CHAPTER THREE

The days leading up to her departure passed in a blur, like pages torn from a book before she could read them.

Feng Mian barely left her room. Not because she wasn't allowed—no, her father had long since stopped caring about what she did—but because the air outside her door felt heavier than usual. Like something unseen lurked in the hallways, waiting.

Ruyao.

Every morning, the echoes of her voice could be heard from the study. Pleading. Arguing. Bargaining.

"Father, I'm the one who should be marrying him! Why her? Why, when she's never been good for anything?"

Her father never raised his voice in return. His answers were short, final, absolute.

"It has been decided."

And that was the end of it.

Mian had expected Ruyao to burst into her room in fury, to throw cruel words and sharpened insults like knives. But she didn't.

That silence was worse.

It meant Ruyao wasn't giving up.

It meant she was planning.

The only ones who behaved differently were the servants.

Mian wasn't sure what to make of them. The ones who had locked her in that room, who had held her arms so she wouldn't run. The ones who had done their part in ensuring she had no choice but to marry Liang Zeyan.

Yet now, they couldn't even meet her eyes.

One of them, the old maid who had worked for the Feng family since Mian was a child, stopped her in the hallway two nights before she was set to leave.

"Miss," the woman hesitated. Her face was lined with regret, her voice heavy with something Mian couldn't place. "We… we shouldn't have—"

Mian tilted her head, waiting.

But the woman never finished. She simply bowed her head, whispered, "I hope you will be happy," and walked away.

Happy.

Mian stared at the spot where the woman had stood.

That was a foolish thing to say.

Happiness was not something girls like her were given

Happiness was something that had to be stolen.

The morning of her departure arrived with little fanfare.

No goodbyes. No farewells.

Liang Zeyan came precisely on time. A sleek black car waiting outside, his presence commanding as always. He did not ask if she was ready. He did not ask if she wanted to say anything to her family.

He simply said, "Let's go."

And she followed.

There were no bags. No packed belongings.

Just the weight of her laptop in her arms and the soft press of her journal against her side, the only things in this house that had ever truly belonged to her.

She didn't look back.

If she did, she might hesitate.

And hesitation was dangerous.

The civil affairs office was too bright. Too loud.

The fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead, seeping into her skin, setting her teeth on edge. The air smelled of ink and worn-out paperwork, of bureaucracy and impatience.

She hated it.

She hated the way people stood too close, how strangers whispered too loudly, how the murmur of voices and the clicking of keyboards all blended into something too chaotic, too overwhelming.

She stayed close to Zeyan, not because she wanted to, but because he was predictable.

Predictability was something she could tolerate.

"Sit here," he said, guiding her to a chair near the desk of the official who would process their marriage certificate.

She obeyed without a word.

The official was a balding man in his fifties, his uniform slightly wrinkled, his expression one of thinly veiled boredom. His gaze flickered over Mian once, then back to Zeyan, immediately dismissing her as unimportant.

Suddenly, he asked a question.

But when she didn't respond fast enough, something changed.

His eyes narrowed.

He asked something again.

She opened her mouth. Tried to answer.

The words tangled. Her throat tightened. Her fingers twitched where they rested against her lap.

The official's lips curled in disdain.

"What's wrong with her?" he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for her to hear.

Mian stiffened.

She wasn't unfamiliar with that tone. She had heard it before. In classrooms, in hushed conversations when they thought she wasn't listening.

"She's not normal, is she?" the official scoffed. "Does she even understand what's happening?"

Mian's pulse roared in her ears.

She knew she should look down. That was the safest option. She had learned that long ago—people like him did not like being looked at directly.

But she couldn't stop herself.

Her eyes snapped up, locking onto his face. Watching. Memorizing. Calculating.

The man noticed.

His face twisted.

"What? You don't like being talked about? Well, maybe you should—"

A shadow loomed over them.

The shift in air was instant.

The official's words died in his throat.

Zeyan was back.

Mian hadn't even noticed him leave, but now he stood behind her chair, one hand on the desk, the other in his pocket. Relaxed. Composed.

And yet, the atmosphere had changed.

"I suggest," Zeyan said, his voice calm, but ice-cold, "you think very carefully about what you were about to say."

The official swallowed.

"I—"

Zeyan leaned in slightly, a mere fraction, but the man flinched as if struck.

Mian observed the way Zeyan's presence alone sent the man into panic mode. The way his carefully cultivated authority shattered any bravado the official had.

It was… fascinating.

"I don't tolerate incompetence," Zeyan continued, each word slow, deliberate, lethal. "Especially not from someone who clearly doesn't know his place."

"I-I didn't mean—"

"Do your job," Zeyan cut him off smoothly. "Or I will ensure this is the last time you sit behind this desk.

The man scrambled to process their paperwork.

Faster than necessary.

Zeyan didn't speak again, but he also didn't move away from her chair until the certificate was in his hand.

Only then did he straighten, slipping the document into the inner pocket of his coat as if it were nothing more than a receipt.

"Let's go."

Mian rose without hesitation.

She didn't spare the official another glance.

The drive was silent.

Not uncomfortable. Not tense.

Just… silent.

Mian didn't mind. She liked silence. Liked the space it gave her to think, to process, to exist without expectation.

But when they arrived at the house—their house—it hit her.

She stood at the entrance, her hands curled into the fabric of her sleeve, staring at the doorway like it was something foreign.

She was here.

Not at the Feng estate. Not in the cold, distant room she had called her own for years.

She was in his house.

A wife.

A married woman.

Her throat felt dry.

This is your life now.

One year.

That was what her father had said.

Just one year.

And then what?

She wasn't sure.

She didn't know if she wanted to be.