The woman abruptly withdrew her hand, striking down once more, the sharp crack of the slap resounding in the air.

"Ouch, ouch, if you hit me again, I’ll really be in pain..." Mo Qiehuai, who had endured three slaps in succession, still smiled unaffected. Seeing her hand about to strike again, he quickly grabbed it, saying, "Rouge, look, your hand is all red. Does it hurt?"

"Didn't you say it was worth it, even if it killed you?"

Her voice, breathless from agitation, trembled slightly.

"But when your palm aches, my heart aches tenfold," Mo Qiehuai drawled, whispering softly into her ear. The woman finally couldn’t hold back her laughter.

"Young master, your face is harder than a city wall."

"Yet your lips are as sweet as honey, and I'd risk my life just for a taste." He gently caressed her face, a triumphant smile lighting his eyes, which gleamed under the moonlit sky.

"How bold."

She slapped his hand away from her face, her voice rising in rebuke.

"What authority, milady," he said, once again displaying his shameless skill. He grasped her hand and pressed it against his abdomen, saying, "Feel that? My courage is about to be scared away."

"You!"

Even in her innocence, she understood the intimacy of her hand’s contact with him. Her face, already pale, seemed almost translucent in the candlelight. Now, flushed either with anger or embarrassment, a faint blush appeared.

"A face like peach blossom."

Hearing his teasing, she withdrew her hand abruptly. Her beautiful eyes glistened with a faint, glassy light, as if washed over by anger.

Suddenly, she smiled again, her expression as fluid as water, taunting Mo Qiehuai.

"You... do you like me, or do you like every woman who’s ever stayed in this room?"

Her smile, like the slowly fading hues of the setting sun, was enchanting and bewildering.

His long, slender fingers pressed against his forehead, as though troubled. Though he knew she couldn't see, his lips still curved into a dashing smile.

Every woman wanted to capture his heart, but she was the first to ask such a question.

"Of course, I like you, my beauty."

"But you like every woman in this room as well, don’t you?"

"Indeed, all women are like flowers, and I am merely the one who cherishes them."

His eyes held a hint of playfulness, his gaze lowering slightly, filled with intoxication.

She sneered, then bitterly smiled, her expression darkening as she raised her head.

Their eyes met, his gaze entangled with her glassy, jewel-like eyes. Though she couldn’t see, the faint, chilling loneliness in her expression inexplicably caused his heart to skip a beat.

That subtle look, though understated, held an indescribable sorrow and solitude.

"I like you."

"What?"

The sudden confession froze his usual charming demeanor, leaving him momentarily stunned. Then, overjoyed, he spread his arms to embrace her, but the woman pushed him away.

"You say you like me, but why then..."

Her voice, full of grievance, accused him. The woman frowned slightly, her delicate brows furrowing, and the lashes covering her glassy eyes quivered gently, like the last leaf on an autumn branch—carrying with it loneliness, touched with a trace of profound coldness.

"I like this honesty of yours—flirtatious, yet never indecent."

"Oh? To receive such praise from a beauty—truly, I am honored," Mo Qiehuai's lips curved slightly, his expression a blend of amusement and smugness.

"So, if I’m unwilling, you won’t force me, will you?"

"Desire between two people should be mutual, a joy of shared love. Of course, I wouldn’t force a beautiful lady like you."

"Then, let me tell you, I am unwilling."

Her dark eyes, though blind, turned unerringly in his direction, their coolness as penetrating as autumn’s chill, yet holding an incredible clarity—serene and breathtakingly beautiful.

"Oh dear, what a shame. Such a lovely evening, with a beauty like you here—must I really sit as the virtuous Liu Xia Hui, unmoved in the presence of temptation?"

"If you’re feeling bored, I can play you a tune. Is there a lute in this room?"

Seeing that he no longer pressed her, her expression softened, even her tone becoming gentler.

Mo Qiehuai glanced around the small room, spotting a pipa hanging on the wall.

"There’s a pipa, at least."

He reached up, took it down, and handed it to her, then helped her sit. His hand brushed against her arm, her skin smooth and cool, a sensation both enchanting and intoxicating.

The woman sat with an elegant posture, adjusted the strings a few times, and, tilting her head slightly, paused. Her delicate fingers moved as if flowing through water, plucking the strings.

Now strong, now soft, at times leaping, at times sliding...

Though the pipa was far from exquisite—nearly worn—it produced under her fingers a sentiment both indescribable and extraordinary.

Her voice, already pure and clear, transformed the verses she sang. The words, uttered from her crimson lips, sounded like pearls falling onto a jade plate—melodious, moving, and stirring to the soul, a voice that lingered slowly, the sentiment gradually unfolding, bewitching yet imbued with a carefree grace.

