I Married Into a House of Lies

On my wedding day, I finally realized I was a stand-in.

I hid under the covers, pressing a hand to my mouth so I wouldn’t laugh out loud.

That night I poured His Majesty a whole jug of hehuan wine and used every means to win his favor.

Listening to him mumble my sister’s name—half asleep, half intoxicated—I let the corner of my mouth lift slowly.

This substitute had done her job well.

He might be His Majesty, but that only made him another convenient stepping stone for me.

["Grace is Not Courtly" — completed. A ruthless heroine, cold and calculating.] 01. I poisoned my legitimate sister to death.

Her face contorted as she died, lips and nostrils stained red, her body convulsing as she collapsed to the floor.

I brushed the hair from her face and whispered with a smile in her ear, "Sister, you look really ugly dying."

Destroying someone’s heart while killing them — that was my specialty.

Her eyes were fixed on me, wild with grief and disbelief, as if she couldn’t understand how her supposedly dull, foolish younger half-sister had detected poison in a cup.

Or how I had quietly switched the cup right under her nose.

If it were possible, I thought, she would certainly rise up in fury — but sadly she couldn’t come back to life.

The poison was the very heartbreak powder she had prepared for me; she’d ended up taking her own life instead.

The next day, at the funeral of the late Empress.

King Marcus Aldridge’s narrow blade pressed at my throat; his gaze was as sharply red as the blood at my neck.

He spoke each word with measured chill indifference: "Claire Bennett, I command you to die as well, to accompany Lily."

When Lily died he wasn’t this agitated. Now, performing grief and rage in front of the court — it was laughable.

I wanted to ask my sister, who couldn’t rest, and I wanted to ask myself: what is there in an emperor’s love that’s worth expecting?

I lowered my eyes and, under his heavy stare, made a graceful bow — neither servile nor arrogant — and said, "Thank you, Your Majesty."

Before he could react further, I turned and announced loudly, "I will join my child in the tomb for the Empress!"

The ministers who had seconds before been railing in fury suddenly retreated like a tide.

They knelt and begged mercy — to spare the unborn child, the imperial blood yet to be born.

My father, General Henry Bennett, sat pale-faced, furious but unable to voice it.

Good. Everything went exactly as I planned.

I turned back with a smile, flamboyant and triumphant, to look at King Marcus.

Against the court light he had his eyes shut, face unreadable.

For a moment I felt dizzy and thought of Samuel; I was flushed with victory.

My name is Claire Bennett, one of the many concubine-born daughters of Bennett Manor. The household despised my mother’s lowly origins and "allowed" me in name alone.

I grew up in the countryside with my mother.

When I first met my father at sixteen and entered the manor, the first thing my stepmother forced me to do was change my name.

I remember the disdain in her eyes, like looking at an ant: "Grace is Not Courtly. You’ll never be presentable."

Too bad — not only did I become presentable, I ended up in her precious legitimate daughter’s marital bed.

And evidently, I’m luckier than her short-lived daughter.

I gently stroked the child in my womb that hadn’t yet shown a flinch of life, smiling faintly.

With this child, what could Marcus Aldridge do to me?

Everyone knows the emperor is deeply sentimental. Aside from my sister the Empress, he never favored any other consort.

Except me — I enjoyed the favor of one night with the emperor.

Marcus hated me; he once said my face disgusted him.

Deservedly so. That night together was hardly a pleasant memory.

He and Hazel Bennett — one a general’s legitimate daughter, the other a ruthless new sovereign — should have been a match made in heaven. But a low-born daughter from the manor dared to climb the branch to fly with him. On the night before their wedding, she poured a pot of warm wine for him.

That low-born daughter was me.

I don’t want to remember that night; I imagine he doesn’t either.

He called me "Lily" that night, embracing a woman he thought beneath him, sinking together into a shared ruin. He gave his first to me — and I became pregnant with his only child.

Marcus had clawed his way from an unloved prince with a lowly birth to a ruler wielding absolute power — a life of narrow escapes and miraculous reversals.

To fall into the gutter and be undone by a concubine-born girl — that had to be the biggest stain on his life.

But I remembered everything.

That night, as dawn crept in, he slept sated, his skin glowing like jade. A small frown had formed between his brows.

I stared at him until I couldn’t help myself. I kissed his brow and murmured, "Lily’s here… Sam, don’t be afraid…"

Just like the day in the rural fields when I held a dying boy and begged him not to die.

That boy had forced a fragile, broken smile: "Miss Lily… actually, I just want to see your face…"

I sobbed and kissed his lips. He stared into nothing for a long time; his cold fingers traced my face. "Lily… I’ve never seen your face… I don’t want to die."

If he’d died then, I would have loved him forever.

But he didn’t die.

Not only did he survive, he became the Nine-Five Supreme — and he repaid that favor by making my sister Empress.

I always thought I might have been better off picking up a stray dog than picking him.

That night of chaos, the next day I was dragged into a sealed chamber and tormented for over half a month. My flesh still bore the wounds.

Old scars reopened by new injuries, I’d grit my teeth and endure. Even the water touching my skin made me tremble in pain.

02 "Your Highness, the water’s cooling—"

Maggie called softly. I drew myself together and asked in a low tone, "Has he come?"

She nodded pale-faced, but hesitated.

She probably couldn’t understand how the once gentle, timid Miss Grace turned step by step into this — ruthless, calculating, and willing to stoop for power.

How did it happen?

Let me think.

Did it start when I watched Samuel gently call Hazel "Lily"? Or the day my mother died in my arms? Or the day in the water-dungeon when he grabbed my face and told me he found me disgusting?

Enough — the end is what matters; the path is irrelevant.

I turned and gave Maggie a look, smiling. "If you speak another word, I’ll cut out your tongue."

She dropped the towel and ran out wailing. I sighed and sank into the bath; the warm water wrapped me until it felt like suffocation.

"Your Highness is with child; why make such a show?"

A man leaned against the door in the eunuch’s robe, lazy and careless. He had sharp, lively eyes.

When I stayed silent, he rushed over, hauled me from the water by the shoulders and demanded, "Do you want to die?"

I closed my eyes and smiled. "Uncle Evan, if I die, who will carry the Aldridge line?"

That was vicious, but Evan Aldridge only laughed: "Little Dowager, you bite with words bigger than your person."

I opened my eyes and smiled at him. Water ran down my arms as they looped around his neck; my fingers pressed across his lips, breath brushing his ear. "So tell me—do you like it?"

Evan looked at me with those peach-blossom eyes full of feeling. He brushed aside my wet hair, closed his eyes to take in my scent and said flippantly, "Smells so good."

The sight made my stomach churn with disgust. I shrugged his hands off and tried to swim back.

He came after me and dragged me into his arms, repeatedly running his hands over my flat belly. His eyes curved like a moonlit lake — that intoxicating boyish charm.

Brothers… they do resemble each other, in ways.

I drifted for a moment.

When I came back, he had bent down; his warm, soft lips brushed my face as if in dream.

From where I was, I could only see his long, elegant lashes and the proud line of his nose beneath the water.

In that moment, absurdly, I thought: Evan would make a good father.

"His Majesty has arrived!"

The shrill voice of Majordomo Thomas tore at a corner of my heart. My throat went dry and my vision darkened.

Evan raised his head; the sultry haze in his eyes fixed on me.

"Aren’t you going to hide?!"

Marcus entered and stood at a distance without even looking my way.

I put my hand on the rim of the pool and beamed at him. "Well? Couldn’t grant me death? Can’t sleep now, Your Majesty?"

Even with his iron rule, his reign is less than a year old, his power still shaky. The Empress Dowager’s faction hasn’t been fully cleared out. General Henry Bennet watches like a tiger. Though my father scorns me, the child in my womb carries Bennett blood on one side; Henry cannot simply remove that line.

Just imagining how they hate me now but must wait until I birth the child — thinking of the torture of that — gives me a thrill.

Pure, delicious thrill.

King Marcus gave a cold laugh and walked straight toward us!

The hand that had been gripping my ankle beneath the water tightened. Panic made me shout, "Stop!"

Marcus didn’t hesitate. He bent slowly, smiling faintly, but his eyes were chilling ice, impossible to meet.

"Claire Bennett," he said softly, "Have I shown you too much mercy?"

Before I could answer, he grabbed my chin hard. I glared at him.

The Aldridges are all striking in looks; Marcus is no exception.

