The palace felt strangely empty after the foreign princess, Li Mei, left. Her vibrant, sometimes chaotic energy was a tangible thing, and without it, a profound quiet settled over the halls. For me, that silence was both a relief and a sharpening of an ache I refused to acknowledge.
My days had returned to a familiar rhythm of duty and solitude, a stark contrast to the dramatic confrontation at court which now felt like a high-pitched dream I was slowly forgetting. I was once again just Prince Wang Cheng, the unremarkable son, the man whose marriage was a mere footnote in a treaty.
As the sun began its slow, deliberate descent, painting the western sky in strokes of fading orange and brooding violet, I found myself drawn, as I often was, to the quiet corner of Li Lan's private garden. This was her sole haven, a place where the rigid palace walls seemed to soften. I knew she was out there, tracing patterns on a teacup, trying to feel like a woman and not a political pawn. And I knew that feeling well.
I had come to accept my own fate long ago. I was not meant to rule; my life was one of respectable obscurity. I had felt sorry for her, marrying a man with such an unremarkable future.
But then came the wedding day. The moment I saw her, a profound, immediate love had surged through me, so powerful it had literally knocked the air from my lungs. I was consumed. I knew instantly that I would do anything to make her happy, to love and respect her completely.
On our wedding night, when our bodies met, when she didn't push me away, I felt a pleasure and a love so intense it obliterated all else. I tried to pull her closer, to hold her, to whisper the truth of my heart, but she turned away. She simply said she was tired and turned her back.
The rejection was a physical blow. A cold wave of fear washed over me: Did she not want to be here? Did she love another man? The thought was unbearable. I fled in the early hours of the morning, unable to face the conversation that I was certain would break me entirely. And so, our cold, impersonal pattern began: I would fulfill my duty, seeking her bed at night but leaving before she woke, a routine born entirely of my own towering fear.
The Shattered Routine
But tonight was different. Tonight, I simply could not continue the cold routine we had established. I couldn't be the man who only visited her in the darkness.
It was still early—the sun hadn't yet fully dipped below the horizon—when I found myself walking down the corridor toward her garden, dressed in a simple, casual robe. I was carrying a small tray with two cups and a decanter of plum wine—a consideration, a taste of her home, that I had specifically requested. I saw the profound surprise on her face when I appeared in the growing dusk. She looked beautiful, and her shock only made me feel more awkward. She had never expected me to simply seek her company.
I motioned for her maid to leave, and the woman, eyes wide with curiosity, bowed and quickly vanished. The doors closed, leaving us in a new, uncomfortable silence—a silence not of separation, but of unexpected, intimate presence.
"I thought it would be pleasant to share a drink with you," I managed, my voice a low rumble, feeling both low and hesitant. I set the tray down and took a seat opposite her.
I pushed one cup toward her. I watched her pick it up, her fingers brushing the cool ceramic. I felt my chest tighten, an urgent need to know, to speak. I took a slow sip of the wine, my gaze unwavering on her.
"Li Lan," I began, the words coming out in a sudden, vulnerable rush. "You spoke so beautifully at court. Your poem was simply majestic."
My heart gave a small, traitorous jolt. I had listened. I had paid attention not to her status, but to her words. I had watched her stand tall with her sister and felt a wave of protective pride so fierce it almost made me leap to my feet. She had been a force.
This was my moment. I could not continue the cold routine. I had to know.
"I have... I have often wondered," I continued, the truth pushing past my throat like jagged stones, "if you are happy here. With me."
The question hung between us, a fragile, brutal truth that shattered the formality we had carefully constructed. I wasn't asking about politics or duty; I was asking about us. I watched her eyes, searching for a hint of rejection, the fear from that wedding night surging back.
Li Lan finally looked at me, and I felt utterly exposed. I was not a prince to her; I was a man, wide-open with a desperate vulnerability I had never dared to show. I saw her take a sip of the wine, and her gaze finally returned to me.
"Happy?" she repeated softly.
I braced myself.
She placed her cup back on the table, the small clink echoing like a final verdict. "Here, in this place," she began, her voice gaining a surprising clarity and strength, "I have found myself. I have found my fate."
Her words were a profound declaration. They were not an answer to my question, and yet, they were everything. She wasn't unhappy. The words were not a rejection, but something else entirely—a powerful, new beginning that promised a future I could finally believe in. My heart, which had been a frozen, timid thing, began to thaw. I could finally breathe.