Reborn as the Villainess: I Won

But Ethan was ready. He cut me off with a calm, decisive tone.

“Having bowed to parents and heaven and earth together—if not my lady, then who is?”

Me: …Are we being framed?

Are we being scammed?

My unlucky self had no choice but to be detained at General Lawrence’s residence along with my supposed son-in-law.

For days we were kept in the wood storage. Ethan slept soundly on his pillow while I, spoiled and unused to cold, damp ground, had not slept properly in days and was wilting from exhaustion.

“You didn’t sleep either last night, my lady?”

I ignored him and turned my back, but he teased in an improper tone, “Graceful and lithe, the very picture of Claire—your back is handsome even from behind.”

A knife to the throat; I was the fish on the chopping block. At such a critical moment, he had the nerve to make lewd jokes?

Seeing me turn pale with anger, he quickly steadied my trembling shoulder. “Tonight Ethan won’t sleep. I’ll keep watch over you first, all right?”

That was a tempting offer.

I huffed and then melted into his arm. His chest was wide and warm, a little boat rising and falling, lulling me into a haze.

“By the way—you're not really Claire Bennett, are you? Who are you then?”

My real name?

Honestly, my real name is Claire Bennett. If I hadn't run into that villainess in the book who shared my name, I’d never have been so reckless as to read male-aimed novels.

I cleared my throat. “Yuki Tanaka.”

That was my pen name—taken from my niece Lily Tanaka.

“What a cute name.”

He praised me sincerely, and with the gentle rise and fall of his chest I slipped into sleep.

But not long after, I was rudely awakened.

“Mr. Hale, we’ve word from King Wu—he’s here to pay his respects. Please attend the banquet immediately.”

King Wu had come with his beloved daughter, Lady Charlotte, to congratulate the Emperor’s birthday, and they were staying at General Lawrence’s estate.

I was baffled. In the imperial capital, under the Emperor’s shadow, how dare a territorial lord cozy up so openly to a general who held military power? Didn’t they fear being accused of factionalism?

Don’t ask—this is an illogical indulgence of a feel-good novel.

Intentional or not, the moment Ethan sat down he was placed beside Lady Charlotte.

Young and in the bloom of youth, she’d never seen a beauty like him—bone-fine and clear as a painting. The tiny vermillion mole under his eye looked like a drop of blood on her heart and shook her to the core.

“Why are you so perfect? I could look at you forever!”

Her hand wandered across him.

He cleared his throat and shifted a little. She put a grape on her tongue and said, “Taste, my lord.”

She coyly batted her eyes at him, as if inviting him to sample what she had.

Ethan: …I wilted in the corner and almost burst laughing.

After the banquet, the great son-in-law was kept to talk alone while I wandered among the bamboo groves, digesting my meal.

Ahead, two women argued—one firm, one soft—each refusing to yield.

“I’m the lady; I outrank you.”

“You may be the lady, but I caught Mr. Hale first. I outrank you.”

They noticed me standing frozen on the path and snubbed me in unison with a derisive sound. “Don’t mind her. We’ll continue.”

Hey—I have pride too!

Beside them, in the moonlight, a swing shimmered. In the original story the swing was the male lead’s favorite stunt for his harem. Back then I’d even tipped for those steamy chapters.

So I sneaked away and hid in a fake rock nearby to keep watching the scene unfold.

Not far off, General Lawrence’s booming voice approached.

“Lord Harrington, if you simply give the nod, who fears the plan won’t succeed?”

My original wife isn’t dead yet, and the general was already calling me "Lady Charlotte’s consort" with unmistakable warmth. “The county champion just topped the exams today—first place in the civil exams, triple honors! The parade’s right around the corner. Mrs. Bennett is only a merchant’s daughter; how could she possibly help him climb higher?”

Ethan Hale opened his eyes lazily at him. “A real man wins his merits himself. Why should his wife push him?”

Those words sounded noble and unshakeable. The big, burly general froze on the spot.

Bamboo shadows, silver moonlight, a cool breeze—Ethan Hale approached slowly beneath that moon, and the two women’s hearts thudded so loudly they might as well have leapt out and tackled him to the ground. They wanted to devour him whole, but his heart was iron. No hesitation, no compromise. “Today, even if the princess came, I’d still say the same.”

“One life, one wife.”

“Don’t bring this up again.”

Wait—this isn’t how the plot goes!!

I froze on the spot. The system pinged me just in time.

[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Harem recruitment failed (2/9)]
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Harem recruitment failed (3/9)]
…
…
[Ultimate Son-in-Law System: Harem recruitment failed (9/9)] One life, one wife.

Hiss—I'd forgotten. The male lead is the male lead; his oath is a story flag!

It’s an iron rule that can never be shaken!

This is bad. All nine concubine recruitments failed. What ultimate punishment is waiting for me?!

Death by a thousand cuts? Dismemberment? Iron maiden? Ticklish torture? Thrown from a horse? My mind raced through countless grisly endings in a single breath.

“I’ll pick being thrown off a horse.”

“What did you say, my lady?”

I wiped my mouth, feigning calm. “Nothing.”

Ethan hauled me out from where I’d been hiding. When had the others gone? They were gone—only I remained, facing this near-perfect youth under moonlight.

He lifted me easily and set me onto the swing, then stepped back. In a soft, syrupy voice he praised me. “A goddess fallen among mortals—this swing suits you perfectly, my lady.”

Thinking of the original book’s eighteen ways to use a swing, I shivered. “N—no, it doesn’t suit me.”

