When she woke, even though she was covered with two thick red silk quilts embroidered with golden “Hundred Sons” patterns and three silver braziers still glowed in the room, Mi Yao felt today’s chill was sharper than yesterday’s. She pushed open the carved window lattice. Morning mist spread thickly, and the distant mountain ranges were a stark sheet of white, with no trace of green left.
The river wind cut like a blade. Mi Yao quickly shut the window, wrapped herself tighter in the quilt, and lay back down with closed eyes until her breath steadied.
“Elder Sister, are you sleeping again?” Yu Xiu, who lived in the adjoining chamber, had risen early, eaten breakfast, and guessed the time Mi Yao would wake. Hearing movement at the door, she brought in hot water, only to find Mi Yao still lying down.
Mi Yao murmured, sat up clutching her quilt, and waited until Yu Xiu placed before her a steaming basin infused with peony dew, chrysanthemum, and mulberry leaves. Only then did she open her drowsy eyes and begin her facial steaming.
It always took at least two attendants to serve Mi Yao’s morning toilette.
Her maid Shuang Hua held a shallow silver basin carved with apricot blossoms and parrots, while Yu Xiu drew out an ivory comb from a tortoiseshell box, carefully combing Mi Yao’s hair while making sure she didn’t slump into the warm water.
“Elder Sister, your hair grows lovelier each day,” Yu Xiu sighed, as she always did.
Half a year ago, Mi Yao’s hair, though black and glossy, was not thick; she had to rely on wigs and ornaments to support heavy gold hairpins. Now, without any jewels, her dark tresses flowed like silk, as soft and radiant as a celestial robe.
At first, Yu Xiu thought hair care was just another way to please Mi Yao and stay close to her. Who would have guessed such careful tending could truly transform her hair?
And it wasn’t only her hair. In these six months, Mi Yao herself had changed in ways that broadened Yu Xiu’s vision.
At fourteen, Mi Yao had already been hailed as the “First Beauty of Jiangnan.” Her features were naturally unlike ordinary women—graceful, poised, serene. Yet who would have thought that a peony already famed for its beauty could bloom even more brilliantly?
In the past, Mi Yao’s love of beauty was limited to jewels and clothing. Most of her time was spent studying music, chess, calligraphy, and painting, dazzling guests at banquets with her talents. But since her marriage was arranged half a year ago, she had changed. She no longer attended flower gatherings or banquets, spending most of her time in her chamber, devoted to tending her appearance.
Now the steaming basin was carried away, and Shi Ya soaked a soft silk cloth in a decoction of sandalwood, centella, and bergamot, wrung it out, and laid it over Mi Yao’s eyes.
After several rounds of hot and cold compresses, her lashes—thick as tiny parasols—fluttered open. She sipped her morning tea, brewed from herbs and blossoms, while Shuang Hua brought forward a porcelain fish bowl.
Mi Yao’s gaze followed the darting movements of the little fish. Rising steam curled like ethereal mist, and within it she seemed a fairy of Penglai—skin like jade, features glowing with rosy light. Her face had not changed in structure: deer-like almond eyes, a fine nose, lips like cinnabar. Yet somehow it was different.
Yu Xiu could not describe it—before, Mi Yao was merely graceful as an immortal; now, though her face was the same, it carried an otherworldly aura, making her a true goddess of beauty.
“If only I had half your looks, Elder Sister, surely Brother-in-law would glance at me more often,” Yu Xiu whispered hopefully.
Mi Yao disliked elaborate hairstyles; a simple falling-horse bun with a lotus-and-cloud hairpin of gold and jade was enough. She began dressing, but at Yu Xiu’s words—seeing the yearning on her young face—her hands paused.
She had lived in this book’s world for half a year now. She had accepted her new identity, even enjoyed the rise in status it brought. Yet hearing a thirteen-year-old girl long for her future brother-in-law’s affection still jarred her.
Yu Xiu was her half-sister, born of a maid, unlike Mi Yao, who was the legitimate daughter. Their father had little talent but great fertility; besides one elder brother, Mi Yao had more than ten half-siblings.
