Chapter 4: The Sentence of a Lifetime

The Bund is an illusion.

A masterpiece of colonial grandeur, standing untouchable—majestic, arrogant, unshaken by the shifting tides of war. A mirage of foreign power, draped in stone and steel, promising permanence in a world that never stops changing.

You walk along the waterfront promenade, chin tilted high, devouring the city with your eyes.

British banks, French consulates, towering edifices that whisper of wealth and invincibility. You hate them. The men in tailored suits, the way they carry themselves as if Shanghai belongs to them—as if China belongs to them. But beneath the loathing, another emotion simmers, one you can barely admit even to yourself.

You want this kind of power.

Not the fleeting power of a nobleman's daughter, pretty and obedient, existing at the mercy of men in boardrooms and war rooms. No, you want the kind of power that makes empires bow. The kind that rewrites history.

You aren't stupid. You know people whisper about you behind their fans—spoiled, reckless, ungrateful—but what do they expect? That you sit quietly, sip tea, and let fate script your life for you?

No.

Your father, General Liang, has spent his life carving a legacy out of war and bloodshed. And yet his power is waning. From security to economy, everything is slowly becoming unstable. Like the muddy bank of the Bund, on the surface, everything appears fine, but the strong currents within indicate turmoil. You aren't ignorant of the war, of your family's accounts, of the corruption running everywhere in the city. You know in your bones that you can resolve these problems, that your conspiracy theories and your strategies—however wild—would break down this network of powerlessness.

And yet, even as you stand there, soaking in the scent of the river, the lingering perfume of imported cigars and sea salt, something inside you knows the truth.

No matter how much you want to conquer this city, you are still trapped in a cage.

And then, your world shatters.

Your father's voice is steel, cutting through the quiet luxury of your private dinner.

"The wedding will take place in four days."

The tea in your cup sloshes violently, nearly spilling. You must have misheard him. You must have.

You lift your gaze. Your father sits at the head of the table, posture rigid, his uniform crisp, a symbol of power and control. Your mother sits beside him, silent. And that silence is worse than anything else.

You can't breathe.

"Whose wedding?" you ask, though you already know the answer.

Your father doesn't look up from his meal. "Yours."

The air thickens. Crashes into you.

No. No, no, no, no.

To Hasegawa Kenji. A Japanese officer. A man whose people have carved through Nanjing, who have reduced cities to ashes, who have taken and taken and taken—and now they will take you, too.

"No." The word falls from your lips before you can stop it. Your father's chopsticks pause mid-air.

He finally looks at you. "You do not have a choice."

You want to scream. To overturn the table, to rip apart the suffocating walls of this house, to demand—why? Why would he do this? Why now?

Instead, you grit your teeth. "We are at war."

"Yes." His voice is maddeningly calm. "And war is won through strategy."

"You are selling me to the enemy."

Your father's eyes harden. "I am securing your future."

A sharp laugh nearly breaks out of your throat. Your future? What future? A lifetime of playing the obedient wife to a foreigner who sees your people as nothing more than pawns? A lifetime of being caged?

You don't remember how the dinner ends. You don't remember how you get to your room.

All you know is that you lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, pulse racing, mind spiraling.

You have four days.

Four days before you are bound forever.

The Plan: Survive or Die Trying

You have never planned on running away before.

Yes, you have dreamed of freedom, fantasized about breaking out of your father's grip, but it has always been just that—a dream. Now it is a necessity.

You sit at your desk, ink staining your fingers as you scribble frantic calculations onto a crumpled sheet of paper.

How much silver can you steal before your father locks everything down?

Who can you trust? No one.

How long can you survive before you are dragged back?

The city is a monster with a thousand eyes—watching, whispering, waiting for you to slip. Women like you don't disappear. They are found.

You have to make this work.

You will not marry.

You will not be owned.

You will not be caged.

Your hands tremble as you press your forehead against the cool wood of the desk.

The weight of everything crashes into you.

You are alone.

And yet, even as fear curls inside your chest, a cold, sharp resolve settles in your bones.

If you are going to burn, you will burn on your own terms.

The Execution

The halls of the Liang estate are cold.

Not in temperature, but in spirit. Unforgiving. Stifling.

Sandalwood smoke curls through the air, laced with the faint sharpness of ink and the lingering sweetness of jasmine tea. Somewhere beyond the shoji screens, servants murmur—whispering about you.

You stare at your reflection in the polished vanity mirror.

The maids have dressed you meticulously, as if preparing you for slaughter. A silk cheongsam embroidered with golden cranes, its fabric a deep, obedient red. Delicate hairpins gleam under the lantern light, pearls pressed against your scalp like miniature shackles.

You look perfect. A woman sculpted into obedience. A prized possession, not a person.

A knock at the door.

"Miss Liang," a voice murmurs. "Your father is waiting."

The weight of duty presses against your shoulders.

Your last night as Liang Yue.

You step forward, your breath slow, measured, the final steps of a woman walking to her execution.

The grand reception hall swallows you whole.

Towering wooden beams stretch high, dragons coiled in silent judgment. Ornate screens conceal the world outside, and at the heart of it all sits your father—unmoving. Beside him, your mother grips a porcelain teacup too tightly, as if bracing for a storm.

And to his right stands Hasegawa Kenji.

Your betrothed.

He watches you like a purchase already made.

"The wedding is in three days," your father says. His voice leaves no room for argument.

No.

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You lift your chin. Steady your voice.

"Father," you say, "I refuse this marriage."

Silence.

Then—

Porcelain shatters. A sharp crack as the cup in your father's hand fractures against his palm.

His voice, dangerously quiet—

"What did you say?"

You meet his gaze, unflinching.

"I refuse."

And for the first time in your life, you realize—

You are willing to lose everything to be free.