“Why belittle yourself, my lady?”

He tilted his head, curiously studying the single drop of cold sweat on my temple. “If I could spend a day with you up there, I’d be much happier.”

“No… well, I’d better get down first—”

I tried to hop off, but he moved behind me and began to push the swing. He pushed and, with a voice that could steal souls, teased me.

“Are you happy, my lady?”

“Do you feel like you’re floating, my lady?”

Ugh—put me down!

I’m a kid!

The system punishment I’d imagined didn’t appear. Instead the system seemed to crash and never refreshed any penalty tasks again.

After that we said goodbye to General Lawrence and went back to the Bennett House together.

When Mr. Bennett learned Ethan had topped the exams, he’d already strung scarlet silk three miles out, hung red marriage characters down the street, and sent house guards thirty miles to escort and announce to the neighborhood that the Bennetts of Westmore were about to rise to noble status.

Being alive with rank and wealth is important, but it wears a person out.

So while my nominal father threw a lavish banquet and entertained the whole town, we hid at Harlow Farm and swung together in the quiet.

The sky was painted with sunset, clouds like mist, and his face glowed like a red lotus—clear brows, elegant features, his whole expression loosening into contentment.

“My lady, I only realized today the world has such days,” he said.

I looked at the lazy, soft beauty mark at his jaw and couldn’t help softening my voice. “Do you know, even immortals on high can’t truly escape the mortal world. Even immortals who come down to undergo tribulations must do good deeds or they can’t return… just like you.”

“Are there immortal ladies down here too?”

“I’m not an immortal.”

“Then I wouldn’t want to go back up.”

Wow, what a sweet mouth.

He leaned closer in the afterglow, a small smile at the corner of his lips.

Honestly—this is why he’s the male lead. His mouth is intoxicating.

Claire Bennett: Don’t ask—yes, I tasted it.

After that, Ethan Hale did indeed shine in the provincial and national exams, top of his class, triple honors.

But he didn’t take a government post right away. He returned to Harlow Farm, spending his days fishing or playing chess, sometimes taking me to wander the lakes and streams nearby—so rustic, so free.

One night, watching him swat mosquitoes inside the tent, I couldn’t help asking the question that had been nagging me. “You finally earned those triple honors after hundreds of years. Why would the court let you laze around like this?”

He stopped, peering at his palm. “There were a few openings, but I turned them down, saying I must tend to my wife.”

“Why?”

“I can’t bring myself to the task. I don’t like luxury, nor crave fame—official life is just asking for trouble.”

Fine, fine—strong arms, strong opinions; everything you say must be right.

At that moment a servant brought a bowl of honeyed melons. I was about to pop a piece in my mouth when he slapped my hand away.

“What are you doing? Even killing mosquitoes requires care!”

He went serious and picked a hair-thin needle from the melon—blue-green and clearly laced with poison.

Me: …Now I understand why the system’s slacking off. This doesn’t need the big boss to intervene—NPC malice alone could finish me.

There was a light sound at the door.

In no time he shot out like a gale, grabbed the intruder by the jaw: “Tell me—who sent you?”

The man tilted his head and smiled. Blood poured from his orifices. Dead—obviously poisoned in advance.

Ethan’s face darkened. He tipped the bowl of melon onto the ground. Each slice had a hair-thin poisoned needle embedded in it. As I leaned in, he spun around and pulled me into a tight embrace.

“If not for my nose detecting the scent of poison, my lady would have—”

“—definitely be dead already—ugh!”

He clamped the back of my head and lifted me close. His lips pressed hot and intense against mine; his teeth eased a lock apart, and his sweet tongue teased me like plucking a fruit—the kind of kiss that stole the breath from my bones.

He finished gently, tasting and stopping at just the right moment, like gathering dewdrops.

When we parted I was trembling, clutching my chest, gasping. He lay back slightly in the tent, dark hair loose, robe open to reveal a firm, sculpted chest. Under his eyes the vermilion was raw and fierce—both wild and hungry—a spark that set my heart aflame.

“Do you like it?”

Of course I did. The whole arc—the surprise, the rush, the tenderness at the end—his kiss lived up to his gilded leading-man status. But my mouth was sharper than my heart.

“Just that?”

Heh. Taunt +1.

At my words his gaze turned dangerous. “We’ve been married years without consummating. Why not tonight…?”

Ugh, my face flushed.

System, it’s not that I cling to virtue—he’s just too handsome!

With so many young women drooling over him, if I waited until the last page to do anything, that’d be insane.

That night we were a blur. He took the lead, guiding me through the moonlit depths as if he owned the night, fierce and untamed, gentle and lingering—quick like rain on a pond and slow and soothing like wine under the moon.

As the clouds faded, the silver river spun soundlessly into a jade disk.

After a long while he held me so I could rest on his chest. “How was it, my lady?”

I grit my teeth and refused to give in. “Just… that?”

He was slightly embarrassed. “Then wait a bit longer. I won’t let you down.”

Return to power, reclaim old lands—me? Really?

At some point tears were streaming down my face.

The next day.

I kept teasing him but the system never sent any task completion notice. Then I remembered the system had crashed a long time ago; my stubborn mouthsewing for a phantom reward was just plain dumb.

Just as I was feeling cheated, Ethan rolled up a book and paced over, suddenly thoughtful. “My lady, I think going to the capital is the safer choice. Someone poisoned your melon today; tomorrow they’ll be under your bed. Whoever’s behind this must be punished!”

“Which faction do you think it is?”

“Either Lord Harrington’s or the emperor himself.”

