“I want to marry you.”
The man’s expression darkened with displeasure. “I am your father-in-law.”
Jiang Yuan tore the engagement document in two. “Not anymore.”
“I am over thirty. How old are you?”
“I’ve always loved mature, steady men.”
“My line will have no heir.”
“That’s fine.” Jiang Yuan pressed her palm to her still-flat stomach, her smile bright and vivid. “I’m already carrying a child.”
The man furrowed his brows and ventured a guess. “Lu Ze’s?”
Of course not.
Lu Ze was the adopted son of the man before her, Lu Qinian—and Jiang Yuan’s fiancé.
Two years prior, Lu Ze’s company had been stationed in Jiangjia Village. At the welcome gathering, he had set eyes on her—struck instantly by her striking beauty. For half a year he had lingered at her home, fetching water and chopping firewood daily, until he finally won the approval of her family and secured their consent to their engagement. Not long after, Lu Ze received orders transferring him back to the capital city. Before leaving, he promised he would submit the marriage application as soon as he arrived, then come for her and bring her to the capital to be wed.
Jiang Yuan waited from spring until late summer. Then, one day while gathering mushrooms in the mountains, she was dragged into a cave and assaulted by three ruffians.
She knew, with what had happened, her betrothal to Lu Ze was surely broken. He had said he would come for her soon, yet left no address. She had written a letter of parting, but had nowhere to send it.
In her past life, she had waited until the depths of winter before Lu Ze appeared—arriving with a cart of gifts, and his frail, delicate mother who could barely care for herself. They had caught sight of her belly, swollen beyond concealment after four months. Neither spoke a word; yet in their silence, everything had been said.
Rumours had swept through the village. They called Jiang Yuan a loose, shameless woman who could not survive without a man—spreading lies that she had entertained countless lovers and carried a bastard of unknown lineage, hoping to trick Lu Ze into raising another man’s child.
Jiang Yuan was beautiful. Men had long coveted her, yet while her military fiancé stood as her shield, they had dared not lay a finger on her. Now that the engagement was broken, those men, thinking there was no harm in taking what they felt was free for the taking, began to harass her day and night. When she refused them, they hurled every vile name they could imagine at her. The village women, seeing their own husbands enchanted and beyond their control, turned all their fury upon her.
Her father, once strong and proud, was driven to his grave by rage and grief. Her mother wept until her eyes failed. And she—she had been hounded until there was nowhere left to turn. She had perished in the snow, freezing to death on the road to the city, seeking a hope that never came.
When she opened her eyes again, Jiang Yuan knew. She had been reborn—returned to barely over a month after the assault. At this time, the villagers still spoke of her with envy: envy of her beauty, envy of her promising future with a fiancé who served in the capital. Yet only Jiang Yuan knew. In three or four months’ time, when her belly could no longer be hidden, their smiles would twist into malice. The tragedy of her past life would unfold all over again.
Having already died once, Jiang Yuan did not hesitate. She told her parents she was going to the capital to marry, took the torn engagement papers, and made her way to the military hospital.
“No more of that.”
“Go find whoever you belong to.”
“I belong to you,” she said.
The man’s fingers paused mid-flick as he tapped ash from his cigarette. He lifted his gaze and met hers—clear, bright almond eyes. For a fleeting instant, he had almost believed her. Absurd as it sounded, he let out a short, scoffing laugh. “Young lady, making wild claims will not solve anything.”
That the child within him was his—Jiang Yuan knew how utterly preposterous it sounded. Yet it was this man before her who had tended to her burial in her past life. He had found the resting place, dug the grave with his own hands, and raised the tombstone himself. He had spoken no word of blame; he had simply done everything.
Upon the stone were carved these words: *Beloved Wife Jiang Yuan, Beloved Son Lu Wang, Beloved Daughter Lu Xin—Husband Lu Qinian.*
He had acknowledged them himself. She was merely stating a fact—or so Jiang Yuan told herself.
“Very well!” Jiang Yuan steeled her resolve and spoke. “I wish to marry you. Write the marriage application—now.”
Through curling smoke, the man’s features were sharply defined, his gaze steady and calm. He exhaled slowly, his voice deep and resonant. “Tell me plainly. What is it you seek? Money? A position? Name whatever it may be.”