In moonlit sheen, his skin seemed to outshine the moon itself. His phoenix eyes lifted, all sensuality tempered by a cruel, hard edge.

That face had once collapsed in a remote mountain, and I had mistaken him for a beautiful, fragile woman and taken him home.

Same face, different fate — perhaps that’s what being emperor changes.

He was breathtaking. Just looking at him made the water feel thin and cold again.

Damn… Evan!

The hand on my ankle grew weak.

I clenched my teeth and rose, cold all over, forcing myself to meet Marcus’s gaze.

He blinked once, then his eyes darkened.

"Your Majesty," I said, teeth bared in a smile, "The physician says it’s safe."

"Shameless," he spat, cresting his brow with disgust, then swept away in a disdainful exit.

I felt like a fish pulled from water, gasping a few thin breaths but still bearing a heavy stone in my chest.

I wanted to cry, but I swallowed it down.

Evan came up and wrapped me tightly; his hold was firm and oddly comforting. I craved that suffocating closeness.

I shivered in his ear, trying to breathe, but his face remained pale as porcelain, unreadable.

"Little Lily," he murmured in a low, hoarse voice, "Cry if you must."

I didn’t cry. Evan, unusually silent, spoke little and slipped away before I knew it.

The next morning my head throbbed so badly. Maggie was extra careful while she braided my hair. "Your Highness, I’ve looked into it," she whispered. "Last night Lady Rowen had terrible abdominal pain. She kept implying—insinuating—that she’d been given those red eggs sent from our palace. She accused people outright and stirred His Majesty."

I hummed with my eyes closed. "What did His Majesty say?"

"He came to our court, ignored Lady Rowen kneeling outside waiting for justice, and she stayed kneeling at our gate all night because she didn’t have confirmation."

"Oh. Something he would do."

He wouldn’t care about a concubine’s life or death—he just needed an excuse to scold me. Ridiculously boring.

I changed into plain clothes and went to the late Empress Margaret’s old residence. Majordomo Thomas saw me and surprise plastered his face. "Your Highness, why have you come?"

I wasn’t sure if he meant a pregnant woman shouldn’t be here, or if he meant the illegitimate sister’s death was tied to me and I had the audacity to show my face before her spirit. I kept the weary, bitter smile on my face intact. "I heard the Empress Dowager was grieving my sister’s passing and weakened on her bed. Even for her, I could not avoid paying my respects."

That was a lie. The Empress Dowager was Evan Aldridge’s mother; Hazel’s death would be blamed on King Marcus Aldridge. The woman would likely celebrate for years.

I studied Thomas’s expression without giving anything away.

He sighed thoughtfully. "Then please follow me, Your Highness."

I smiled and nodded, signaling Maggie to wait outside, lifting my skirts as Thomas led me into the inner hall.

Marcus had always doted on my sister. What she had, no one else did. I had seen it before. I glanced past and my gaze fell on the memorial tablet.

"Empress Margaret," I murmured. "It sounds lovely."

So corny. Marcus had such a reputation for being unmatched in talent—this?

Thomas said cautiously, "Your Highness, allow me to dust the incense for you."

I hummed, eyes flicking to Maggie outside in passing.

I took the incense with both hands and set it in the brazier, then knelt on the cushion and closed my eyes to think.

After a moment, a junior eunuch of Thomas’s came in with a hush message. I opened my eyes slowly; Thomas’s face clouded. "Your Highness, um—"

"Majordomo Thomas, if you have matters, attend to them."

I forced a smile and, almost without thinking, pressed a hand to my belly. "I’ll be gone after half an incense stick."

Thomas’s cautious gaze swept over my stomach. He nodded and slipped out quietly.

The room fell silent except for the faint curling scent of incense. I rose slowly, stretching my stiff limbs. "Sister, it’s me."

I leaned over the memorial tablet with a smile, like the way I pressed my face to hers as she lay dying—savoring those final gasps, her unwillingness, her rage. I had been drunk on my victory.

"Good sister, I’ve finally beaten you this once."

I smiled.

She had humiliated me, stolen my place, betrayed me—how could I not send her off properly?

"Sister is dead. How wonderful."

I curved my eyes. "She died at the moment Marcus loved you most. She died as Empress. How wonderful…"

If there’s a next life, she should hope she never crosses me again, or I won’t let her go so peacefully.

I was about to step closer to the golden-nanmu coffin when footsteps sounded outside.

I froze, then moved with practiced ease and dove beneath the offering table, hiding like I had back when I endured my stepmother’s beatings in the Bennett house.

This time I wasn’t panicked. I was composed.

Shoes embroidered with gold and black.

I gripped the tablecloth. I knew Marcus, cautious as he was, wouldn’t talk to a dead woman—but I had a feeling a storm was coming.

"Your Majesty, thank you for allowing this old woman to come and see the Empress off…oh, what a pity—"

That choking, weak female voice.

My heart beat so hard it hurt.

I clenched my hands and bit my lip until the sound in my throat stopped.

Step-mother, it’s a real pity you can’t see me despairing over you.

Marcus was silent for a long while, then spoke lightly, "Hazel was my first wife. I will give her a grand funeral—full honor and sorrow."

My stepmother faltered, voice low. "This old woman has a presumptuous request—may she see Consort Anna for a moment?"

"The Royal Infirmary says the baby is in an unfavorable position and needs rest. Wait until she recovers to come see her."

When did the imperial physicians ever say my baby was malpositioned?

They left together, doors closing behind them, and I still couldn’t collect myself.

A knife fell from the heavens—Marcus had actually stood up for me against my stepmother? Or was he protecting the child in my belly?

He valued this child that much?

Well then, the show might get interesting.

"Mother—"

I followed them, catching up on the corridor and pretending to be casual. I drew close to my stepmother with a pale, gentle face. "Mother, you finally made it to the palace. Why not come see your daughter?"

Her face went green with anger. Everyone in the palace knew Hazel’s death was wrapped up with me somehow. She could hardly imagine I would appear in her presence like I owned the place.

I took her hand in feigned concern and leaned in, smiling, pressing my palm against my belly. "You needn’t worry too much. You’re about to be a grandmother. Excited?"

Your daughter is dead and I’m carrying a child—double blessings, really.

Marcus’s brow hadn’t relaxed since I arrived. Seeing Mrs. Bennett jerk her hand away, his frown deepened. "I have matters to attend to. Thomas—"

Majordomo Thomas bowed and looked to me. I winked at him.

"Escort Mrs. Bennett out of the palace."

Marcus didn’t want to stay a moment longer. He turned and left.

I hooked my arm through my stepmother’s, looking her in the eye with a smile and lowering my voice to her ear. "Oh, mother—why grieve so much? In any case… you’ll be joining her down there before long."

Mrs. Bennett stared in disbelief, eyes red, and raised her hand to strike me. I leaned back with a shriek, cradling my belly and stumbling down the white marble steps.

I slammed my shoulder against the railing on the way down; pain seared through my bones. I drew a deep breath and took in her panic-stricken old face.

Ridiculous. I wanted to laugh, but tears slipped uncontrollably from my eyes.

Marcus moved faster than anyone else. He vaulting the railing and sprinted to me, gathering me into his arms and barking, "What are you all standing around for? Seize this poisoner!"

I couldn’t help laughing then.

Whether onstage or off, Marcus and I—our act was flawless. No one compared.

At my tremulous laugh, Marcus stiffened.

I clung to his neck and began to cry theatrically. "Your Majesty—my belly hurts so much—"

Everyone panicked. Marcus carried me straight for the Royal Infirmary.

Once away from so many eyes, I cut the sobs and put on an easy mockery. "Marcus…you wanted me dead, didn’t you? Not on my watch."

He looked down at me, shadowed and unexpectedly angry. His hand swept to my face and roughly wiped away the tears from my eyes. Gritting his teeth he hissed, "Who told you that wine was poisoned? Claire Bennett—don’t get clever and go too far."

Cold poured through me like a basin of ice.

The physician only said I had disturbed the fetus and needed bed rest. I listened with eyes closed. I knew nothing would happen. My child wasn’t fragile—if a fall could take it, then perhaps it didn’t deserve to be born into this thorny harem, to be used as someone’s steppingstone all its life.

I lay still but felt someone watching me in the quiet inner chamber for a long time.

"Go."

I turned over, voice hoarse. "I don’t want to see you."

I never expected—never imagined—Marcus would be so heartless to Lily. He was cutting off my last hope with his own hands.