He frowned a little. “But being an official is truly dull…”

I have to say, Ethan Hale isn’t a gentleman—he’s blunt, frank, and shamelessly honest.

I sat up, rare seriousness in my voice. “To found a heart for heaven and earth, to establish fate for the people, to carry on lost wisdom from the sages, to open peace for ten thousand generations—how can that be boring?”

He scoffed but then gave an easy laugh. “If you were a man, you’d be famous for a thousand years.”

“Too bad I’m a woman. If you make a glorious name, I’ll share that honor. If everyone curses you, I’ll share your infamy.”

He pondered that.

Seeing him moved, I coaxed softly: “Do well as an official; I, your wife, will take pride in it.”

“Yes, I can earn you a title.”

His stirrings made me smile in satisfaction.

In the original book he formed cliques, teamed with Lord Harrington and other cronies to throw the court into blood and scandal, framing opponents and manipulating the court’s winds—help those who follow him prosper, and those who resist perish.

Since I’d come into this novel, at least I could help him sort right from wrong a little. That would count for something.

Ethan Hale accepted an imperial summons to the capital, was appointed to the Hanlin Academy for compilation work, and because his radical military theories shone, within six months he was promoted to deputy minister of war, and a year later took the top slot as minister of war.

Coincidentally, Lord Harrington’s rebellion and a southern barbarians’ invasion happened right then. The previous minister of war stumbled and fell ill—fortunate timing, or cursed luck, who could tell?

As the male lead, he didn’t shy away from storms. He threw himself into court life, contending daily with peers until his eyes were bloodshot. When he came home he always drank a jar of calming tea before he could be gentle with me.

I rarely left the house, but once I was spotted at the fish market at dawn and inexplicably earned a nickname: the Salted Fish Lady.

Darn it—I didn’t want that! I was just avoiding poison!

“Today at court I’ll petition for the third time to send a princess for a political marriage.”

“Huh?”

“The emperor has drafted the decree. Once that’s done, the household will settle. You won’t have to sneak out at dawn to buy fish anymore.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

Ethan, who chose his words sparingly about me, sounded displeased. “Just that?”

I shrugged. “What else do you want me to do?”

Seeing my attention wander, he softened his voice. “Ethan is the newly appointed Minister of War. All the troop registries, armories, military orders, relay-station layouts—everything needs to be redrafted. I had no choice but to leave my wife alone at home. That’s my fault.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I pretended.

Feigning a teasing tone, I said, “But with a brilliant scholar on your left and a noble princess on your right, it’s no wonder you forgot you had a salted fish at home.”

Beep—system hit increment +1.

Days slipped into months. Our relationship settled into a calm lake—pretty, but utterly still. He blinked as if roused from a long sleep. “My lady, you haven’t called me ‘you rascal’ in a long while.”

I offered a flat, perfunctory “You rascal.”

“No—there needs to be waves!”

“You rascal~~~~ you’re so demanding~~~~”

His face flushed, color blooming in his cheeks. The gloom that normally lived in his eyes softened into affection.

(Note: 2,000 words omitted here.) After some horsing around, he held me close and murmured, “My lady…don’t you think I’m too cruel?”

“Which part?” I asked.

“Sending a fragile girl off to marry into a foreign land.”

Before I could answer, his voice turned cold and dangerous. “Ever since she poisoned you at that banquet, she tried again and again. If the princess’s marriage truly didn’t benefit the realm, I wouldn’t have let her live.”

He lowered his head and looked at me, his eyes glistening. His tone was full of pity. “Poor my lady. Not only did she get dragged into this, but those fools called her a salted fish. How could I stand that?”

I clicked my tongue. “You don’t understand—being a salted fish is a blessing.”

He mistook my resignation for suffering in silence and embraced me tighter, stroking me and murmuring endearments.

“My lady! Oh, my poor lady～～”

Not long after, King Wu colluded with the southern barbarians and rebelled. Westmore was hit by a once-in-a-century downpour—endless rain, torrents breaching levees, thousands of riverside homes swept away, and as many as a hundred thousand displaced. Jiangnan was hit hard, too.

After the disaster came secondary calamities.

Floods bred fever, and disease broke out. The capital showed concern by sending imperial physicians with the water-control officials. Because Ethan’s ancestral home fell in the epidemic’s epicenter, he was granted ten days’ leave to visit family.

At the gate, I saw my father wearing his official hat, standing under a crooked tree handing out gruel. The broth was thin, the rice sunk to the bottom—each grain distinct.

“Father, are you afraid the refugees won’t be fed enough?” I asked.

“How dare you!” His voice cut me off. “We Bennetts burn oil on the family lamp, pile on rank and ribbons. We must set an example for Jiangnan! Come help distribute the gruel.”

I shook my head. “The most frightening thing is people who even deceive themselves.”

I ignored his bark and walked into the tent line. The woman overseeing the gruel looked gentle in a quiet way and smiled at me. “You must be the minister’s wife?”

“Mm. And you are?”

“I’m the chief physician’s daughter. Call me Lady Morgan.” She encouraged me with a nod and handed me a brass ladle with calm grace. I couldn’t help but be impressed.

“All right, Lady Morgan.”

I joined the gruel brigade, working so hard I forgot my own hunger until the minister and the water officials returned from inspecting the levee.

The moon had barely risen when I saw him surrounded by county magistrates, commanding as if the world orbited him. The refugees’ faces were hollow and bowed; only then did the truth of this world hit me.

Whether him or me, whether the countless ordinary people—everyone had sorrows and joys, blood and flesh.