Mo Qiehuai, accustomed to the carnal realms, had never heard such a beautiful song before. Even the renowned first courtesan, Lady Du, paled in comparison.

What surprised him even more was that she didn’t sing some romantic love song, but rather a triumphant battle ode.

"Amidst drunken nights I inspect my sword, dreams recalling bugle calls from the camp. Meat roasted under military command across eight hundred miles, war songs playing on fifty strings—autumn's muster on the battlefield. The horse runs swift, the bowstring like a thunderclap. I fulfilled the king's wishes, gained fame in life and beyond, alas, now my hair turns white."

"A magnificent tune! Yet... too laden with sorrow."

The sound of the pipa strings slowly faded away. It was as though waking suddenly from a dream. After a long time, as if stirred with unfulfilled aspirations, his heart surged with fervor. He couldn’t help but stand and offer her a cup of wine, "Yet to hear such a song from a lady’s lips is rare indeed. Your beauty and talent truly don’t belong in this Drunken Red Pavilion."

She smiled faintly without a word, lifting the porcelain cup to her lips. Finding the taste disagreeable, she frowned slightly, yet still drank it all in one gulp. The edge of the emptied cup was now marked by a faint rouge lip print.

"I'm genuinely curious, how could a woman as astonishing as you end up here?" he asked.

"Would you like to hear a story?"

The window was half-open, a cool night breeze drifting in, stirring the stray hairs on her forehead. Her face seemed almost translucent under the flickering candlelight, and somehow, it filled him with an inexplicable sense of melancholy.

With such thoughts in mind, he spoke, his tone still languid, "Well, since we're idle, it wouldn't hurt to hear a beauty tell a tale."

"Once upon a time, there was a man who fell in love with a woman he should not have loved. He defied heaven's laws, went against morality, and eventually, he was with her. After she gave birth to a daughter, she passed away."

The pale moonlight filtering through the window faintly illuminated her face, lending it an unexpected, cold beauty.

"How tragic. I detest such sorrowful stories. Why not, my dear beauty, consider doing something else with me instead?" His voice was almost roguish.

Hearing his words, she smiled, wanting to speak again, only to find herself unable to control her voice. After clearing her dry throat, she managed to continue.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"The man loved too deeply, and after the woman died, he... lost his mind. The girl was raised by the woman's husband. In the girl’s eyes, only her foster father was her true father. He was gentle, the only one by her side, the only one who showed her warmth... And then the man died. Before passing, he entrusted his son to the girl’s foster father. But the girl was sent far away... For three long years, she never saw her foster father again. Even when she fell gravely ill, he stayed by the man’s son’s side, unable to visit her, because he had to help that boy hold onto his hard-won family estate... Later, when the boy was about to inherit the estate, he feared the foster father might be an obstacle, and so... he poisoned him... The girl only managed to see her foster father one last time. At their last meeting, he didn’t dare say anything, only wrote the word 'poison' in her palm... She truly wanted revenge, but her body was frail, not strong like a man’s. So, she had to endure..."

She felt a burning fire within her chest, raging like boiling flames. Her face turned even paler, and in the moonlight, her skin appeared almost translucent, revealing faint blue veins beneath. Suddenly, her eyes seemed to fill with water, dissolving slowly, until, when he looked again, her lashes, covering her glassy eyes, quivered, and a single tear formed, slowly sliding down her face, leaving behind a shimmering trail.

In that instant, Mo Qiehuai felt an uncontrollable pang of anguish.

Perhaps it was the aphrodisiac incense curling around the room, tendrils of it entering his lungs, like countless invisible hands twisting his heart.

He gazed at her longingly, wanting to pull her into his embrace. But though he was a man of flirtation, he always honored his promises.

"A beauty draws back the curtains, sitting deep in her chamber, frowning. Tears stain her cheeks—yet who holds her heart? Surely, she loved him, didn't she?" he murmured.

"Love? Perhaps it was hate—truly, deep hate... The most ridiculous part is, the boy wanted to marry the girl to fulfill his own ambitions. If the woman really loved him, tell me, if you were that girl, what would you do?"

The woman composed herself, a fleeting smile touching her red lips.

Mo Qiehuai suddenly found himself missing the earlier, angry, almost innocent version of her. At least back then, she seemed like a living person, warm and real—not a cold, flawless jade sculpture.

"Haha, what would I do? If I were that girl, before the wedding, I'd find a charming youth like myself, and crown him with a great big cuckold’s hat—drive that man to madness, hahaha."

He spoke with reckless abandon, but after seeing her frosty expression, he wisely fell silent, though a sense of grievance lingered in his heart.

Being a virtuous Liu Xia Hui really is tough.