Pathetic. I had really wanted him to love my sister fiercely and faithfully—at least then it would prove Samuel had loved Lily, even if he loved the wrong woman. Love would still have existed.

He used me against my sister; what was next?

"Rest well."

Marcus’s voice was cold and tired. "Always scheming like this—how can the child be normal?"

I sat up with a cold laugh. "You want a healthy child? Marcus—are you worthy?"

His dark eyes fixed on me; his lips trembled, but he said nothing and walked away.

That night Marcus’s loyal captain Gavin Hale wasn’t on duty, but he still took the risk of coming.

I pretended to nap on the couch while Evan stood by my bed, silent and stubbornly staring.

I sighed and reached out to grip his fingers.

Evan’s hand was ice-cold. I bit a sound out and he pulled away, voice low. "I know you hate her, but there are a thousand ways to get revenge. Why choose the one that hurts you most?"

His eyes were red; the gentle crease of his brow made me melt.

"Evan…"

I stroked his knuckles again and again. "You like me, right?"

He inhaled once and turned his head away in silence.

"I like you too. But remember—my vengeance is mine alone."

He snapped his head back and stared at me.

I laughed. "You want to kill her for me? No. I’ll keep them alive. Only alive can they taste all the suffering my mother and I endured. And I will watch them tear each other apart."

Evan smiled bitterly; his eyes were unreadable. "Your Highness is wise."

I looked at him and sighed.

You will never understand. Only one person could truly understand me—he and I were cut from the same cloth: two revenge-driven shells, two souls sinking into ruin. From this moment on, I would never spare him.

"Months are early; the fetus’ sex is not yet visible."

The physician withdrew the drape, bowing. "It is my failure."

I slowly drew back my sleeve and said coldly, "Not yet time. Dr. Xavier Park, there’s no need to be so self-deprecating."

This physician, Dr. Park, had been strongly recommended by my father, General Henry Bennett. Henry wasn’t a saint, but when it came to the child, he and I were on the same side.

A few days ago, Lady Evelyn had just been brought back to the Bennett Manor by General Henry Bennett. King Marcus Aldridge used the excuse that Henry had mismanaged his wife and harmed the heir to strip him of the Eastfort military token, cutting his command in half. Henry, who’d always tried to be careful enough to stay blameless, was finally broken.

Watching two dogs tear each other apart was satisfying, I’ll admit, but with the military authority shifted and power centralized, it wasn’t good for me. Taking down Marcus would require so much more effort. I was already stretched thin.

I couldn’t help cursing myself again—what a fool I was. I gave up my child to lure a wolf, and Marcus merely received the spoil without lifting a finger.

But back then, when Marcus had been at death’s door and I’d taken him to Bennett Manor to beg my father to treat him, it seemed Dr. Xavier Park was the one who took his pulse. No wonder Dr. Park had become Marcus’s favored physician. Henry had managed to bribe him—so the two of them had a history of knowing each other in hard times.

"Do you know the majordomo Thomas?" I asked, looking straight into his eyes.

As I dozed that afternoon, I felt something slowly graze my belly.

I woke to Marcus’s face; he withdrew his hand like nothing had happened and, in a low voice, said, "Awake?"

I glared at him. "You trying to scare me to death?"

Marcus’s mouth tilted. "Claire Bennett, with your nerve, you still dream of regicide?"

My throat tightened. I quickly sifted through memory—when had I ever let slip intent to kill? I forced a calm, wry smile. "Your Majesty speaks in jest. If I win, I alone succeed; if I lose, the entire Bennett family dies with me. Isn’t that a sure profit?"

He regarded me long and silent, then lifted an eyebrow. "Fine ambitions. I shall wait for you."

When he left, my gown was soaked. Maggie changed my clothes for me, equal parts amused and exasperated. "Your Highness, you’re with child—why such corner-cutting?"

I glanced at her. Suddenly I remembered—Maggie had never seemed afraid of Marcus.

Rain began to fall outside.

I remembered the thunderstorm the night my mother was poisoned by that vile Evelyn. I held my wailing, dying mother, helpless, while Maggie gripped my hand and urged, "Miss Claire, please beg His Majesty…maybe he’ll spare you for the sake of his future sister-in-law…send help."

I was so naive then. I thought he might help. I was Annie—if not for saving his life, if not for him… I might still be the carefree Claire who used to be.

I even thought, why not tell him outright? The Bennetts were using my mother’s life to silence me. My mother was dying—why not just tell Marcus that I was the one who saved him, that I was Annie?

I ran out into the storm and knelt at the main gate for two hours until Thomas finally arrived.

He carried a garment. A junior eunuch shielded him with an umbrella, and the cloth Thomas held shimmered with embroidered flying fish—clearly fine silk.

There I was, soaked and muddied on my knees.

At that moment I felt so worthless—the illegitimate daughter of a general, groveling in the rain.

Even a favored eunuch towered over me in status.

I wiped my face and called out loud, "Majordomo, please—"

Thomas sighed and looked at me with pity. "Miss Claire, what are you doing?"

The instant I began to speak, hot tears spilled down my face. Luckily the rain was heavy; he probably couldn’t tell the difference.

"I want to see—"

"Miss Claire—"

He cut me off. I’ll never forget his expression: pity laced with sigh and sorrow. "You needn’t say more. Please go home. I must deliver the wedding clothes to Miss Hazel."

I froze until his figure disappeared.

The clothes in his hands were embroidered with cloud motifs—the very kind my elder sister Hazel loved.

In that instant, everything snapped into place.

Everything.

I knew that night Evan would come for me. I was too exhausted from pregnancy to stay up, so I was groggy when he questioned me, and his interrogation left me half-amused and half-crying.

"I heard from Gavin that you bribed Thomas and used him as a spy," Evan scowled. "What were you thinking? Aren’t you afraid he was a double agent?"

I leaned into him lazily. "Everyone has a soft spot—even eunuchs."

"How did you do it?" Evan pinched my cheek, demanding, "Tell me."

"Nothing much—just slept with him," I said.

Evan grabbed my shoulder; his peach-blossom eyes reddened with anger. He leaned down and nibbled my face, furious, "Not even a eunuch you spare?"

His cool, soft lips brushed my skin and made my whole body shiver.

Honestly, who could resist such a lovely boy?

I looked up at his moonlit face and said, "Actually…I’ve been thinking about you."

His lowered gaze was like a fog over a canyon—unfathomable.

"Annie—"

"Shh." I put my finger to his lips. "Do you hear anything?"

He listened, puzzled, then shook his head. "No."

I Married Into a House of Lies

I relaxed and smiled, then changed the subject. "Do you regret it, Evan?"

"No."

He spoke simply.

"Truly—no regrets?" I tilted my head. "They say during the succession struggle you risked your life to save Marcus and sent him to Riverside County. If you hadn't, maybe I'd still be that happy village girl."

"No ifs," he said quietly. "If there were an if, I only wish I'd met you sooner."

"You talk sweet." I let the subject drop. He sighed.

05.

"Looks like Marcus is madly in love with my sister. How many days has it been since he set foot in the harem?" I listened to Maggie deliver Thomas's report and pretended to nap, propping my head on my hand.

"Your Highness need not be sad. His Majesty must be thinking of you," Maggie chirped.

I shot her a look.

She scratched her head and hurried on, "After all, the imperial heir is unique."

I rolled my eyes and muttered, "What kind of intel is this Thomas gave? Like a child playing house—tracking how many bites Marcus ate or how often he used the latrine. Who cares?"

Maggie giggled, eyes curved.

"Trouble! Trouble!" A junior maid burst in and collapsed, terrified. "Princess Consort Meredith…she's come to the palace—"

"So what if the Princess Consort came?" Evan's wife, Lillian, was Hazel's sworn friend and had long tormented me and my mother. I had momentarily forgotten her—she'd simply delivered herself.

"Princess Consort Meredith has come to accuse you of impropriety with the prince. She has witnesses and evidence!"

"What?" I leapt to my feet.

"The emperor is furious. The decree to depose you is already on its way to Westhall Palace!"

"This is chaos…"

Maggie panicked. "How could His Majesty accept this without asking a single question?"

"Maggie." I closed my eyes—I could barely stand—"help me to the study."

"Your Majesty, please hear my defense." I clutched Evan's sleeve so hard I wrinkled the black-gold dragon embroidery. "Lillian is close to Empress Margaret, and I have never been on good terms with the Empress… His Majesty must have heard one-sided tales. How can he believe her? This is slander."