That night, curled against his arm, I told him softly what I’d seen.

“Today each person gets one bread. A little girl insisted on giving her loaf to her brothers and sisters…”

“They said a child died of the disease. His mother clutched a wooden lump and kept telling everyone it was her child…”

“Jiangnan isn’t the worst. Downriver, whole villages were wiped out. Nearly entire clans are gone…”

He listened a while, then put an arm around me. “You’re tired, my lady. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

I wanted to do more for them, but it felt awkward to ask in front of the cold-faced male lead. So I changed the subject. “Also, I saw a very admirable young woman today…”

He propped his chin on a hand and brushed my hair back. “How admirable? Is she as good as my lady?”

“Ugh…”

His flirting was impossibly smooth. He parted his lips and started weaving a long, flowery praise until the dim tent felt like a dream.

“My lady’s conversation is witty and her writing elegant. She has depth and the noble air of the grove—beautiful and cool, yet with a refined charm. To me she is a thousand kinds of lovely, ten thousand kinds of wonderful.”

“At the Bennetts you spoke coldly, but I saw how you worry for me. Today, listening to you tell stories, I saw how you worry for the common people. Your compassion is like spring rain, soothing my irritable heart.”

“He actually quoted the sages—‘Love the aged as you love your own, and care for the young as if they were yours.’” I stood there stunned. “Is he talking about me? Is he an immortal?”

Guilt washed over me. “But I’m powerless. I can’t do anything.”

Back then, even if I remembered sulfur and saltpeter and charcoal, I wouldn’t be able to make gunpowder. Compared to Ethan—who knew military schematic and medicine—my presence felt weak and useless, almost a drag.

Ethan seemed to think for a moment. “What does my lady want to do?”

His question sparked a bold impulse. He was outwardly warm but inwardly cold and ambitious. Even if Westmore bled to the gates, he’d walk over corpses to rise. What could a salted fish do to alter that cold nature?

His warm hand rubbed the back of my neck. I looked at him and spoke slowly, “I want to face heaven and earth with a clear conscience. I want to act with a heart that can look up and down without shame.”

“To set a righteous mind for the world, ensure people’s lives, preserve lost teachings, and strive to bring peace for all time—this is one of the wishes of my life.”

In the dark he watched me silently, then kissed my forehead. “I understand. For my lady, I will try.”

At dawn the next day Ethan woke me. His beard was stubbled and dark under-eye circles showed he’d hardly slept.

“My lady, I have a remedy. It might help with the water epidemic.”

I sprang up. “What remedy?”

“In epidemics, children often get high fevers and convulsions. This remedy—something I stumbled upon—can bolster the body and lower fevers. Old and young can take it.” He set a bowl of greenish medicine before me. “Try it?”

I leaned over and nearly recoiled. “That color is terrifying. Kids will cry and refuse to take it.”

Beep—system hit increment +1.

He turned to leave. “Fine. Don’t.”

“No, no—wait. The disaster zone still needs you.” I grabbed him and thought fast. “Add some licorice and honey, form them into small sugar balls, stick a little handle in them—lollipops. Adults can drink the medicine, kids take it as a treat. Win-win.”

He nodded eagerly. “My lady is brilliant!”

He summoned a few imperial physicians and went to the camps.

A few days later, I went to hand out gruel and found him trapped and exhausted among a swarm of kids.

“Sir! I want another!”

“Sir, one more lollipop, please!”

“You’re greedy! I only need half a lollipop!”

Like fate, he saw me and called out, “My lady, come quick! See? This was my lady’s idea—smart, right?” I didn’t want the credit, so I hurried away.

Because of Ethan’s “licorice recipe,” children’s fevers were controlled and the epidemic eased. He gained great renown; banners and tributes piled up at our home.

He even earned a nickname: He Who Judges Without Mercy—implying that the King of the Underworld might decide your fate quickly, but Ethan’s treatment saved lives.

It’s worth noting that in the original tale, he joined King Wu’s rebellion, overthrew the Westmore dynasty, and left carnage in his wake—hence the ominous double meaning behind his moniker. Two sides of a name: one heavenly, one hellish.

In the same year, after King Wu’s defeat and the emperor’s passing, Ethan became Chief Minister. The crown prince called him a second father. This once lowly son-in-law rose to unprecedented power.

A few years after the political marriage, the southern barbarians returned. The new chief minister ordered weapons: repeating crossbows, early cannon schematics, rushed construction—to strike with unconventional arms.

We’d been married many years without children. People coveted our bed. Courtiers hinted, trying to place their daughters or nieces with him. Even my own father sent concubine maids—yet Ethan kept them barred at the outer gate, forbidding them inside.

In the original story the original wife remained a maiden to the end—perhaps it was fate that we would be childless.

Strangely, Ethan didn’t just think of medicines and weapons; he had radical principles. Whenever I brought up heirs, he brushed it off with a few words, “I only need my lady. I’ll treat her like a child and care for her.”

Then he’d turn back to his crossbow designs. He didn’t seem worried, but I couldn’t help feeling anxious. The plot before he became chief minister had been rearranged—barely completed—but what would happen after he took office?

At the time I was too busy arguing with the author to remember later details.

One night a fierce wind rattled the windows. Darkness thick as ink pressed in. I hurried to bring books in from the courtyard. Three massive repeating crossbows stood in the yard, shaking in the gale. I had just straightened when someone shouted nearby.

“My lady—watch out!”

The wind whipped into a storm and the half-height crossbows were toppled. One fired a volley of three arrows. Even with his intervention, one arrow struck me.

