Su Fuying gathered the shawl gently around her shoulders. “Thank you.”
They stood in quiet companionship, watching the sun set upon the water and the occasional bird gliding across the sky. He asked no questions—and in his silence, Su Fuying felt a profound assurance: no matter what befell her, he would always stand as her surest defence.
Presently, she turned to him. “I am hungry.”
He looked back at her. “Shall we return to the restaurant we visited before?”
When they arrived, a full feast had already been laid out. Song Bo had prepared everything in advance. Su Fuying wasted no time; she sat and ate with steady purpose. Song Bo watched her, quietly helping herself to dishes, sensing the weight she had carried slowly easing away.
When she looked up, she asked softly, “Shall we drink wine?”
Song Bo had ordered a mild vintage, expecting perhaps another revelation of her unexpected depth. Instead, he watched her drink one cup—and then lose consciousness entirely.
Song Bo supported her as she swayed, unable to suppress a tender smile. She lay in his arms, long lashes resting against flushed cheeks, stray strands of hair falling softly across her forehead, impossible to look away from. He smoothed her hair back, settled the shawl securely about her, and lifted her gently into his arms to carry her from the private room.
Evening had fallen and the dining hall was still crowded. Commander Song, in full military dress, carried his beautiful fiancée out through the room. His steady step sent the hem of her gown swaying; her silver heels caught the light, and glimpses of delicate white ankles appeared and vanished. Men and women alike paused, gazing after them, spellbound.
When Su Fuying awoke, it was morning. The sun streamed brightly into the room, and her head felt heavy. She recalled then—she had drunk wine last night. One cup, and she had remembered nothing more. She pressed her temples gently. In her past life, it had been only after years of navigating the Qin household’s intrigues that she had built any tolerance at all. Now, in this life, she was still utterly unaccustomed to it. She had returned to the past—but not as the woman she had grown to be.
She rose from the bed and noticed a glass of water and a note upon the bedside table. The handwriting was bold and confident:
“Rest well if you feel unwell. The estate may be visited at any time. Should you wish to go, or should you need me for any reason, call this number.”
Su Fuying set the note aside, drank the water, and walked to the window. Rain had fallen overnight; the garden below lay lush and green, and the air felt fresh and clear. She washed and dressed, then opened the door to find Aunt Wu standing there with a tray, hand raised as if about to knock.
“Miss, you are awake. Your father bade me bring you breakfast.”
“Thank you. Set it inside, please. I shall telephone downstairs and then return.”
Su Hanhai had already departed for work. Downstairs, only the soft sounds of cleaning broke the silence. She stood before the telephone and dialled. It rang twice before being answered. Song Bo’s voice came over the line, deeper and richer than in person, sending a faint, pleasant tingle down her spine.
“Hello.”
“It is I—Su Fuying.”
The rustle of papers paused on the other end. “I know. How do you feel?”
“I am quite well,” she said. “Thank you for all your care last evening.”
“It was my duty,” Song Bo replied. “We may visit the estate another day. Rest today.”
“Nonsense—let us go today. Walking about will serve me better than poring over books.”
“Very well. I shall come for you.”
Su Fuying replaced the receiver and looked up to see Su Qingwan standing glowering at the head of the stairs, her expression dark and full of malice. She had entirely forgotten to wonder how Su Qingwan had returned last night.
Su Fuying ascended. Su Qingwan stood rigid, staring at her with burning intensity—yet whenever Su Fuying met her gaze, that burning look dissolved into unmistakable fear.
Su Fuying smiled. “I am going out. Would you like to come?”
Su Qingwan said nothing. Su Fuying walked past her, then paused at her door and looked back. “We are going to the Song Estate. Are you certain you would not care to join us?”
At those words, Su Qingwan’s composure shattered completely. She rushed forward. “What business have you there?!”
Su Fuying stepped back, slipping into her room and turning the lock just as Su Qingwan lunged forward. One does not allow a rabid creature to bite unchallenged, she thought calmly. Through the closed door she spoke clearly.
“Why—to inspect our future marital home, of course.”
Outside, Su Qingwan’s voice came disbelieving and trembling. “The Song Estate… their marital home…”
Rage stripped away her reason. She beat wildly upon the door. “Impossible! You lie!”
The noise drew curious glances from the household staff. Su Qingwan fell abruptly silent and retreated to her room, her steps hollow and lifeless. Through the wall, Su Fuying heard her murmuring over and over: “It is a trap. All of it is false. A snare.”
Su Fuying sat down to her breakfast. Aunt Wu, tidying the room, glanced toward the door and spoke quietly. “The Second Miss has been greatly altered of late. Most strange.”
Su Fuying looked up. “How did she return home last night?”
Aunt Wu saw nothing amiss. “Why—she was quite intoxicated. The Commander sent his men to escort her back.”
Intoxicated?
“She wandered in a daze,” Aunt Wu continued. “Spoke not a single word. Dismissed us all and locked herself away.”
Su Fuying’s lips curved slowly upward. Intoxication was merely a convenient excuse.
She set down her bowl. “You may clear these away.”
Aunt Wu withdrew. Su Fuying opened her wardrobe and chose her attire. She was visiting her future home—dignity and grace were called for. She selected a finely tailored jacket-and-cheongsam set in deep black, embroidered with subtle motifs. A polka-dot silk scarf softened the neckline and echoed the skirt’s pattern; the fitted jacket accentuated her slender waist. She arranged her hair half-up, half-loosed in soft waves, and wore pearl drop earrings. Poised, elegant, and radiating quiet nobility.
In her past life, the Qin household had eventually afforded her every luxury. When Qin Yiheng was pleased, he gave generously; his mother, mindful of the family name, also ensured she wanted for nothing. As the young mistress of the Qin household, she paid for nothing—and slowly, her taste had ripened into something exquisite. Even now, her choices were understated, yet undeniably striking.
The sound of an automobile drew near. Su Fuying stood at the window and looked down. Song Bo had alighted and stood gazing upward. He wore no uniform today—only a well-tailored black suit, yet he carried himself with such innate distinction that it could not be hidden. Seeing her standing at the window watching him, the furrow of his brow smoothed away, and in his steady gaze, the coldness melted into something soft and warm.