The next afternoon, at the bridal shop.
The saleswoman greeted Qu He warmly, but her gaze involuntarily drifted behind her. “Still… alone today?”
Qu He forced an awkward smile, her nails digging deep into her palm.
From the moment the wedding date was set until now—whether it was choosing the venue, trying on wedding dresses, or picking out rings—she had handled everything by herself.
Qian Zhaoye always had only one response: “You decide.”
But wasn’t it him who had made those promises, saying he would give her a home and warm her cold heart?
Before the floor-length mirror, the saleswoman was helping Qu He adjust her wedding dress.
Under the soft lighting, the one-shoulder satin mermaid gown gleamed, the side waist cutout accentuating her slender figure.
Qu He stared blankly at herself in the mirror—flawless makeup, but lifeless eyes, like a soulless puppet.
“Miss Qu, this dress was practically made for you!” the saleswoman exclaimed from behind. “Your husband will be amazed when he sees you.”
Qu He nodded, her smile somewhat stiff.
“Miss Qu?” Noticing she seemed lost in thought, the saleswoman, assuming Qu He didn’t like it, immediately put on a professional smile. “We just received a new dress from France yesterday. Let me go get it for you to try.”
Before Qu He could respond, the saleswoman had already hurried off.
Qu He slowly ran her palm over the satin fabric of the dress, the engagement ring on her ring finger catching the soft light.
Her mind drifted back to the words Qian Zhaoye had spoken when he put the ring on her finger: “A He, I will give you the most perfect wedding.”
Hmph.
The most perfect wedding?
A groom who wouldn’t even come to a dress fitting—what kind of perfect wedding was that?
Qian Zhaoye, in those few seconds when you slipped the ring onto my finger, were you thinking about our future—or about Qiao Mian?
Her phone suddenly vibrated. An anonymous email popped up, containing a video.
The moment she opened it, blood rushed to her head.
In the back seat of Qian Zhaoye’s Cayenne, Qiao Mian was straddling his lap, her red dress hiked up to her thighs, her red lips nibbling his ear.
“Are you really not going to accompany her to the dress fitting? What if she gets angry?” Qiao Mian’s voice was sickeningly sweet.
Qian Zhaoye’s hand slid beneath Qiao Mian’s skirt, a frivolous curl at the corner of his mouth, his tone unfamiliar: “She won’t.”
Qiao Mian’s hands climbed to his shoulders. “Are you so sure?”
“She’s stupid anyway. She believes whatever I say.”
The corner of Qian Zhaoye’s mouth lifted.
“Qu He has been with me for seven years. I’ve already given her the wedding and the title she wanted. Marrying her is just to make her devote herself fully to the company. Letting her handle the wedding arrangements—she’d be more than happy to do it!”
He hooked his hand under Qiao Mian’s chin and kissed her.
Their tongues intertwined, producing sickening wet sounds.
The video cut off abruptly, frozen on the sneer at the corner of Qian Zhaoye’s mouth.
A tear splashed onto the back of her hand, falling onto the wedding dress and leaving a damp stain.
It was all fake!
The happy marriage she had believed in was nothing more than a bargaining chip in Qian Zhaoye’s mind to support the company.
Those tender vows whispered in intimate moments—now that she thought about it, it was all acting.
Looking at herself in the mirror wearing the wedding dress, Qu He felt nothing but irony.
Qu He tore off the veil and stumbled out of the fitting room. The mermaid tail of the dress caught at her feet, but she didn’t stop, her hurried steps like she was fleeing a terrifying cage.
At the turn in the hallway, the saleswomen’s whispers drifted into her ears:
“Don’t you think it’s strange how Miss Qu always comes to try on dresses alone? Her husband has never once accompanied her—not even a single phone call or video.”
“Could she be… a mistress? The kind forcing a marriage? I’ve seen quite a few lately…”
“Stop it. She’s pitiful, really…”
Qu He’s steps halted. Her chest felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. Every breath was weak, as if she were suffocating.
So this was it. In other people’s eyes, she had become a pitiful mistress.
Seven years of her youth, and this was what it had come to.
Numbly, she turned back. Her mind was blank. The mermaid tail of the dress tangled around her ankle, and before she could react, her body lost all balance.
Just as she was about to hit the ground, a pair of arms appeared out of nowhere, catching her firmly around the waist. The world spun, and she fell into a solid chest.
The scent of cedarwood enveloped her instantly, surrounding her completely.
Qu He looked up and met a pair of deep, ink-black eyes.
It was him.
The head of the prestigious Zhuang family of Beicheng.
Zhuang Bieyan.
The Zhuang family of Beicheng—a century-old noble house, wielding power across both commerce and politics.
And the current head, Zhuang Bieyan, was hailed as a legendary figure—”the Zhuang Family Jade Tree, too sacred to be defiled.”
Calm and composed, he never revealed his emotions. His business tactics were ruthless, yet he never left himself open to criticism.
Not to mention his striking appearance and the aristocratic grace in every gesture—what commanded the most awe was his near-ascetic self-discipline and his adherence to the Zhuang family’s three hundred and twenty-one rules of conduct.
Whenever Zhuang Bieyan was mentioned, everyone knew: he was restrained and proper, upright and virtuous, abstaining from alcohol and tobacco, and keeping his distance from women. He was too perfect—so perfect that no one dared to profane him.
No matter the occasion, whenever he appeared, his suit was always impeccably pressed, his tie always perfectly straight, even the embroidery on his cuffs adhered to the ancestral traditions of the Zhuang family.
Yet the more so, the more it drew the daughters of Beicheng’s elite to flock after him, their confessions countless.
But although Zhuang Bieyan was already twenty-nine, he remained solitary, as if he were destined to be a flower on high, untouchable by the dust of the mortal world.
Qu He stared directly into his eyes—those calm, amber pupils as still as a deep pool. For whom would they ever stir with even a ripple…
“Careful.”
The man’s warm voice brushed past her ear like a feather, and Qu He suddenly snapped back to reality, only then realizing how ambiguous their current position was.
Her palm was pressed against his chest, and even through the suit jacket, she could feel the lines of his muscles. They were close enough that she could count his eyelashes.
Zhuang Bieyan’s hand firmly held her waist, his palm pressed against the bare skin at the cutout of her dress, the warmth gradually melding, searing her heart with a tremor.
Today, as always, Zhuang Bieyan wore a black, impeccably tailored three-piece suit, the dark-patterned gold tie pin at his collar glinting subtly under the soft lights.
His thin lips were pressed into a straight line, and he looked down at her with a slight frown. When his gaze caught her reddened eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbed faintly.
Qu He’s cheeks burned. Had he also overheard the shop assistants’ conversation?
Did he also think she was… a mistress?
In Zhuang Bieyan’s upright, jade-like twenty-nine years of life, would hearing such words feel like a stain on his ears?
Qu He scrambled to her feet. “Th-thank you, President Zhuang.” But in her haste, she hadn’t yet steadied herself when the wedding dress hem caught her steps, and she stumbled, falling to the side.
Fortunately, Zhuang Bieyan hadn’t let go. He extended his long arm and steadied her again.
His fingertips brushed almost imperceptibly across Qu He’s waist, sending a shiver through her.
“Stand steady, Miss Qu.”
How did Zhuang Bieyan know her name?
Qu He was about to speak when a sharp voice rang out from nearby: “What are you two doing?”