The original wife did indeed die from an arrow through the heart—fired by the son-in-law male lead. In other words, I practically died by the male lead’s hand. Realizing that, I tilted my head and spat blood. “Goddamn you—”

He trembled and pressed at my bleeding mouth. “My lady, what did you say?”

“Quick…please…send…Chief…Physician…Morgan…” I gasped. “Help…”

At the brink of death, everything blurred. In a daze he held a set of sumptuous clothes up to me, tears streaking his face as he choked out, "My lady, Ethan had these made for you. Look."

Apparently the emperor, hearing of my condition, hastened to grant a posthumous title.

"Ah, it's all empty honors…" I muttered.

This time I didn't hear the system chime—so that line probably wouldn't trigger any sarcasm credit for the male lead.

Still, there was a twinge of regret.

I could barely make out his muffled cries at my ear, as if blaming himself. Finally I remembered when the original wife died—right after he'd become chief counselor, when power sat heavy on his shoulders. It must have been fate.

"It's not your fault… it's just… time," I whispered.

Ethan Hale, skilled in medicine, must have known I was beyond help. He pressed my growingly cold hand to his cheek, sobbing, "My lady, scold me again."

"You rascal…"

"Sounds so sweet—anything you say sounds sweet to me."

In the original novel he never shed a tear, but now he wept like a lost child. Droplets fell on my forehead, my neck, my cheek—hot enough that I squeezed my eyes shut.

He, who had never had a choice, was always the pitiable one.

Someone who'd never been shown kindness couldn't tell love from harm. Even the smallest warmth could send him flying headfirst into the flames. Honestly, I hadn't been saintly—at best I'd stopped other people's cruelty when they were falling—but he repaid me a thousandfold, a hundredfold.

After I was gone, none of them cared; only he seemed crushed. He forced his eyelids open and murmured, "You… you must become someone above base appetites, someone useful to the state and society. Do you understand?"

"Ethan understands."

"When the people curse you, they curse me. Don't let my spirit be restless."

"Ethan understands."

There was nothing left to entrust. I had just closed my eyes when he whispered, "I'll go with you."

No—absolutely not!

In a flash of clarity I snapped, "Do you remember I have unfinished wishes?"

He shut his eyes without answering, tears streaking down.

"When I'm dead, you must fulfill them for me! If not—if you follow me to the underworld, I'll divorce you from beyond the grave!"

At those words he broke completely. My lifted hand fell away.

"Husband, you must remember…"

Remember to live well.

And remember to forget me.

Day one after Mrs. Bennett's death, Ethan Hale cradled her body, dressed her in the posthumous finery himself, shaded her brows and painted her lips without help. When the make-up was done, she looked alive again. People stood back, whispering, not daring to approach.

Day two, Bennett kin came to demand the body. They claimed the woman had died suspiciously and insisted on burning her to purge the shame, scattering the bones into the canal. Ethan drove them off with a firearm; the family's face was ruined.

Day three, two cousins arrived by order of the head of the Bennett House to offer Ethan a new wife. Both were stunning—arguably more so than Mrs. Bennett—but Ethan spat at them, "Pearls from a fish's eye—how dare you aim to outshine the stars?"

Day four: he did not leave the house.

Day five: he did not leave the house.

Day six: he did not leave the house.

Rumors spread that at temples like the Violet Cloud Nunnery and the Sky Splendor Shrine the chief counselor had been seen with unkempt hair and bare feet, raving and asking about ways to resurrect the dead. Those who spread such tales were arrested by Westmore city guards as sowers of chaos.

Day seven, the emperor sent a handwritten edict to the counselor's household: It had been reported that the counselor mourned day and night, wailing himself to death. Such deep sorrow threatens one's lifespan; how could the people be at peace? Bury Lady Bennett soon so her spirit might rest and the realm be stable.

On the eighth day, Ethan picked a maple grove and personally buried his late wife. He wept into the soil, lamenting her with a grieving eulogy: "My dearest, I would keep faith with you until death. To grow old together under heaven I could not achieve. I recall our midnight talks, our mutual care that brightened my life. I never believed in ghosts—now I wish there were. I cannot leave you; I pray to meet you in dreams always. O woe: under the earth, when you hear my cries, answer with yours."

Every word bled sorrow; when he looked at others he could not bear their gaze.

Ten years—life and death span without reckoning; even when one tries not to dwell, it clings.

Licorice candy had long since gone bland. Merchants shaped licorice into salty-fish forms; these blue-green sticks became a characteristic snack of the south.

When a child demanded candy, the mother tugged him away, "That's salted-fish candy—if you eat it you'll turn into a salted fish."

I glanced up and saw a man nearby in a hood, pale and thin as a ghost, staring at me. A chill ran down my spine.

After the mother and child left, Ethan bought a stick and held it between his fingers, chuckling, "After you died, no one remembered you—but this candy caught on. The ignorant now call you 'salted fish.' You were the only fool who still talked about lofty things like 'establishing a heart for heaven and earth,' 'setting a fate for the people'…"

A cold wind blew; he began to cough harshly, blood flecking his lips.

Back at the mansion, his longtime friend Chief Physician Morgan visited. Seeing him wasted and gray, Morgan hurried to take his pulse. Ethan allowed it and murmured, "I suffered for skin and bone and never felt it. I suffered through cold windows and long study and never felt it. Now she's been gone over ten years and my mouth tastes nothing but bitterness. My grief is a sea without shore. I don't know how to ease it."