“I seek nothing—save to marry you.”
“And your reason?”
“I have taken a liking to you.”
The words drew a low chuckle from him. With his index finger he tapped the cigarette holder once more, dislodging the ash, his eyes never lifting. “And what, precisely, do you like about me?”
The truth, of course, was his standing as Lu Ze’s adoptive father. In her past life, Lu Ze had spoken at her graveside. He had admitted then that his own mother had hired those three ruffians—simply because she would not suffer her son to wed a village girl, even as Lu Ze had sworn he would marry no one but her.
“My mother only did what she did out of love for me,” Lu Ze had said, light and hollow, without a shred of true remorse. “She knows her mistake now. In the next life, I shall be your servant to atone for this.”
That had been all the explanation he had deemed sufficient. Lu Qinian, at least, had possessed more conscience than his adopted son. He had laid her and her unborn children to rest as his beloved wife, son, and daughter—a quiet, dignified acknowledgment of responsibility.
To marry Lu Qinian, and thus become Lu Ze’s adoptive mother… would be to grant Lu Ze the very chance to serve and atone that he had spoken of. And for Lu Qinian—this was simply what he had wished for, in his heart, in her past life.
Most of all: she would not walk the same path to ruin. If she wished to live, she must remain in the city.
The truth, naturally, could never be spoken aloud.
“You may find this hard to believe,” Jiang Yuan said, “but I had a dream. In it, you fell in love with me at first sight—deeply, irrevocably. You were willing to bear the stigma of scandal, to risk your entire distinguished career, just to claim me—your own daughter-in-law—as your wife. In time, I bore you a son and a daughter. You named them: Lu Wang, and Lu Xin. And always, you spoke of us as your beloved wife, your beloved son, your beloved daughter.”
Lu Qinian’s dark, well-defined brows drew together. Yet he remained silent, and let her speak on.
“If fate decrees that I shall be yours in the end…” Jiang Yuan continued, drawing nearer with a deliberate, graceful motion, “then why suffer all the awkwardness and disgrace along the way? Why not simply skip to the end—and marry you now?”
She seemed to consider this, then stepped close. Her slender, soft hands came to rest upon his shoulders. She circled round and settled herself naturally into his lap, her smile bright and radiant as a blooming flower.
Lu Qinian sat perfectly still. His cigarette-holding hand moved with quiet, gentlemanly restraint to create space between them. Then her breath was upon him, and before he could draw back, her teeth had closed gently, caught him by surprise.
Lu Qinian jerked his head back and broke free. With one hand he seized the back of her collar and pulled—tightening the fabric so it caught at her breath. Jiang Yuan drew back slowly, not quite finished, sensing she might be cast aside. Her hands reached back and covered his where they held her collar, her smile bright and unfaltering.
“I am with child, you know. If you are too rough… and something should happen to me—and to the three lives within me… I fear you would find it most difficult to explain.”
Lu Qinian was not angered by her boldness. He merely took hold of her slender wrists, his grip firm yet careful, and lifted her from his lap as one would lift a child—setting her gently upon the ground.
“Every life ends in death,” he said evenly. “By that reasoning, why should you not also skip straight to the end and die now?”
“And leave you behind to grieve your heart out?” Jiang Yuan replied, unabashed, her tone bright and assured. “That would be cruel indeed. I bear the engagement document written by your own adopted son. I bear the mark of your kiss upon my neck. And within me—your child. You may refuse to marry me if you wish. But know this: I shall take these papers, and my medical records, and go straight to your commanding officers. And I shall ask them—what justice there is for me.”
All those tales she had woven earlier—the dream, the premonition—had been nothing more than preparation. Now came the threat, laid bare and unapologetic.
Lu Qinian regarded her anew. Her face was delicate and fair, her gaze steady—and behind it, a shrewd, unmistakeable calculation. He could not help but speak, as one speaking to a wayward young woman:
“Tell me—have you no shame, no dignity left? To barter yourself so far, for nothing more than advancement?”
“General,” Jiang Yuan replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. “To one such as I—who has been at the mercy of others all her life—shame and dignity are worth less than dust.”