"Well said."

Her fingers dug into the crimson fabric, and after a long pause, she lifted her head. Beneath her lashes, her dark eyes held a resolute glint as she spoke indifferently.

The pipa she had been holding fell to the floor with a loud clatter, the strings snapping at the impact.

The woman, reaching out to him, leaned into his embrace.

"Hey, hey, I’m not really Liu Xia Hui, don’t test my limits..."

He spoke softly, his weak protest fading as her cold fingers brushed against his lips.

And then her kiss followed.

"Hold me tight."

Her voice, as soft and smooth as flowing water, was gentle, yet carried a cold ripple, echoing through the dimly lit room, stirring beneath the flickering candlelight.

At that moment, all he could feel was an icy touch upon his feverish lips. After a while, the woman lifted her head slightly, casually wiping away his lingering breath from her own lips. Her glassy eyes, reflecting the night's hues, stared vacantly at him, and it was only then that he came back to his senses.

It felt as though his very soul had been drawn into those clear eyes. Mo Qiehuai held his breath, then softly, as if afraid to shatter something delicate, exhaled.

"Now, it’s too late to refuse."

He lifted her and laid her upon the sandalwood bed covered with soft cushions, his body leaning over hers. He turned his head, still smiling, and let his tongue trace the smooth line of her neck, feeling the warmth pulsing beneath her skin. He nibbled gently, then sucked tenderly until her breathing quickened. Only then did he, with satisfaction, lightly lick her pale earlobe hidden beneath her hair. One arm wrapped around her slender waist, while the other deftly untied her sash, letting his fingers slide beneath her robes, perfumed with a sweet and intoxicating scent.

Never having experienced such intimacy, she parted her lips slightly, wanting to release the strange fire his tender touch had ignited within her. But that soft warmth persistently entwined her tongue, gently sucking it, and the fire within her seemed to burn even brighter.

After the deep kiss, he looked down at her—still cold as ice, yet her breath had grown erratic.

A haze of desire clouded Mo Qiehuai's dark eyes. At that moment, he found that even her every breath seemed to stir a deep longing within him. His long fingers lightly caressed her lips, warm and reddened from his kiss. After yet another deep kiss, his hands began to eagerly unfasten their intricate robes.

Before long, she lay bare upon the red silk cushion embroidered with golden begonia blossoms. Her black hair, against the crimson bed, contrasted starkly with her near-translucent pale skin. The moonlight filtering through the curtains fell upon her trembling form, her body now covered with a faint blush, like a layer of delicate rouge, as though glowing softly in the dim light.

She truly was like the finest rouge.

Her eyes, like molten dark pearls, flowed, her faint gasps barely audible, the softest of moans slipping from her lips—yet they only intensified his desire.

"Do you like it...?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, warmer than usual, his breath scalding against her ear. Even he was surprised by the passion in his tone.

The woman did not reply. Instead, she shifted slightly beneath him, her silken skin gliding against his, igniting a new surge of heat. Every slight movement became an unspoken caress, each one enough to drive him to the edge of reason.

Resting his head against her smooth shoulder, his free hand reached behind her, and with a sudden strength, her delicate form pressed fully against his chest.

His slender fingers traced her curves, his lips once again capturing her sweet, red lips.

Then, he thrust forward, slowly, oh so slowly, entering her entirely.

He swallowed her cry of pain, soothing her with gentle licks, feeling her body tremble, tightly melding with his.

He waited until the trembling subsided, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

Their lovemaking was gentle, free from violence or greed—only a tenderness that endured throughout, along with a sweetness of mutual affection...

Moved by such gentleness, the woman still could not bring herself to immerse fully in it. Her lips curved upwards, revealing a smile, one filled with utmost sorrow.

That cold, icy smile never truly faded—subtle, poised between joy and sorrow.

The moonlight, cold and clear, filtered into the room, casting a faint glistening glow akin to water. Red candles wept their tears, dripping down, as if mocking the myriad men and women, fallen into the endless depths of mortal love.

She remembered, as a child, the painted eaves of the palace, layers of blue gauze fluttering in the wind, intricately woven in the delicate style of the water towns.

The winding corridors, seemingly unending, led to the study at the end of the hall, where the candlelight always burned late into the night. Only at those times could she see him.

She loved to quietly push open the carved door of the study, tiptoe her way to the chaise directly facing the desk.

At home, he would set aside his red official robes, preferring a simple azure attire.

The red candle on the desk flickered, casting shadows across his figure, drawing a bold silhouette behind him.

His slender, jade-like fingers held a brush dipped in cinnabar, writing with care.

