth of her back.
As dawn began to filter through the window slats, Yun slowly opened his eyes. He gazed silently at Meixin's sleeping profile, her face serene. Carefully, he lifted his hand and caressed her face, letting his fingers brush the curve of her cheek. Then, leaning in gently, he kissed her with quiet tenderness, almost reverently.
He didn't want to wake her. He slipped out of bed, retrieved his robe, and left the room without a sound.
By the time the sun had risen high in the sky, one of the maids hurried over to Huang Fei's pavilion. She bowed discreetly and murmured near her ear:
—Miss Fei… Master Zhang Yun left Lady Meixin's pavilion very early this morning. He was there all night.
As the maid spoke, Huang Fei was at her vanity, arranging her hair with her usual morning meticulousness. She held a delicate gold brocade in her fingers, ready to place it atop her high bun. But the moment she heard those words, her hands froze in midair.
The brocade slipped slightly through her fingers, and as she clenched it unconsciously, her nails dug into her palm. The pressure was so intense that one of the sharp edges of the ornament cut the skin between her fingers. A thin trickle of blood began to slide down, but she didn't even blink.
Her eyes, fixed on her reflection, turned dark, glistening with restrained fury. The maid, seeing the blood, stepped toward her, but Fei raised a hand to stop her, never looking away from the mirror.
—Leave,— she ordered coldly, her voice as icy as frost.
When she was alone, blood was already staining the edge of her sleeve. She dropped the brocade onto the table with a sudden motion and planted both trembling hands on the vanity. Her breath was shaky, barely able to contain the storm within her.
—They spent the night together…— she whispered through clenched teeth, as if saying it aloud made it more real, more unbearable. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, her gaze was pure venom.
—No… I won't allow it,— she murmured, letting the blood drip freely, ignoring the pain. —Meixin won't have him. Not while I breathe.
She prepared herself meticulously, choosing her most elegant hanfu—purple silk with golden embroidery. She adorned her hair with ivory and jade combs and covered the cut on her hand with a delicate crimson ribbon. Her face, serene on the outside, hid the storm brewing within.
She crossed the corridors with firm steps, without asking permission or announcing herself, and entered Meixin's room as if she had every right in the world. She found her sitting near the window, reading, with that same stoic calm that irritated her so deeply.
Meixin looked up briefly, emotionless, then returned to her reading without a word.
Fei approached, her silk dress rustling slightly on the floor. She sat beside her uninvited, folding her hands in her lap like a patient lady, but her gaze was sharp, restless.
—Do you really think Yun treats you kindly out of love?— she whispered with venomous softness, as if sharing a secret. —It's guilt… remorse. Do you know who was responsible for the loss of your baby?
Meixin didn't answer, but her hand trembled between the pages of her book.
—It was him,— she said, locking eyes with her. —Zhang Yun. He put the abortive medicine in your food.
Then, with a mocking smile, she stood as if nothing had happened and left the room without looking back.
Meixin slowly looked up and let the book fall from her hands.
A lump formed in her throat, tightening so hard she couldn't swallow, while a chilling shiver ran down her spine, numbing her fingers. The blood seemed to drain from her, leaving her pale, motionless, trapped in her seat. Huang Fei's words echoed relentlessly in her mind, repeating over and over like a cruel, poisonous chant.
She cried without sound, as if her soul had shattered into a scream that could not escape her chest. She cried for the life she had lost. She cried for having allowed herself to love a man who, with no apparent remorse, had taken the most precious thing from her.
Each tear was an open wound; each stifled sob, a silent plea to a sky that seemed to take pleasure in her suffering.