Even in a noble house, too many children diluted their worth. Some daughters without mothers lived worse than favored maids. Yu Xiu, from childhood, had followed Mi Yao like a servant rather than a sister—and accepted it gladly. She had even begged the family head to let her accompany Mi Yao as a concubine when Mi Yao married far away to Shu.
But Mi Yao remembered Yu Xiu’s fate in the novel: the male lead never favored her, finding her too young, even humiliating her when she tried to please him. Unable to win his regard, Yu Xiu clung to the heroine, becoming her loyal shadow.
The book never detailed Yu Xiu’s end, but since the heroine died brutally, Yu Xiu’s fate could hardly be better.
The novel *Overlord* was a male-oriented power fantasy. The heroine, as the male lead’s ex-wife, lived tolerably before marriage. Praised as Jiangnan’s first beauty from age fourteen, she was courted by powerful families. Her marriage was delayed until she was seventeen, when the foster son of Huainan governor, Xiao Xu, won merit in battle. At a banquet, he joked that he wanted only a beauty unforgettable at first sight. Someone mentioned her name. Soon, he sought her hand.
Though her family disliked his foster-son status, they agreed, fearing offense to greater powers. Yet Mi Yao had already pledged herself to her cousin. She plotted to elope, even arranging for Yu Xiu to take her place.
But Xiao Xu discovered the deception, seized her himself, and from then on their marriage was poisoned. She tormented his children until two died, leaving only one half-dead son.
Xiao Xu’s hatred was boundless. He imprisoned her in a water dungeon, then flayed and dismembered her alive.
Mi Yao shuddered at the memory. The heroine’s deeds were cruel, but Xiao Xu was a monster.
She had first read *Overlord* as a screenwriter, tasked with adapting it. The company wanted a female lead to soften the male hero. But seeing his sadism, she thought: such a man should have no romance.
Not long after she had this thought, she opened the document and had only typed a few words when a sharp pain struck her heart. The next time she woke up, she was already here.
In her old life, overwork was routine. Her heart often ached; her face twitched under stress. She had planned to get checked at the hospital, but deadlines never ended. Coffee was her only medicine. In the end, she died at her desk.
After arriving here, she lay in bed for a month, numb. One day, disgusted by her own stench, she bathed—and saw in the mirror flawless skin, a face radiant as dawn. For the first time, she felt a spark of will. Since then, she devoted herself to caring for this new body.
The original heroine not only shared her name but also had features that were seven or eight parts similar, like a more refined version of herself.
Beyond that, the heroine’s beauty was lush and delicate, clearly the face of a sixteen- or seventeen‑year‑old girl. By contrast, her own face had been worn down by endless overtime: her figure distorted, her skin rough, and though only in her twenties, she already bore the eye bags, tear troughs, and deep lines of a woman in her forties.
In adolescence, her looks had brought her some advantages, but more often they drew messy voices around her. If she used skincare or makeup, she was called vain and dishonest. If life offered her conveniences, people said it was only because of her face. If her grades slipped even slightly, they said she had beauty but no brains.
She had been too young then, too sensitive to those voices. To prove herself, she began working day and night in college, and within a year of graduation, she had built her own studio. To appear professional, she increasingly hid in shadowed corners, pale behind thick black‑rimmed glasses, hammering at the keyboard—the image of a reliable screenwriter.
If asked whether her years of effort had yielded anything, the answer was certainly yes: she repaid her student loans, bought a spacious apartment downtown, and had employees who called her “boss.”
But… she was exhausted.
Had she not died suddenly, she would have kept striving, aiming to become a top screenwriter in the industry. But since she had already died.
Rather than a beast of burden, she now only wanted to be a pampered wife.
The male lead wanted an obedient, beautiful trophy wife; she would be the perfect vase, even her toes fragrant with flowers. As for the heroine’s tragic fate—tormenting the male lead’s children and ending miserably—that was not her path.
She had come here to rest, to enjoy life. She would not chase “true love” like the original heroine. As long as she could eat well, drink well, and lie comfortably, she would not resent any stepchildren. She could even call them “babies” if needed.
Ideally, they would all live peacefully: she would neither harm nor meddle, and they would keep their distance.
She would quietly be a beautiful, perfectly polished, brain‑free ornamental wife.