Chapter 28

Vivian

Vivian excused herself with the kind of soft smile that made noblewomen lean closer and servants step aside without question. She stood with grace, made some polite mention of needing the lavatory, and left the Zhou family dining room without looking back.

Her slippers whispered against the polished stone as she turned the first corner.

By the time she passed the hanging lanterns and stepped into the silent corridor outside the east wing, the air shifted.

And so did her face.

Gone was the practiced composure. The faint smile. The imperial stillness.

She leaned against a wooden pillar just past the carved window and exhaled—quiet but sharp.

What the hell was that?

She pressed a hand to her chest. Not because she was in pain, but because she could still feel the aftershocks of the night.

Since when did I kneel? Since when did I scrape? Since when did I act like—like that—in front of a man I barely know? A man I don't even like?

The Li heiress did not perform. The Li heiress expected performance.

And yet tonight… she had bowed so deeply her braid brushed the floor.

She had handed out gifts like blessings from the heavens.

She had smiled at children. Thanked servants. Let Margaret Zhou feed her like a beloved daughter.

None of that had been the plan.

She had intended to arrive late. Just late enough to make a point. Just long enough to remind them who she was.

But then the Path Icon footage had resurfaced in her mind—her father. Ethan. That moment in the grand hall, when he'd stood between Zhenhua and Jin Xun and declared that the honor of House Li was his to protect.

That she was his to protect.

That hadn't been performance. It hadn't been strategy. It had been restraint. Grace. Power worn with humility.

And something inside her had clicked.

If he could do that for her… then she could show him the same.

But if she was going to do it, she would do it flawlessly. No half-measures. No clipped gestures or symbolic bows.

She would show respect as if it were a sword drawn—not for battle, but for peace.

And yet...

She dragged a hand down her face.

Why did I get snippy when he was talking to the Wang daughter?

The question landed like a slap.

She had told herself it was about propriety. About appearances. That a husband, in front of family, should know better than to make his bride invisible.

But that voice—too quiet, too honest—rose from the back of her mind like a ghost: If it was just about respect… why did it feel like betrayal?

She had said it lightly, of course: "It's rare for a husband to ignore his wife at dinner." Just polite enough. Just edged enough to land.

But she'd meant it.

And she'd meant it personally.

He shouldn't have been talking to Claire, she thought again. I'm his wife. He should be paying attention to me.

She froze. That thought, raw and reflexive, echoed like thunder in the corridor.

What the f*** ?

She straightened from the pillar, staring at nothing. There it was again. Unbidden. Unsettling.

I'm his wife.

Politically. Socially. Emotionally? Possessively?

The very thing she'd designed the marriage to avoid.

Her jaw tightened. She turned abruptly, walking down the corridor with quick, silent steps—not back to the dining room. Not yet.

She needed a moment to collect herself. Or maybe to run from a thought that refused to be buried.

Vivian returned to the dining hall composed.

No, more than composed—flawless. Every line of her robe refolded. Her expression perfectly blank.

The softness that had slipped in earlier was packed away again, sealed behind silk and instinct.

She stepped through the threshold like she hadn't just questioned her own sanity.

Ethan glanced up as she entered. Their eyes met.

He didn't smile. Didn't nod. But his posture shifted ever so slightly. As if he'd been watching for her.

She moved back to her seat beside Margaret with a faint incline of her head. The table had returned to idle chatter in her absence.

Claire's voice was the loudest, making some dry remark about market trends and southern tariffs.

No one responded.

Vivian allowed herself a breath.

Then—

A ripple.

Not magical. Social.

The outer hall murmured with the soft rustle of arrival: attendants announcing a carriage, doors opening, voices too practiced to be accidental.

A servant leaned in and whispered to Margaret, who brightened immediately.

"Oh, wonderful timing. I was hoping they'd stop by."

Vivian didn't ask who "they" were.

She didn't have to wait long.

The doors parted like the opening of a stage curtain.

And in glided Marissa Lin.

Short. Glossy-haired. Dressed in soft coral robes cinched tightly around a frankly outrageous figure.

Eighteen years old, already the subject of four fan-painted Path Icon scrolls. Breasts far too generous for her frame, hips that swayed with weaponized innocence, and eyes that sparkled like she didn't know she was chaos incarnate.

But make no mistake—Vivian didn't underestimate her. Marissa Lin knew exactly what she was doing.

She absolutely knew.

Vivian's jaw didn't tighten. Her eyes didn't narrow.

But something cold and serpentine coiled low in her spine.

The Lin family entered in practiced formation: Marissa at the center, radiant in soft coral silk, flanked by her parents—Lord and Lady Lin—minor nobles with respectable holdings along the southern border.

Their wealth came from ancestral trade routes and seasonal jade exports, but their influence came from proximity: old Zhou blood, tied by shared rites and centuries of politically expedient marriages.

This visit was not spontaneous. This had intent.

Lord Lin bowed to Margaret and Robert Zhou with the appropriate blend of formality and ease.

"We're grateful to be received on such short notice. My daughter has been eager to offer her respects."

Lady Lin smiled tightly. "It's not every day the Zhou sons return with their brides."

Her eyes flicked—first to Claire, then to Vivian. Evaluating.

Claire stood and bowed lightly. "Lady Lin. Lord Lin. A pleasure."

Vivian followed suit, just slightly more precise. Claire was warm. Vivian was flawless.

Neither smiled.

Marissa, of course, curtsied last.

A little deeper than necessary. A little slower.

The kind of curtsey meant to catch light and draw eyes.

"I hope we're not intruding," she said sweetly, her voice bright with unearned innocence.

Margaret rose with a practiced smile. "Not at all, Marissa dear. We're so pleased you could make it. Come, come—sit. You remember Ethan, don't you?"

Marissa turned her head with an exaggerated kind of grace.

And beamed.

Marissa practically skipped over, the top of her head barely reaching Ethan's shoulder as she slid into the empty seat at his other side.

Ethan straightened—just slightly. "Marissa," he said calmly. "You've grown."

She tittered. "You always say that. Maybe you just haven't caught up. But—"

Marissa leaned forward in a very exaggerated way.

Vivian picked up her teacup.

It didn't rattle.

Claire glared, her eyes sharpening like knives.

Marissa turned her entire body toward Ethan, one leg crossed over the other in a deliberate show of bounce and angle.

And suddenly, she was laughing at everything he said—even the things he didn't say.

Vivian watched it all with the elegance of a queen watching court jesters perform.

Detached.

Above it.

Unbothered.

Until Marissa reached out—lightly—fingertips brushing Ethan's sleeve.

That's when Vivian set her cup down.

Softly.

So softly it made more noise than if she'd slammed it.

The table quieted for half a second.

Marissa blinked.

Claire blinked harder.

Ethan glanced her way.

And Vivian—still smiling—tilted her head just enough to catch his eye.

He held her gaze for a breath. Then turned back to Marissa.

Vivian folded her hands in her lap.

She wasn't jealous. Of course not.

She was just… noticing. That was all.

After all, she'd already done more than she should have tonight.

And if the little peach blossom with breasts bigger than her ambition thought this was her moment—

Well.

She was wrong.

And Vivian would make sure she understood that.