Hearing her soft voice, he would slowly lift his head, his eyes in the dim light appearing as though they were the only source of warmth in the darkness. He looked at her, his lips curving slightly in a half-smile.

"Rong’er, why are you still not asleep?"

"I can't sleep, why isn’t Father resting even this late?"

She seldom called him "Your Highness." She would simply call him "Father" as any ordinary daughter would. He never objected, though the tutor would often advise against it with earnest words. Yet, he would merely smile gently, and the tutor could only sigh, "A doting father spoils the child."

A doting father?

Behind the desk, his dark eyes gazed at her, calm and gentle.

It was a gaze so warm, filled with tenderness and care.

Just that look alone was enough to fill her heart with peace.

"Because there are still memorials to read."

"Then I'll stay with Father."

She obediently nestled into the chaise, watching him.

"But Rong’er must be good, and not disturb Father."

At last, unable to resist her pleading gaze, he smiled helplessly.

"Alright."

For a long time, his furrowed brow and focused demeanor were bathed in a golden glow under the candlelight, and soon, the only sound left in the study was the rustling of him flipping through memorials.

Slowly, drowsiness overcame her. In a daze, she felt the warmth of his ink-scented robe draped gently over her.

And his voice, as if traveling through her dreams, whispered tenderly in her ear.

"Yeyan, I owe you my life. I will cherish this child dearly—there is no one in this world who wishes for her happiness more than I do. Power, that one word, has destroyed your life. So I shall raise this child to grow up free from worries, and I would give everything I have to guarantee her happiness. So, please, no matter what, bless her with happiness..."

Happiness...

What is happiness...

Six years ago, she suffered the greatest betrayal of her life.

Five years ago, her vision was plunged into darkness.

Three years ago, he was poisoned.

And now, she was to marry the man who had poisoned him...

Happiness—could it ever belong to her again?

Birdsong trilled melodiously from the branches, while the warmth of the sunlight settled softly upon her skin, rousing her from her memories. She opened her dark, glassy eyes quietly, yet before her lay nothing but an endless darkness.

Accustomed to sleeping alone, she quickly sensed the absence of the person who had been beside her.

With effort, she pushed herself up, her body aching unbearably from the exertion of the previous night.

Suddenly, a sharp voice rang out beside the bed.

"Miss Rouge, you’re awake—time to take your medicine."

"What medicine?"

She turned her gaze toward the source of the voice, her expression gradually growing cold.

"Why, it’s to prevent pregnancy, of course. We women of the pleasure house can't afford to be careless."

"Who said I am a woman of the pleasure house?"

Her near-naked body, as if carved from white jade, shone softly in the sunlight. Her black eyes, like bottomless wells capable of capturing souls, stared unblinking at the madam. Stunned, the heavily powdered woman forced an awkward smile.

"Miss, you've already served a customer—why pretend to be so lofty?"

The woman didn’t reply, only reaching out to take the offered bowl.

Just as she held the coarse porcelain bowl, an eerie gust swept through the room. The madam steadied herself and looked again to find several tall, muscular men in black standing there.

Startled, the madam cried out loudly.

"Ah! Who are you people?!"

On the bed, the woman's face remained lowered, her eyes without focus, curving into a crescent as she smiled.

The men all knelt in unison, their voices respectful.

"Princess, we are late. Please forgive us!"

"No one here is to be left alive. Be discreet."

Her voice was calm, with no hint of emotion, as she gave her orders, still with her head slightly lowered. The bowl of medicine in her hand had grown cold, a faintly gentle expression lingering on her face.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Princess, spare me. I did not know your identity—it was Li Wu who brought you here, I... I..."

Sensing impending doom, the madam began to scream while attempting to flee toward the door. But it was too late—the young, handsome man in black moved swiftly, and before she could even feel the pain, she saw a flash of silver, and a dagger was plunged into her chest. By the time the pain registered, she had collapsed, unable to utter another word.

It all happened in an instant.

"We’ve been delayed long enough. Yeyan, tell them to prepare for departure. I must reach Jing'an in three days."

"Understood, Princess... And the maid who secretly led you away—how should she be handled?"

The handsome young man remained kneeling before the woman, his expression unchanged as he reported.

The first light of dawn filtered through the lattice window. The crude incense burner in the room, filled with aphrodisiac incense, had burned out, its remaining ash swirling in the faint breeze. The woman, who had barely slept through the night, remained silent. Her dark eyes, black as a deep pool, were touched by the morning sun, as though rippling, as if they could dissolve the depth of the night.

The voice from her memory—cheerful, lively—it must have been such a lovely girl. She remembered her saying she was just entering her bloom of youth.

"Treat her family well," she said at last, lifting her head after a long silence. With that, she drank the dark medicinal liquid in the bowl in one gulp.