They gazed at each other for a long moment before Song Bo looked away.
“Not only that.”
Song Bo poured himself another glass of wine and stood up, walking over to the window. Su Fuying followed, took the glass from his hand and placed it in her own. She took a small sip, then glanced at him.
“Then what else? Is it about that ambush?”
Song Bo looked at Su Fuying drinking from his glass, his eyes flickering with emotion. He said nothing, his silence speaking for itself.
Su Fuying drained the glass in one go, set it down on the round table beside her, and turned to look out the window. Then she said deliberately, “Do you think I’m holding you back?”
Song Bo turned to her and saw that her cheeks were flushed. Su Fuying had a poor tolerance for wine; she had already drunk two glasses. The red wine was strong; she seemed fine now, but soon she would likely be drunk.
“No,” Song Bo denied her claim. His hand tightened slightly where it rested on the windowsill.
“I only think… that being with me is unfair to you.”
Su Fuying’s brows drew together sharply. “I don’t feel wronged in the slightest.”
Song Bo looked at her and spoke softly, voicing the thought that had weighed on his heart these past days. “I feel that you are wronged.”
“Once we are married, you will be my wife. Every journey you take from then on will carry danger. You deserve a life of brightness and joy—not one of constant flight and fear.”
At his words, Su Fuying thought of the day she had killed someone. She gave a faint, bitter smile. “Do you truly believe I am made for brightness and joy?”
“After what happened at the engagement banquet, and that ambush… I had hoped you would realize I am not a good woman. I have turned even my own sister against me—and I have killed without hesitation.”
She looked straight at him. “I am not bright. I am not happy. Nor have I ever known a single day of peace.”
“Song Bo… you told me once, that with you, I would never have to worry about anything. Are you not contradicting your own words right now?”
The wine finally went to her head. She turned to pour another glass, her steps unsteady. Song Bo caught her arm to stop her and spoke gently.
“It is because I am afraid.”
Su Fuying heard the words clearly, pressed close to his chest. He took the glass from her hand and set it back on the table, then reached out to steady her, for she could barely stand. But she pulled him back instead, her gaze burning bright into his.
“Afraid of what?”
“That you might be hurt. That you might never know happiness.”
“Song Bo,” she said steadily, “these are war-torn times. You know better than anyone that enemy planes and cannons can appear above our heads at any moment. Danger. Injury. These are things that may come to pass—whether I stand at your side or elsewhere. I could face them all the same.”
“If you wish to break off our engagement because of this… then say it plainly.”
She pushed him away, swaying as she retrieved her bag. She looked at him, her gaze hazy yet cold. “Song Bo. Young Marshal. You make me despise you.”
Perhaps it was the wine, but as she turned away, her composure finally cracked. Her heart was in turmoil. She understood what he meant.
Song Bo was now a prize coveted not only by the two rival factions, but by the South as well. Once they wed, Su Fuying would live forever in the glare of greedy eyes—danger looming at every turn.
But then she realized something. She could no longer content herself with merely being the Marshal’s wife. She could not say exactly when it had begun—perhaps when he had appeared to defend her from Su Qingwan’s taunts while she walked with his mother; perhaps when he had made that solemn vow at their engagement banquet; perhaps when he had sheltered her in his arms through the storm; perhaps on that night walk by the river, when her heart had leaped; or perhaps during the ambush, when he had stood before her to shield her.
Her feelings had shifted long ago, quietly and irrevocably. What she truly wanted was simply to be Song Bo’s wife. She had not noticed the change as it happened—and now that she had, it was already too late to turn back.
She stumbled out the door, her steps unsteady. She barely made it a few paces before she had to lean against the wall for support.
Why must her tolerance be so weak?! If only she were sober—she would have walked away with her head held high.
Instead, heat burned through her chest, and her head spun dizzily. She fought to stand upright and take another step—until she heard the sharp, steady sound of military boots striking stone behind her.
The next moment, a firm hand caught her arm, and she was swept up into strong arms, lifted effortlessly against his chest. Her head swam. Su Fuying did not hold back; she wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her heavy head against his chest. Beneath her ear, his heart beat fast and strong.
She could make sense of little else. Vaguely, she knew she was carried out to the car, and then carried back inside—home, to the Su family residence. She was laid gently upon her bed. The room spun. Through half-closed eyes, she watched him.
Song Bo knelt by the bed. He slipped off her shoes, pulled the covers up around her, and brushed the stray hairs gently from her face. A servant stood nearby, pouring water. Su Fuying felt the light touch and, half out of irritation and half from the ticklish sensation, turned her face away.
Song Bo’s hand paused, then slowly withdrew.
“I am sorry.”
That was all—the apology she had been waiting to hear. Su Fuying closed her eyes, and the world around her faded away.
Song Bo returned to the Song residence. His mother had just come home from playing mahjong and looked up in surprise to see him.
“What brings you back so early?” She set her handbag down and studied his face. “And what is wrong? You look dreadful. Has something happened at the barracks?”
She sat down on the sofa opposite him. There was a pause before he spoke, his voice low and heavy.
“No. I have… done wrong today.”
His mother stared, then understood at once.
“You have made Fuying angry?”
When he remained silent, she rolled her eyes at him in exasperation. “Her examinations have barely finished—and you go and upset her? Have you no sense at all? What did you do? Tell me.”
Song Bo’s eyes fell shut briefly. “During the ambush… she nearly lost her life. I am surrounded by enemies on all sides. And I am afraid—that I will not be able to keep her safe.”
His mother stared at him in disbelief. “So—you mean to call off the engagement?!”
Before he could speak, she grabbed a pillow and launched it at him.
“You fool! You are sharp enough on the battlefield—how can you be so utterly stupid here?! You deserve a good thrashing! I ought to beat some sense into you!”
The first volley fell.
His mother sat back, fuming in silence.
Then Song Bo spoke again. “There is… a classmate of hers. A close one.”
His mother answered without thinking. “A boy?”
Song Bo said nothing.
The second volley came.
“You absolute idiot!”
She huffed, arms crossed, staring at him over the pillow. “What did Fuying say to you?”
At the memory of Su Fuying’s cold face and biting tone, Song Bo let out a self-mocking laugh. “She told me… that even she despises me.”
The third volley came.
“You heartless, brainless fool!”
His mother was nearly beside herself with rage, and the pillow struck him again with no diminished force.
At last Song Bo’s father appeared, wheeled out by a servant. “Now, now—what is all this? Sit down and catch your breath, my dear.”
At the sight of him, his mother dropped the pillow, smoothed her skirts, and sat back, gradually calming herself. She fell silent for a moment, then sighed deeply.
“I understand you, truly.” She looked toward her husband in the wheelchair. “Your own father is living proof. How could you not fear the same fate?”