Marcus barely raised an eyebrow and didn't pull away from my hand. Strange—he'd already issued my deposition but agreed too eagerly to grant me an audience.

I couldn't understand him more every day.

He slowly smoothed my hair. His cool fingertips rested at my lips. "Look at that—my Annie…so rushed, her hair's a mess."

I kept pushing my explanation. "I don't know Gavin. Why would he risk helping me? His death wasn't necessarily suicide—it could be murder. Your Majesty must not decide rashly—you'd condemn an innocent."

I bowed my head low. "I am pure with Prince Charles. The heavens bear witness. If there's a single false word, may I die horribly."

Maggie gasped and dropped to her knees, choking out, "Your Highness—"

Swearing such an oath felt small. Whatever it took—so long as Marcus died before me, I didn't care how I died. I only wanted him dead in front of me.

"Do you know?" Marcus stood before me, calm. "Two cups of poisoned wine were prepared—one sent to Westhall Palace, the other to Prince Charles's residence. I let fate choose. That's why you're still here."

My fingers clenched until the armor bit into my skin, blood and pain. "Your Majesty… Prince Charles saved the palace. How could you be so cruel?"

He smiled in contempt. "If I were truly cruel, I'd have given you both that choice and made you a pair of desperate lovers on the run."

He locked his gaze on me; his voice dropped, and an ugly smile curled his lips. "But I don't wish that. I want you to be kept apart—never to meet again."

I couldn't hold back. I lunged up and glared at him. "Where's the evidence? The witnesses are dead—what about the physical proof? I ask you—what proof do you have?"

Marcus watched me, the darkness in his eyes like a storm. His mouth twitched but showed nothing.

"Can't produce it, can you?" I laughed, hysterical. "Marcus! When have you ever cared whether I actually killed Hazel, or whether she truly fell, or whether I truly slept around? You only want the result. You only want them dead! For an emperor you are cowardly—you always use other people's hands to do the killing. You crave your reputation, your immortal empire. So you hide in others' shadows, peeking and sucking life out of them like a disgusting bug! You're nothing but a rotten insect!"

I took a step closer, eyes icy. "Kill me, Marcus. If you have the guts, kill me now!"

I pulled a gold hairpin from my head and shoved it into his hand, guiding his fingers so they pressed at my throat. "Weren't you going to have me die with Hazel? Do it! I command you—do it!"

He flung my hand aside. I stumbled and fell.

He looked down at me from above; for a fleeting moment his eyes flashed with murder—but the fury faded into cold disdain.

I was disgraced in An Courtyard and dragged into the cold palace, stripped of title and reduced to commoner.

Marcus despised me utterly. The court knew it was only a matter of time, but none of them expected it to come so fast. I didn't even have a chance to bear the child before Marcus threw me into the cold palace without delay.

Being banished to the Cold Palace calmed me down instead. Marcus didn't kill me. If I wasn't dead, I still had a chance to turn things around.

Dodging the palace informants—this was a godsend.

The Cold Palace wasn't a place one stayed in comfortably.

Lady Rowen and Lady Rowen's kind—no, Lady Rowen and Lady Rowen's cronies—all came rushing to "visit" me.

I'd seen many people who shifted with the wind, flattering those above and trampling those below. But if I had to pick the most shameless, these few together didn't even deserve to lace Marcus's shoes.

I ate the spoiled food they sent with a calm face and scared them off. They all gossiped that I'd gone mad from being stripped of my rank and reduced to a commoner.

I spat the morsel from my mouth and glanced up. Someone stood on a distant pavilion.

Pathetic.

The day I went into premature labor, Marcus wasn't in the palace—he'd gone out to inspect flood damage.

The clothes from the Interior Department smelled of labor-inducing herbs. Those people had meant to take my life while Marcus was away, but in a way they'd helped me too.

"Listen, if anyone comes, just scream and make a scene! I'll nail the doors and windows shut, understand?"

I gripped the hand of a maid so hard it hurt, my fingers trembling. "No matter what happens, don't stop!"

That maid had been placed by General Henry Bennett—she had some skill. She nodded hard. "Your maid will not fail the miss."

"Miss…" The old title slipped my mind into memory, bringing the past rushing back. There wasn't time for nostalgia. I slipped into the eunuch's clothes I'd prepared and snuck out of the Cold Palace.

"What day is it that the guards are so lax?"

Silence pressed on me as if the world had died. The guards' dead eyes skimmed my slightly stooped figure, but they seemed afraid to linger. They averted their gaze and hurried on.

Maybe the Empress had protected me. Maybe it was the worsening pain in my belly. I didn't analyze it—I returned to Westhall Palace as quickly as I could.

Maggie whispered, "Majordomo Thomas already followed the Empress's orders and fed those women small doses of the labor herbs. It's nothing much."

I listened closely to the muffled sounds from below—weak cries and a few screams.

I let out a slow breath. At the same time the pain intensified; warm blood trickled down my legs. Gritting my teeth, I shuffled into a side hall and lay on a small couch, eyes shut.

I thought of my mother. She'd told me childbirth was like stepping into the gate of ghosts.

I clutched the blanket until my whole body shook.

My mind blurred. When my lips tasted of iron, I chanted, "Mother in heaven, please bless your daughter to deliver safely, and grant me vengeance."

I felt like I was falling into a dream.

I dreamed of Evan.

It was the night we first met—he was young and clean-featured, his gaze lively, his laugh like peach blossom wine I had brewed: sharp, sweet, intoxicating.

He cocked his head and looked at me with meaning. "So you're the third Miss Bennett."

Rude and strange, but at that time I didn't know him. I shot him a cold look and kept burning my paper money.

He stood quietly behind me and guarded the wind for my lantern. In the warm embers, his profile was clean and clear.

Somehow I asked, "Hey, do you have an older brother named Marcus?"

He looked surprised and smiled. "Yes. Your childhood name… was it Lily?"

Ah, now I regret it. I should've asked, "Why didn't you show up earlier?"

Why didn't you show up earlier, Evan?

"Your Highness—"

Someone lunged and clamped my chin, forcing warm water into my mouth. "Your Highness… hang on! His Majesty will be back soon!"

His Majesty.

Images of Marcus flashed in my mind: in the countryside, weak but smiling serenely at me; lying in the general's manor with eyes closed and near death; rising again and laughing with my legitimate sister; me kneeling at the palace gate, sending wedding garments and watching my mother die; the cold water dungeon where he tortured and humiliated me; "Miss… the wind's picked up—"—under the peach tree, his faint smile when he turned his head.

I hadn't killed Marcus yet.

Marcus!

I couldn't die. I would not die.

"Marcus—"

I couldn't hold back. A guttural scream tore from me. A ragged, heart-shredding pain, and at last a faint cry.

I gasped, tears sliding down my cheeks.

Marcus, you didn't finish me… you're done.

I clenched my teeth. The pain in my belly dragged me down, my body drenched as if I'd been steeped.

At dawn my child was born.

A daughter.

Maybe the labor herbs made her weak—she was frail, even her cries were like a kitten's mew.

Maggie stepped from the secluded room, hair drenched in sweat, holding the pale, clean infant who slept soundly.

"Two hours early," she said quietly. "Only one survived."

What a close call.

I don't know how I took the child—how I looked at my true daughter—and said, "Send her away."

Maggie stared. "How can you—?!"

"Why not?"

I said sternly, "If she stays, Marcus won't spare her."

Time was short. Marcus would never let me be pregnant again.

Besides, a daughter alone meant I'd lose the last leverage with the Bennett family and be trapped forever in the palace.

Forget revenge—survival would be impossible.

"Can't we pretend they're twins? Keep the little princess?" Maggie begged and fell to her knees. "Please think—keep her!"

"Do you think Marcus is an idiot?" I tightened my brow. Dawn was nearly upon us, and Maggie opposed me now. I forced myself upright, breathing hard. "Give me the child!"

Maggie crawled forward and hugged the baby, crying. "Please don't—"

I threw back the blanket and pointed to the smoke rising outside. "Do you see that?"

I gripped her chin. "That's the Cold Palace. We just escaped from there. Do you know who burned to death? The maid who just called me 'miss.' You came in together—hours ago you parted ways. Do you remember what she looked like? Can you hear her cries? Tell me—do you want me dead too?"

I must have looked deranged. Maggie shrank into a corner and shook her head furiously.

"Listen to me."