The old man checked his pulse; his face changed. "You are ill at the liver—your organs burn. Medicine won't cure this."

Mrs. Morgan stood in the doorway, tears clinging to her lashes. Ethan hadn't remarried in ten years; she had become one of the capital's notable spinsters. "Master Ethan's illness is hard to heal. I'd serve him—be his maid—bring his decoctions—if only—"

Ethan cut her off. "If I make you my servant, where would that leave my wife?"

To avoid suspicion he turned his face away, his gaze colder than ever. "I promised my lady one life and one love. I will keep one wife."

When the Morgans left, Ethan sat at his desk and inhaled the mugwort scent from a sachet under the table. He drew a little sketch: two figures on a swing. He stared at it longingly and then wrote in tiny characters by the drawing: "This person has gone; only this humble room remains. Books and poetry lost; regrets for the world."

Only ten years, and gray had already gathered at his temples. His light was nearly spent; he would soon follow her.

He strove to fulfill her wishes: stabilize the nation, leave wise successors—he gave every ounce of himself to Westmore. Even if he now went to the underworld to find her, he'd have the right to do so.

Sensing that day coming, he opened the window wide and let the cold wind hit his peculiar, fever-tinted face. In his mind he was still that crimson-lotus youth at sunset.

"Xun Nan donated his fortune—millions in coin, thousands of acres—no desire for immortality. He only wishes for another mortal life to reunite with his wife."

In the twenty-seventh year of Yuan, in bitter midwinter, Ethan's chronic cold returned. He lingered on the sickbed and after three months he died.

A great minister of Westmore had fallen.

I had barely opened my eyes when Lily Tanaka's round face hovered inches from mine. I nearly died of fright.

My niece Lily—remember her? She's the inspiration behind my pen name, Yuki Tanaka. She peered at my face slick with sweat. "Auntie, you look like you haven't slept."

"Can you speak like a human?" I snapped, hopping out of bed to dress. "I had a dream. I woke up inside a novel—nearly couldn't escape it."

"What novel?"

"The one where I spent a month arguing with that male-aimed author and roasted his book fifteen thousand times."

"Oh!?"

Lily is a book addict, too. Her eyes lit up. "I know it! That book was just overhauled—the male lead was just rewritten to die. Readers can't access it anymore and they're furious; they're calling the author a hack and the site might get sued to shutdown!"

"No way—it was that crazy?"

Curiosity won. I opened the link on my phone. Sure enough, a 404. Luckily screenshots of the uproar were all over microblogging—longtime readers left scathing comments.

"The male lead commits suicide for a woman? Over a dead wife? Really?"

"I thought with so many supporting women the author was setting up a harem! Is this fraud?"

"I thought it was a son-in-law trope—was expecting the male lead to slay and level up. Turns out he's a coward."

Amid the male readers' scorn, some women fired back.

"When a woman dies for love it's 'true devotion'; when a man dies for love it's 'manly virtue'?

"Killing a wife to 'prove' something? If you're so capable, go castrate yourself!"

I scrolled a while and then tossed my phone behind me. "So what do you want, spit it out."

"Oh—your dad wants you to come home for blind dates."

I lit a cigarette, inhaled, and frowned. "My dad? Since when do I have a dad?"

"Auntie, it's Third Uncle. He called me—said both your younger sisters have been married off. It's your turn."

Me? So I'm leftover stock to warm up someone else's dinner?

"Alright, alright. You can leave now."

Seeing I'd opened my laptop and clearly didn't want to talk, Lily dawdled out.

After a spell of writing the phone rang. A clear male voice asked, "Are you Yuki Tanaka, the writer?"

"Yes."

"Hello. We're a newly launched women's fiction site. We know you have some titles with freelance rights. We'd like to meet and discuss buying some at a good price."

"Okay."

After we hung up I felt lighter. Money still eases everything.

They'd arranged to meet at a new bistro on the Bund. From the terrace you could see all of Pudong's skyline and the row of old international buildings by the river.

I tidied my makeup and wore a pearl-white dress to show respect.

The private room was quiet and the night view gorgeous. But the man across from me wore dark sunglasses, and a young man who looked like an assistant poured tea. It felt off.

Sunglasses indoors—either blind or putting on airs.

In Shanghai it never hurt to make connections, so I got up and greeted him politely before sitting.

"Miss Yuki Tanaka?"

"Ah, that's my pen name."

"So what's your real name?"

"Claire Bennett."

The man slowly repeated my name like tasting it, his brows arching over the black shades. "Claire Bennett."

He turned the name over again in that slow way, then suddenly asked, "What did you think of that son-in-law novel that got taken down a few days ago?"

"Me?" I said. "I read it on my phone."

Silence filled the room and I felt a prickle along my spine.

Why did you have to be mouthy?

Of all times!

The assistant snickered and then smiled to smooth things over. "Shall we proceed with the meeting?"

The man nodded. Before I could ask what the procedure was, he clapped his hands and dozens of staff filed in. Plates and plates of tamagoyaki appeared—more than twenty varieties!

Wait, tamagoyaki with seaweed salad flavor?

I’m a sweets person; I don’t usually do savory. Seeing a savory tamagoyaki for the first time made my heart skip—and thump—a little faster…

As my pulse pounded louder, the man across from me finally spoke, his voice slow: “That book’s author made a lot of money from writing, but he’s full of rage. He was humiliated as a child and turned to humiliating the characters he wrote. We found the angrier he was, the better the book sold.”

“Readers cursed him and devoured his work. Some even sent him razor blades.”

