The moment Madam Yun slipped into my chambers that evening, I knew what she had planned. Her eyes glittered with determination as though tonight was a battle she herself had to win through me.
"Princess Consort," she began softly, arranging the sleeves of my night robe with sharp precision, "a marriage that is not consummated is like a contract written in water. It will not last. The Third Prince must see you not only as a duty but as a woman."
I stiffened. My marriage was still a thorn that pricked me every day. The prince's coldness, his refusal to even meet my gaze for more than a fleeting moment, made me feel more like a burden than a wife. And yet here was Madam Yun, whispering strategies as though I were preparing to face an enemy.
"And how," I asked, my voice quiet but carrying more sharpness than I intended, "do you suggest I make him see me?"
Her lips curved into something between a smile and a command. "Through the art of performance. Tonight, you will dance for him. Sing for him. Let him see what only a husband has the right to see."
My cheeks burned. The thought of standing before him unveiled, of allowing him to watch me in such intimacy, made my stomach twist. But Madam Yun was relentless. She called in servants to light tall lanterns until the chamber glowed like dawn. She burned sandalwood incense that filled the air with heady sweetness. Silks were brought, thin enough that my skin could be glimpsed beneath when I moved.
"You are the daughter of Chengguang Māo," she reminded me as she placed the veil across my head. "Your father did not raise you to shrink from duty. Let him see what fortune looks like."
When the time came, I stood in the center of my chamber, the floor spread with embroidered rugs, my fingers trembling around the thin veil. My heart pounded so loudly I wondered if he would hear it the moment he entered.
The door slid open, and the Third Prince stepped inside.
As always, his presence was cold yet commanding. He wore plain robes despite his rank, his hair bound simply. His gaze fell on me, and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw a flicker of surprise. But it vanished quickly, replaced by the same unreadable mask he always wore.
I bowed low, my knees pressing into the rug. "My lord husband."
Silence. Only the soft hiss of the incense burning.
I rose, letting the music begin. One of the handmaidens struck the zither's strings, delicate notes trembling through the air. My body began to move, my sleeves fluttering like pale wings, my steps slow and deliberate.
I had never been trained for court dances the way noble daughters were, but Madam Yun had drilled me enough in the past hours. The movements were graceful, if not perfect, my voice rising to sing verses of an old ballad.
The words told of a woman waiting by the river for her beloved who never returned. They were sorrowful, and perhaps they betrayed my own heart more than I intended. My voice, soft at first, grew bolder, carrying through the chamber like a thread of silver in the night.
When I dared to glance at him, I found his eyes fixed not on my figure but on my face. His expression had not softened, but there was a stillness about him, as though he was listening more than watching.
I spun once, the veil slipping from my shoulders, leaving the sheer silk of my robes to catch the lantern light. My heart leapt in fear. Would he see this as seduction? As desperation?
The music ended. My last note lingered before dissolving into silence. I stood before him, chest rising and falling, the veil at my feet.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the incense crackling.
Then he reached into his sleeve and drew out a small folded cloak of dark silk. Without a word, he tossed it toward me. It landed at my feet, heavier than it looked.
"Cover yourself," he said, his voice calm but edged with iron. "Your voice is worthy of praise. But I am not a man who delights in display. What belongs to a husband should not be shown in such a way."
My breath caught. Heat rushed to my face, a mixture of shame and anger. He had not looked once at my body, not even when the veil fell. His eyes, stern and distant, were fixed only on mine.
"I meant no disrespect," I whispered, kneeling to clutch the cloak around me.
He turned, already walking toward the door. "You would do better to learn the duties of a consort than to dance like a courtesan. Leave such performances to those who need them."
His words cut sharper than any blade. I lowered my head, the silk trembling in my grasp, my voice trapped in my throat.
The door closed behind him, and the silence returned. Only then did I let my tears fall, quiet and hidden, for no one in the palace should see the weakness of the Third Prince's wife.