I squatted to meet her eyes. My voice quivered with pain but I softened it. "Maggie… for the little princess's sake—she can't survive in the harem with me as her mother."

Maggie shook her red-rimmed eyes. "No, you and the princess will be fine. You'll live—"

"Marcus won't spare me." I smiled without humor. "You're naïve. Haven't you seen his cruelty?"

"His Majesty… his Majesty… Marcus actually loves you!" Maggie cried with her eyes closed. "He knows you saved him! He knows everything!"

Silence filled the hall. I watched the smoke and the rising sun. "How do you know this?"

After more halting confessions, the whole thing revealed itself like a cruel joke. She said she authored the world I lived in. I'm the villainess in a cruel novel; she the writer, shaping our sufferings under the plea of "a little pain keeps readers engaged" and the sick credo of "pursuing the wife funeral pyre" toward a manufactured happy ending.

No wonder she never feared Marcus, no wonder she favored him. In her version, as long as Marcus didn't kill me, we might heal together.

But she forgot I'm a person with dignity.

"The creator is trapped in her creation," she said.

I repeated it and laughed. "You want a feel-good ending. You want to go home. Fine. Now I'm in charge of your life. How does it feel to have your fate decided by someone else?"

Maggie couldn't meet my eyes. She whispered feebly, "You'll have a happy ending if you stop now… or disguise the princess and that other child as twins, like I wrote…"

"Why would I follow your ending?" I arched a brow and let a mocking smile curl. "Even the cleverest pen can't make everything possible."

Maggie looked at me in terror, then bowed her head. "If Fifth Madam hadn't been poisoned… if I hadn't nudged the plot so you'd seek Marcus—you wouldn't have discovered he was feigning illness."

"Feigning illness…" I scoffed, but my chest tightened. "So he could pretend to be innocent, and I cried my eyes out on the general's pillows while he cozyed up to my sister."

My mother had stroked my head and said, "Let's go back to Riverside County. Being the general's illegitimate daughter isn't worth it."

But Hazel Bennett and Lady Evelyn, thinking the marriage secure, poisoned us. This life—there's no going back to Riverside County.

"It wasn't all pretense…" Maggie began.

"Don't say more!" I cut her off. "I will not keep that child. Give her to me!"

A commotion at the door: Marcus had returned overnight. I could hear the low fury in his voice.

Maggie babbled something through her tears. I watched her lips move as she seized the child and bolted.

In one sharp moment, a pair of scissors plunged into the nape of her neck.

Forgive me, Maggie. You peeked at fate and tried to make me accept your ridiculous destiny. I couldn't let you live as a curse.

This time, I would make fate bow beneath me.

Her hand pressed against the door. Her body folded weakly before the dawn. She turned tearfully to look at me; the morning light flashed across my eyes, then everything went black.

Maggie's blood was hot and sticky, a stain I couldn't scrub away.

I smeared it on the child's face. The sleeping infant woke with a scream—what a robust little thing.

I cradled her slowly. "Don't cry, little one. Blood like this doesn't scare us… Darning's throne depends on you."

Someone flung the door open and stared at me, steady and intent.

I looked up. The pale gold morning light streamed in, and his gaze was dark, sharp as a blade.

"Your Majesty."

I lifted an eyebrow and slowly cradled the baby, smiling, "Look—our child is crying…"

King Marcus's face stiffened for a beat. He lowered his eyes to the infant, his lips twitching, and asked softly, "Are you all right?"

I blinked, puzzled. "How could I not be?"

He stepped closer and gently covered my hand. His palms were cool; there was a faint cold sweat in his skin.

"As long as you're fine," he said. "Look, the little prince sees his father and smiles so happily."

I let a corner of my mouth lift. "He… has a destiny with you."

The child did seem tied to Marcus. The day after the boy was born, the floods in Riverside County eased. People began whispering that the little prince was a reincarnated lucky star, heaven-sent to protect Great Dening.

I knew whose doing it truly was, of course. Still, I sent a letter to General Henry Bennett—told him to be careful, not to go too far.

Evan's fate was uncertain. I was trapped again in the palace and had to tread lightly; one misstep and I'd plummet into an abyss. It was exhausting.

Marcus's behavior was vague—he stuck close to me from dawn till dusk, even insisting on reviewing memorials in my chamber. But he refused, utterly, to hold the little prince. He had an instinctive recoil from the child.

Blood ties are weighty. They don't feel the same as a child you sire yourself.

My own daughter had already been sent out of the palace by Majordomo Thomas. I feared I might never see her again.

I tightened my grip on the prince's wrist, my eyes darkening.

I hadn't expected to see him again so soon.

That night, Marcus frowned in thought for a long while. When he left, he straightened my blanket and, like soothing a child, stroked my cheek. "I have matters to attend to. Sleep first."

I stayed silent, unused to it.

His retreating back was proud and lonely. For reasons I couldn't explain, I called after him, "Marcus."

He didn't take offense at the name—he only turned, stiff for a moment. His fog-dark eyes flickered.

Embarrassed, I pulled at any topic. "Will you come back?"

He seemed to loosen at the question. "I will."

I didn't believe him. I hid at the door and watched for a long time.

Majordomo Thomas had told me the palace was full of secret passages—some even the emperor might not know. Back then I had hidden pregnant servants in a secret room; they were all sent away now. I wasn't sure if the traces had been fully erased.

I pressed my hand to the hidden room's door, then glanced back toward the spot where he had sat that afternoon.

Paper rustled. I remembered his pearly fingertips brushing the edge.

My heart tightened. Marcus had been acting strangely all night; his eyes made me uneasy.

Following the memory of direction, I kept my hand along the wall and moved forward. Cold gusts blew; I wrapped my robe tighter and forced myself toward the spot.

"Ah—"

A woman's shriek sliced through the air just on the other side of the wall. I stopped, braced myself, took two steadying breaths, and peered around the corner.

A woman, tortured beyond recognition, lifted her head defiantly. Servants crawled at her feet, trembling in terror.

Marcus sat with perfect composure, holding something in his arms. He raised an eyebrow, listening to the woman's curses with detached amusement.

"Marcus Aldridge!

You won't die well!"

My blood boiled and then went cold. The voice burned itself into me—the voice I would never forget.

My biological sister—Marcus's empress—Hazel Bennett!

"Die well? You won't die well, Marcus, you beast!"

Hazel's shriek echoed through the vast hidden chamber. It made my skin crawl.

Marcus opened his mouth slowly. "The one who won't die well is you."

A baby's faint cry cut the air. Some thread in my mind snapped. I ran without thinking.

"Ah."

Marcus's gaze lifted from the infant in his arms. He stopped when he saw me.

"Found out," he said with a smile that somehow didn't reach his eyes.

"Give me the child."

I forced the words out, every syllable sharp. "What are you thinking?"

"What am I thinking?" he echoed, quirking his mouth in a flash of cruel charm. "I'm thinking of avenging us."

"Us?"

"You've gone mad." I spat, teeth clenched. "Give me the child. Now!"

Marcus handed my daughter to Majordomo Thomas as if he were some tender new father. Thomas bent, unable to meet my eyes.

Thomas had promised to send the little princess out of the palace. Traitor.

Thomas moved further into the inner chamber.

Anger surged with nowhere to go. I lunged to snatch the child back.

Marcus caught my hand with a deft flick and spun me around until I faced the woman bound on the rack.

She was less than human now. Even if I had once wished her torn limb from limb, I couldn't have imagined such a vicious torture method.

She'd been left suspended, breath forced for half a year.

She glared at me with eyes like daggers. I couldn't pull free of Marcus's grip. He pulled me close and, with a provocative tilt, presented me to Hazel.

He lowered his head and inhaled at my neck, in a syrupy, soft voice like a lover's whisper: "I didn't plan to let her live either. But you'll like the gift I brought you, won't you?"

"If it's revenge you want, I'd prefer to see you die in front of me," I said coldly. "Will you—or won't you?"

His smile didn't fade. He nodded indulgently. "You kill her first. We'll deal with the rest… slowly, okay?"

"Hazel, your bastard with Evan—it's over."

Hazel's laugh turned wild, tears fusing with blood. "Your and Evan's bastard will be dead soon as well!"

Her face lunged up close to mine. In the last moments, she widened her eyes—the reflection of my shock caught in them.

Marcus covered my eyes slowly, then murmured, "This time, she's truly dead. Keeping her alive took a lot of the imperial physicians' work—feel better now?"