My heart hammered so hard it felt like it might leap out of my throat. His words grew deeper: “Those small humiliations don’t vanish. No matter how successful you become, the shame follows like a shadow—slithering at night, crawling through your bones and organs…”

I couldn’t hold it in any longer; I wiped the cold sweat from my brow. “So… how does this involve me?”

“I drafted the outline for that book.”

He leaned back against the tall chair, hands folded. His long, elegant fingers were knuckled and defined; I found myself staring at the pale veins and faint lines at those joints. He continued, unhurried: “Then, at my suggestion, he did a wholesale revision. It got so bad with reader complaints that the site had to temporarily shut down.”

“That… must’ve cost a fortune?”

“Not really. We run dozens of sites like that.”

Me: …

He didn’t press me when I didn’t speak. Instead he produced a contract and handed it over. “I’m done with that site. I want to start a new reading platform that runs original works and film adaptations simultaneously, and I’d like Miss Tamagoyaki’s help. Don’t worry about traffic—we have thousands of upstream media partners to push readers our way.”

I glanced at the contract; the clause copies looked like agency deals with big platforms. A few were places I’d worked with before. Not a scam.

“You can join as a shareholder and receive equity and dividends, or you can be a star author with long-term chart dominance. We only plan to sign ten ace authors like this.”

“With great terms comes lots of obligations, I assume?”

“One year you only need to deliver two hundred thousand Chinese characters—enough to fulfill the task. The only condition is you write exclusively on our site for ten years. We can give an advance.”

“No offense, I don’t sell myself…”

He clapped once. His assistant opened several huge sealed trunks. When stacks of crisp bills—old-school paper money—were spread out, I couldn’t stop the tears at the corner of my eyes.

“Of course, unless it’s for money.”

Afraid he might change his mind, I signed the contract and, trying to be polite, added, “Ten years feels a little short. I feel bad—really.”

He gave a slight nod. “Reasonable.”

The assistant, reading the tone, adjusted the contract on the computer, printed a new copy, and slid it over. Huh—copyright extended fifty years after death? Or signing the person? Fifty before life is another hundred years… so living or dead, it’s his either way?

I broke into a sweat reading the revised contract. The man in the black shades stood up. “I’ll step out to take a call.”

As if on cue, his return coincided with a call from my white-lily stepmother.

“Claire, your dad arranged a great match, didn’t he? Mr. Hale is very pleased and wants the engagement this week. I already said yes for you—”

I hung up. The man propped his chin with his hand, a small smile lifting his lips. His laugh grew louder and more delighted, which made my spine prickle.

“There’s something funny I want to share,” he said. “Before today, I learned your father has three daughters. Besides you, the two stepsisters also claim to be Miss Tamagoyaki—because they heard I’m searching the whole internet for a girl with that name. They hope to jump in and grab something.”

Me: …what am I supposed to say?

I’d just accidentally signed a contract that looked like selling myself.

“You were obvious when you spoke. The style—your little 15,000-character essay you sent, how you kept messaging me for a month—your perseverance and resolve were impressive.”

He took off the sunglasses welded to his face.

Beneath them was a face that unsettled the heart: cool, indifferent eyes, slightly reddened lids, and two bright vermilion moles that seemed to glow.

“Now I’ve found you.”

[Side story: Family Dinner] Knock, knock, knock.

“Miss Claire Bennett?”

I set the washed fruit on the table and went to the door. “Yes?”

“You have a delivery.”

“Leave it outside.”

“Sorry, ma’am, this one’s too big to leave at the door.”

He was polite and sincere, so I opened it. It was that familiar delivery guy from our neighborhood—he even helpfully unboxed the huge package.

Inside was something exquisitely made and shimmering…

A silver swing? Where on earth did a silver swing come from?

After he left, I stared at it for a while, washed my face with cold water, and when I looked up the mirror reflected two people standing very close behind me.

One face—cool, world-weary, possibly a striking beauty. The other was handsome in a languid, dangerous way. His eyes tilted like ink, the lids stained red, and the same pair of dazzling vermilion moles drew the eye.

“Don’t like it?”

A long, cool hand settled on my waist. I froze, my spine locking like a kitten grabbed by the scruff.

“When the wind blows it swings and shakes. It’s fun.”

Could you not grin at me like that when you call it fun…? He seemed to sense my embarrassment; his gaze darkened. He grabbed me and pulled me into the bedroom.

“How long does Mr. Hale plan to stay with me?”

“Forever.”

He mimicked how I’d said things before, flopped down like a lazy fish. His long limbs nearly overflowed the tiny 5-foot bed. “I like your bed. Two people snug together are so warm.”

Me: …

Bro, don’t do that.

He yanked me onto him so hard I toppled against his chest. Our eyes met. His lips were dewy and close—poppy-red, kissed by dew—so tempting that the whole world felt sweet: breath, scent, touch, kiss…

My phone buzzed in my pocket. The caller ID—my white-lily stepmother.

A few curt words and I hung up.

“Who was that?”

He toyed with my hair, a hand brushing my shoulder now and then, watching me with a quiet pressure in his gaze.

“My stepmother. She heard you were here and invited you to dinner.”

“How does she know where I am?”

“Women have great noses.”

Seriously, if a diamond bachelor like Mr. Hale fell into my lap, my stepmom would be frantic—she probably hired someone to shadow me all day.

At dusk, Mr. Hale’s assistant came to fetch us. A flashy red Bugatti nearly blinded me.

I thought silently: flashy car, flashier human.

“What did you say?”

“I said the car has the same vibe as him.”