I clenched my hands to steady my trembling body. "What are you trying to do, Marcus?"

In that instant, the man in front of me was a stranger—terrifying. Or perhaps I'd never truly seen him at all.

"I really do love you." He relaxed his hold, and an arrow smeared with blood clattered to the floor.

He trailed his finger along my lip and pressed a light kiss. "Claire, I really love you."

"Is that so?" I sneered. "Don't you love Lily?"

"I never loved any Lily."

He took my shoulder, eyes shifting. "Do you understand?"

His grip tightened. Pain flared across my shoulder. He forced me to meet his cold, fathomless eyes.

"What are you doing?" I imagined doom pooling in my chest.

"Do it," he said suddenly, pulling me tight and whispering near my ear, "I can spare Evan, but your child with him—never."

Only then did I realize the "do it" wasn't meant for me. Panic seized me. I struggled desperately. "No! Don't—"

The baby's cries cut sharper and sharper, like needles. I broke down, wailing, "No! Don't do this! Marcus, she—she's only a baby! Please—"

He bent and kissed my tears, smiling savagely. "I didn't want you to see… Claire, you're too clever."

"You knew it all along and acted with me—why?!" I bit his arm hard, as if that might anchor me.

"Of course, to atone," he murmured, gently brushing hair from my face. "I thought I could restrain myself, Claire… I thought I could. I overestimated myself."

"She drove me to jealous madness. I wanted to hold her and have her call me father. But do you know? Your and Evan's child cries so much—so unlike you. All I see on her face is Evan. I held out till now. You said we'd both go to Hell together, right? Claire, I promised. We'll start anew together—right in Hell."

"No—" I pressed my palms to my head. The infant's cry seemed to dim to a pinprick. I clutched my ears, insane. "Go to Hell, Marcus! Go to Hell! Die, die—"

"I will," he said, eyes dark, wrenching my hand away. He actually—he made me watch my child fade.

"I will die. And you won't escape."

He murmured that like a lover's vow, a demon's lullaby.

Don't try to run.

You won't.

09. Fifth year of Emperor Tianqi, tenth month. The new empress recovered, and the emperor and empress grew closer.

"Mother… Mother, look at my flowers…"

A chubby little bundle barreled into the room and flopped at my bedside, beaming, "Look—"

"The little lord should start calling you Mother Empress from now on." My lady-in-waiting smiled and lifted young Samuel with caring words.

"I know, Aunt Maggie," he replied.

The name lodged oddly on my lips. Fleeting fragments of memory flickered through my mind.

"Why did you insist on going your own way? You knew the ending! You knew!"

Who was speaking? That tearing, anguished woman's voice—Maggie.

I closed my eyes and pressed my throbbing temples.

"Mother Empress, I heard a strange thing today," Samuel said, watching me with grape-dark, clear eyes.

I ruffled his hair. "What is it?"

"Someone said I have an uncle, Prince Charles—he's been in Qiongzhou all these years. I've never seen him."

He lifted his small face, innocent. "Why have you and Father never mentioned him?"

The atmosphere cooled. I noticed a maid tremble.

I answered uncertainly, "Is that so? I never heard of this Prince Charles either."

That night, lying down, I asked Marcus about it.

His eyes flickered, and he said softly, "A person unimportant. Nothing to mention."

I replied with a dutiful "oh." Marcus had grown kinder to me these years, but cruel to others—many had had their lands and names stripped. He was shrewd; even my mother's family had been hollowed out under his power. Maybe I asked too much.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but that night he held my hand with a pressure that bruised.

The next morning, at court, I climbed out of bed to take my medicine as usual. I sipped, and for a moment nearly vomited.

"What's wrong?"

King Marcus frowned and gently patted my back.

"Why does it taste so much more bitter than before?"

I pouted and looked up at him with big, pleading eyes. "I'm fine already. I don't need to take medicine anymore."

He immediately refused in a cold voice. "No."

"Dr. Xavier said if I keep taking medicine I won't be able to conceive."

I looped my arms around his waist and murmured, "Jin's getting older… Doesn't His Majesty want another little princess?"

Marcus stiffened for a moment. When he lowered his eyes to me, there was already a smile in them. "Then you have to obediently take the medicine first."

Boring. I crossed my arms in petulance, grabbed the cup, and drank it all down in one gulp.

He leaned down and kissed the corner of my mouth, full of regret. "Soon. Very soon it'll happen."

Happen what?

His kiss made me almost lose my balance; I couldn't focus on what he said.

The higher-ranking consorts had all been sent to the cold palace; the harem was unbearably quiet.

Maggie, hearing my complaints, smiled and said, "Empress, aren't you being favored alone—shouldn't that make you happy?"

Happy… of course I was happy. But what a waste—to be in such passionate favor while nothing stirred in my belly.

Just after court ended that morning, rumors spread that His Majesty had abruptly dismissed Prince Charles's tutor for no clear reason.

Strange.

But Marcus ruled without consultation. With absolute power, how he handled his ministers left no room for others to intervene. Whether that was good or bad, who could say.

In the middle of the night I climbed onto his sweating back, biting my lip and begging him to finish soon.

Marcus was uncharacteristically harsh and unsparing; he only grew more intense.

Afterward, when I pretended to be angry and ignored him, he acted spoiled, nuzzling his soft cheek against my neck.

I giggled because I was ticklish, then suddenly remembered something. I dressed quickly, ran out to the yard, and dug up my jar of peach blossom wine.

Marcus watched from the side, lifting an eyebrow. "Even as empress your drunken habit hasn't changed."

I remembered those drunken nights in Riverside County when I'd be sloppy and make him, ailing as he was, fumble around to cover me. I felt a little ashamed.

"You're not going to drink?" I cradled the jar like a treasure and brushed off the dust. "Then it's mine alone."

"I recall past years' peach blossom brew wasn't this sweet."

After a few rounds, color flushed Marcus's eyelids and cheeks. His gaze burned and looked so handsome.

I pretended to be serious. "Maybe it's because the drinker has a sweet heart."

His ear tips grew even redder. He dropped his teasing mask and, as if not wanting to ruin the quiet, whispered, "You're right."

I smiled with my eyes crescent-shaped.

He pulled me into his arms and murmured, "Maybe it's about time."

After that, he stopped forcing me to drink medicines. More often he kept me close; no matter how busy, he would steal moments at night to speak to my empty belly.

"Come quickly."

"Please look like your mother."

Childish remarks, but earnest.

Seasons passed. He wanted a child so badly.

I could feel that his longing far exceeded anything he wanted from Jin.

But time after time disappointment followed. In countless sleepless nights he turned and tossed, staring at the dawn.

Sometimes I got up and found him rubbing away tears at the corner of his eyes so fast they slid into his hair.

He wasn't yet thirty, and white hairs already appeared.

He was an emperor—he'd said an emperor should fear no gods or ghosts and rule over the world with disdain.

Yet I'd seen him kneel before the statue of the goddess, hands clasped, worry knotting his brows; his profile calm and devout.

He wasn't praying for fair weather or national peace—he prayed for a child.

Dr. Xavier said Marcus's health had never fully recovered back in Eastfort Camp and was always weak; constant worry would only damage his spirit.

Leaning on him, I asked naively, "We already have Jin. Why are you so desperate?"

He drank a swallow of cold wine and stayed silent. After a long while he kissed me, and his mouth smelled faintly of peach blossom.

"Maybe because of Princess Grace," Maggie said.

When I gave birth to twins once, the younger daughter was weak and passed away. Marcus had been heartbroken, unusually granting the deceased girl an honorable burial and a name with a good omen.

Why did I only hear about it? After childbirth I fell ill and lost memories. I only remembered holding two laughing children.

No wonder. No wonder when I woke and asked where the other child had gone, his gaze had been so cold.

That year's year-end banquet was mere formality.

Ministers and wives mockingly bowed as we left, convinced we were only desperate to add a sibling to the crown prince on such an auspicious occasion.

Only I knew Marcus's body was wasting away day by day. It would be hard for him to father any more children.

He stood beneath the peach tree in my courtyard, head tilted back, eyes closed as he inhaled. In that cold air his face was like pale jade, utterly bloodless.

"Did you know?" he suddenly said. "The first time I saw you, it was under this peach tree."

I was puzzled—why "did you know" instead of "do you remember?"

I shook my head. "I don't remember."

He smiled slowly, dark eyes bright with amusement. "I saw you burying a wine jar, so I chose you."

I couldn't make sense of those two sentences.

He gave me that tranquil smile. "Is there any of that sweet peach brew left? I want to drink it."

I hesitated, remembering Dr. Xavier's warnings.

He tightened his hand around mine and said slowly, every syllable deliberate: "I want to drink it."

Flower wine can't intoxicate a man so completely that he says all sorts of nonsensical things.

He said he never had any affection for Lily; she was too timid and naive. The woman he liked was the Claire who wouldn't put anyone above herself.

I mercilessly pointed out, "You know that's one person."

His fingers stiffened. "Yes, I knew… I always knew…"

That night Marcus vomited blood. So strange—blood spattered over the bedding. He gasped violently, eyes wide enough that tears streamed down and wouldn't be wiped away.

All this violence came from one sentence I had spoken.

I remember leaning against him and earnestly advising, "Your Majesty, you must treat Prince Charles well."

His voice dropped sharply. "Why?"

"Dr. Xavier said that when you were in Eastfort Camp you were in danger. Prince Charles gave his life to save you. Ever since, the princess consort hasn't had children; the prince was grievously wounded and can't have offspring."

"What did you say?"

Marcus clamped my wrist so hard his eyes flashed crimson with alarm. Before I could answer, blood burst from his mouth, a flood that stained the snow-white shift.

"Ah," I said, tilting my head in mild annoyance. "Now we'll have to wash the linens again."

I'd never seen him like that.

Despair, disbelief—his soul seemed extinguished.

The light in his eyes shattered. I held his cooling body and murmured, "What did I say, Marcus? Don't you think you can escape."

He truly couldn't accept it.

I taunted him, "I should've told you, but in that situation you wouldn't have believed me. Poor child… maybe he was still crying when he died…"

I clamped my hands on my throat and mocked in a thin voice, "Father, save me—father, save me—"

He coughed up a fresher spatter of blood. I wiped the tears from his eyes and said softly, "No. No… you don't deserve it."

He looked up, blood at his lips blazing bright. His loving eyes closed forever as he died in my arms. I squeezed his trembling fingers until they were white.

He truly loved me. He wouldn't allow anyone else in the bedchamber—he snuffed out the last of his hope to live.

"Claire… you…" were his last words.

"I'm here," I replied.

I was here because I would win. So before he died I would always be here.

I stared at his lifeless eyes, pressed my face to his, and said indulgently, "You died beautifully. It was truly too easy for you."

Was it raining outside again?

Thick fog rolled in. His eyes closed forever and would never open again. He could never stand in the rain watching me scramble in the muck of the abyss.

I fell down, exhausted. I wanted to laugh, but my chest felt like it had a thousand-pound weight on it.

I didn't dare think. I didn't dare dissect it. Had I truly won?

Did I really… win?

Marcus died so suddenly.

So suddenly I didn't even get to feed him all the peach wine I'd prepared.

When Dr. Xavier arrived the courtyard smelled of fermented peach blossoms—the air sweet and intoxicating, nothing like the acrid stench of the cold palace the day I gave birth. I remembered the maid who called me "miss" and stayed in the cold palace only to be burned alive.

So much blood spilled, so many lives sacrificed—what did we finally get?

No answer.

Dr. Xavier crouched in fear. "The wine… the dosage…"

How could I forget? He was a physician—he could tell at a sniff how much toxic herbs I had mixed.

I pressed my forehead and said coolly, "I'm sorry. I couldn't wait any longer."

He widened his cloudy eyes and stood stunned, speechless for a long time.

I thought he was frightened, so I tried to reassure him: you still have use to me. I won't kill you lightly.

But instead he sighed, shook his head, and shuffled out.

A hazy memory rose: in the general's mansion back then, I'd begged him with tears to save Marcus. I'd said I would go through fire and water for Dr. Xavier. I had meant it.

It wasn't my fault—none of it was. Everything was what Marcus brought on himself.

The mourning for the throne was solemn and long. The Bennett family, seeing us lonely and bereft, schemed to revive their fortunes.

Sadly, though Qiongzhou was far, mourning called them home. Evan Aldridge returned.

I should have been there to greet him, but when I checked my reflection the woman in the bronze mirror looked hollowly exhausted—brow tightly furrowed, faint lines under her eyes. Joy had faded to confusion and sighs.

So I said, "Let Jin go greet your uncle."

When Jin came back he looked ill. I asked him what happened. He had a dark cast to his face and answered, "Mother, guess what Uncle's first words to me were?"

My heart skipped. Before I could fake a smile, Jin glanced at me and turned away.

Before his death Marcus had been slow to name an heir. Now that he was gone and Evan had returned, ministers split into factions again and secret ambitions rose where they shouldn't.

But I knew in my heart that Evan would never contest the throne with little Marcus. Even if he had the ability, even if he had the prestige, he wouldn’t.

I saw Evan again at the new emperor’s coronation.

Marcus was still young, but maybe because he’d long been ignored by King Marcus Aldridge, he carried an unnaturally steady calm. The tangled, exhausting rites should have left even an adult dripping sweat and breathless, yet Marcus moved through them like a man born to rule—composed, almost regal.

Under all those gazes, Evan’s attitude struck many as respectful, which dampened a lot of scheming impulses.

He stood straight-backed, face like polished jade—no different from how I remembered—only his almond eyes had lost their sparkle and were strangely still. He glanced at me only briefly.

“Your humble servant pays respects to Her Majesty the Empress Dowager.”

He bowed with perfect courtesy. There was nothing to fault.

“It’s been seven years; the Prince Consort’s countenance is unchanged.”

I smiled.

Evan was silent for a moment. Just when I thought he wouldn’t speak, he said, “Your hair is streaked with grey, Mother. It seems you’re worn out.”

I lifted the corner of my mouth. I, the most powerful woman in the harem, had never had anyone say such a thing to me.

“Sometimes I wonder…”

I looked at the bright blossoms on a branch and said in a flat voice, “Did Claire Bennett ever really exist?

Maybe she was only a dream I had. Maybe Claire never saved anyone, never even lived in Riverside County.”

“She existed,” Evan replied. “You’ve simply been unable to be yourself for too long.”

I was silent a while; my words came out unevenly. “Nobody liked Claire. So I wonder…maybe she shouldn’t have—”

“She should,” Evan cut in, looking at me with sudden conviction.

A thousand bitter things rose in me and condensed into two words: “Thank you. Thank you, Evan.”

11. Three years after King Marcus Aldridge’s death, I fell ill without any warning.

Not that there had been no signs.

Evan’s perceptive mind: being the carefree, slightly cunning Claire Bennett in front of him had never been easy. Seven years of living on edge, walking on eggshells—how different was I from that suspended Hazel Bennett? She suffered in flesh; I suffered in the soul. I kept biting down, forcing myself to live.

When that constant strain snapped, the illness hit like a landslide.

Marcus tended my bedside every day. I hadn’t paid him much mind before, but in the dim evening light I took him in properly—how tall he’d grown, straight and young-manly. He’d become a grown man.

“Go fetch the Prince Consort. I want to see him,” I whispered.

Marcus turned to me with deep eyes. “Mother, you should rest and recover. There’s no rush.”

I frowned at his defiance, annoyed. “Go, now. I have important matters.”

Marcus stared at me for a long time but finally rose and summoned Evan.

By the time Evan arrived, night had fully fallen. I had dozed fitfully and, propped by lamplight, watching his face felt like another lifetime.

He was still Evan, but I was no longer the woman I’d been.

I opened my mouth, unable to speak, tears falling before a word could form. Evan, kneeling stiff-backed, hurried forward and wordlessly took my hand.

He looked at me with tears in his eyes, but he couldn’t speak.

“Evan… I don’t actually want to die,” I said in a halting whisper. “I fought so hard to get here. How could I let go now?”

Still, like a lamp burned to its socket, like a tree near its end, I’d strained every nerve to bring down Marcus. I’d been poisoning myself with the counteragents in those wines; I’d drunk so much.

I was exhausted. I deserved to die.

“Forgive me,” I said. “I’m sorry I ever tangled with you.”

“Actually…” he began softly.

I cut him with a smile. “I have only one wish. I know you don’t want the throne, so please—help Marcus. He’s a good boy.”

He looked up at me; the candlelight danced on his handsome face, like the very first time we met.

I rested my forehead against his, as when we first met. “Why didn’t I meet you sooner, Your Highness?”