“Mwah~~~”

Since my parents' divorce I hadn’t been back home in about ten years. My dad had met me maybe two or three times. He hadn’t improved—once loud about ‘true love conquers all,’ now all a little defeated. In the ostentatious gold-and-marble living room sat my father, my two half-sisters—Claire Jinghao and Claire Jingshu—and at the head of the table, my stepmother smiled saccharine.

At a prospective in-law meeting, other moms would gush: “You’re my daughter’s first boyfriend!” My stepmother instead said, “Our Claire’s always been popular—out of all the boys she brought home, Mr. Hale is the best.”

As she finished, someone at the table pinched the loose flesh at my waist so hard I nearly swore. “Aah—easy, easy!”

White-lily’s words were all poison. I hollered for help inwardly and clarified quickly: “I did bring guys home, but they were losers!”

“Huh?”

That rare “huh” told me he didn’t like it. I leaned close to his ear and whispered, “I only chatted with a couple. My two sisters secretly added them on WeChat and turned them down within days.”

He gave me a meaning look. “Don’t worry. This time it won’t fail.”

We hadn’t eaten much when the two sisters started up a duet routine, yammering non-stop from both sides.

“Is it true sister’s been making a living writing books?” Claire Jinghao asked.

“I don’t know if she can even afford meat after paying rent…” Claire Jingshu sniffed.

“If it’s really hard, you can move back home. Your husband can also live with us. Wouldn’t that be nice? The whole family together?”

Oh, is that a cue for me to play along?

I smiled modestly. “No, I did okay. In five years I earned two properties.”

Claire Jinghao: … Claire Jingshu: … One strike!

My stepmother jumped in, playing the benevolent matriarch. “That must’ve been so hard for you.”

Oh, come on. Do you think I’ll let you off that easy?

“No big deal. I get up at noon, write two hours, then shop and eat. Then back to bed. Very comfortable.”

Double strike!

My fake-mother’s hand trembled and knocked over wine—spilling it across the table.

My dad hurried to smooth things over. “Why would a girl need so much money? She’ll get married someday…”

Oh, eager now, are we?

I shot him a look of sympathetic condescension. “Heard your company’s heading toward bankruptcy? Look at that receding hairline—midlife crisis, huh?”

Triple strike!

The veneer of that perfect family began to crack. Mr. Hale cleared his throat beside me. “If your father needs help, I can—”

Before he finished, I pinched his thigh hard enough to force a strained expression.

“…speed up the process.”

My father’s raised brow fell—delicious. I was elated. All the humiliation from my parents’ divorce and my stepmother’s scheming burst out today. One word: satisfying.

Overflowing with glee I couldn’t contain, I pulled the handsome man down and kissed him hard.

From across the table someone muttered under their breath, "Shameless."

It was my sister-in-law’s younger sister, Jenna Moore, who always loved stealing my thunder with the brother-in-law. Her makeup looked overdone today, so I kindly warned her, "Before you pick a fight with me, you might want to check your lipstick shade."

She froze, then ran off in tears.

The atmosphere at the table grew even more awkward. Across from us, Grace Bennett slipped away halfway through the meal to quietly change colors.

The dinner ended quietly, each honored guest carrying a different mood.

As we were leaving, Jenna tried the old "let’s swap WeChat" routine again. "Brother-in-law, can we exchange WeChat? It’d be nice to hang out with you sometimes!"

But this time her target was Ethan Hale.

"I don't have WeChat."

"Huh?"

She faltered, and under her mother's encouraging look, forced out, "What about your phone number?"

"I don't have a phone either. But if you need something, you can contact my assistant—though he gets a lot of calls, so you might not get through."

With that, he pulled a stack of business cards from his bag and politely handed one to each person.

The Bennetts: …We left the Bennett House and only once we were back in the carriage did I finally relax.

Ethan stretched out his arm and let me rest my head on his shoulder. His tone held a hint of surprise. "I really thought you were a slacker, but you make a lot of money."

"I had a few books adapted early on, and back when the Westmore market was better, I bought two small condos with staggered mortgages."

"Little rich lady—guess I'll be living off you from now on," he teased.

He said it shyly, burying his face briefly against my chest.

"Hey, there're people in front—"

"No one~~~~"

Of course, in the miserly capitalist's eyes, commuting office drones weren't even human.

That thought hit me with a sudden pang of melancholy.

In that other life, we'd been entwined for years, tried almost every position. The novelty was long gone. Next would have been marriage, kids, sleeping in separate rooms, midlife crises, emotional distance.

For a moment I felt oddly wistful.

"By the way, Ethan, don't you think we're out of surprises with each other?" I asked.

He lifted his head; his eyes were slightly wet. "No."

"Yes."

I gave him a pitiful look, my eyes glossy with tears. "Unless we change our environment. Ideally a luxury duplex with an open-air pool, a fifty-square-foot walk-in closet, and a bed so sturdy you could tumble ten times and never fall off."

He went quiet, thinking. "An open-air pool? That's one of your hobbies?"

"Is that not allowed?"

"I don't have an outdoor pool. Only an indoor one."

"That'll do. I'm not picky."

"Shall we go tonight?"

"Sure!"

"Ethan, as long as you always stand by me, you'll be my good partner."

"My good husband," he corrected.

"Right, good husband."

"The wavy line?"

"Good husband~~~~"

"Kiss~~~"

In the dark, the scarlet Bugatti shot forward like an arrow released, racing down the wide avenue.

The road ahead was clear; the long night was finally drawing to a close.

– The End –
□ Zern