I knew what he wanted to say. That year his own brother, the crown prince, had been murdered by the third prince; in the murderous chaos, Marcus had been gravely wounded. It was Evan who saved him and took him to Riverside County, placing Marcus in the path I walked home on.

Maggie had not lied to me—how could someone like me ever have a truly innocent companion?

And yet I was grateful to Evan. If not for him, I wouldn’t have known that someone had ever treated Claire Bennett with genuine care.

Outside the chamber, the palace guard lay quiet, waiting. I lay on the couch, watching Evan’s back dissolve into the grand bedchamber and into the palace night.

After Evan left, Marcus stepped from behind a screen, a smile too cold for his years. “I thought you were truly iron-hearted, Mother. Turns out you only felt that way toward me and Father.”

I exhaled and forced the words out. “Is that so? You think if you kill Evan you’ll sleep soundly? Dream on—”

Perhaps my retort finally angered him. He swept a table aside; a small paper tiger—a childhood craft Marcus had made for me—rolled to my feet, cocking its head in innocence.

I wanted to pick it up, but I had no strength to lift my hand. The little tiger had been Marcus’s gift when he was small.

Children who grow up in the palace seem to lose their charm when they grow. Had I always misread him? Had I never truly seen him?

“Do you remember Jingmin?” he asked suddenly.

I blinked and felt my chest go tight.

Marcus stared at me like a predator, his eyes flashing. “Mother, do you sleep peacefully at night?”

“You—”

“Mother, you knew everything from the start, didn’t you?”

I glared at him, my limbs weakening while my mind felt clearer than ever. “What are you saying?”

“You and Jingmin were never twins,” he said. “Your child was always Jingmin alone. And you… you killed her with your own hands. Am I right?”

He tilted his head and smiled, hair falling on his cheek. His features, already striking, were now sharp and cruel.

“She was killed by your father!”

“What nonsense are you spouting?”

My hands trembled. “Who planted this in your head? Who’s been whispering lies?”

Marcus smiled like someone who’d tasted something sweet. “No one whispered lies. I saw it all myself.”

“That’s impossible—”

I cried.

“Maggie told you back then: if you stopped, or if you softened and pretended Marcus and Jingmin were twins, you’d have a good ending.”

He curled a mocking brow. “I saw how you killed Maggie, how you hid Jingmin. I saw everything.”

“Impossible.”

“Of course not impossible.”

He gently lifted my head and, smiling, said, “Look at me carefully. Do I look like Marcus?”

“You’re not Marcus?” For a moment my thoughts turned to Maggie, to that strange but plausible truth. Could Marcus have been—another transmigrant?

“Yes, and no,” he said, taking my hand to his face. Softly, he continued, “If you’d chosen to keep Jingmin, you know what would’ve happened, don’t you?”

I said, low and steady, “You and Jingmin would have been true twins, and you and Marcus would have patched things together.”

I’d never forgotten the ending Maggie had promised. Yet given the choice, I would have picked the other path. It was what Marcus owed me.

“Not only that,” he said roughly, “Father would have made Jingmin Empress, even though she was a girl.”

He smiled bleakly. “And I—because I’m not your blood—would have been left in darkness, buried under another’s glory. Even if I spilled blood through the palace, Jingmin would never look at me. I died by her sword. Did you ever shed a tear for me? …I saw everything, Mother. Aunt Maggie told you what would happen if you sent Jingmin away. You knew, you knew all along. You’re a wonderful mother—you removed my greatest rival for me.”

Outside, metal clashed: the guards had surrounded Evan. My chest seized; Marcus pressed close to my ear. “Since you used any means to reach your goals, as your child, how could I fall behind? I wake from nightmares, like that year when you smeared Maggie’s blood on my face—I can still smell it: bloody, sweet, warm. You held me and said… ‘Good child, don’t be afraid, the whole world is mine,’ didn’t you?”

He buried his face in my chest and asked softly, “Mother… look me in the eyes and say it again: whose world is it?”

This traitor. Of course there was no innocent soul near me.

The sky brightened, then darkened.

[King Marcus Aldridge: An Epilogue of Emptiness] Marcus Aldridge had been plagued by a recurring dream for many years.

A nightmare.

He remembered a stormy evening, hiding behind a beaded curtain, watching the woman he called mother strangle his real mother with her own hands.

The night before, his mother had whispered that a little sister would be born. Little Marcus had been thrilled.

The palace siblings tormented him—forcing him to kneel, slapping him, mocking his birth—but they doted on the son and daughter of the same mother. Marcus was happy because finally he had someone he could protect; he would be an older brother.

But now, watching his mother’s head lie forever still, he wanted nothing from the world except his mother. He could no longer think of having a sister.

Night after night he couldn’t sleep, thinking that everything others had, he didn’t. Why could he never keep what he wanted?

The small hand-calligraphy praised by his father—the one everyone thought brilliant—had been his. The jade bracelet thrown into the lake had been his mother’s only keepsake. And the swelling of his mother’s belly—the child that should have been his sister—if it came from his mother’s body, would be his enemy.

His hatred took root early and grew with him, never ceasing to spread like wildfire.

Later, Mother slipped on the steps and fell to her death—and so did another’s. The sole of her shoe still had the scent of the osmanthus hair oil she loved.

Third Brother fell from his crazed horse and could never hold a brush steady again. Father lamented the waste of such beautiful handwriting.

A few princes egged the thirteenth to dive for that bracelet, and he actually went.

He frowned—Thirteen looked innocent, but he only watched with cold eyes and did not intervene.

After all, Thirteen was the crown prince’s brother. Calling his mother a low servant—wasn’t that started by the crown prince?

Then Thirteen leapt up from the lake, holding the bracelet aloft, shouting, “Brother Samuel! I found it!”

In that moment, he had to admit he’d softened, just a little.

Later, Thirteen became his only true friend. He saved his life in danger. Even when Thirteen’s own elder brother, the crown prince, was killed by the third prince, Thirteen stubbornly helped him take the throne.

Marcus would never know that the crown prince and the third prince had long been at a stalemate. The third prince had coveted the crown for years but hadn’t dared act—how did he suddenly find the nerve to kill the crown prince and slay the emperor? It didn’t matter anymore.

What mattered was watching two tigers fight and waiting until one was weakened—then becoming the absolute victor.

Marcus had no family left in this life, no faith, nothing he could call beautiful. The rule he lived by was simple:

Better I betray the world.

What a lovely creed. Too bad he met the only person he could truly call an enemy.

He hated Claire Bennett so much. Every time he saw her goofy, carefree face, he felt a strangling urge rising from his chest.

How could she be so stupid?

Climb a tree, and she’d fall. Dig for wine, and she’d fall. Whatever she did, she ended up on her face. How long could someone like that survive in the palace?

And yet in Riverside County he had to use her—use her to climb up to her old fox of a father.

He had to pretend to be devoted, to wear the look of infatuation he usually mocked. He was terrible at acting, but she was dumb enough that it all went smoothly.

Hazel Bennett had originally been in the third prince’s camp. Now that the third prince was branded a regicide and that faction was routed by crown prince loyalists, Henry Bennett’s rise seemed destined.

He patient‑handed Hazel’s daughter’s hand and—predictably—ran into Claire.

She looked so innocent, but he felt no guilt.

Marcus had probably never felt anything like guilt.

The next time he saw Claire was a rainy night. On a whim he set down the memorial tablet and slipped up to the pavilion.

The rain that night was relentless.

So heavy he couldn’t bear to look.

He ordered Majordomo Thomas to send the imperial physician to the Bennett residence and secretly had himself disguised as a eunuch.

“What pretext?” Thomas asked.

Marcus chose what he thought was the best excuse: sending wedding garments.

Who ever brings wedding clothes in a downpour?

He didn’t care. He even made a point of finding Hazel’s favorite pattern in the storage—an outfit covered in dust.

He guessed Claire would understand. He was telling her the cruel truth; he was telling her to give up.

But to his astonishment, she didn’t give up. She set her sights on him again.

He flew into a rage—the press of intimacy, the mingling of mouths, disgusted him.

A hidden feeling bloomed in him and terrified him.

The night before, she had called him Samuel in his ear—he knew she was testing whether he felt anything. She wanted to make him sick, so he wouldn’t let her off easy.

He called her Lily all night, though he knew perfectly well who he belonged to in those tangled embraces.

He should have killed her then. But at the last moment he softened. He couldn’t say why.

Later, when Hazel moved into the central palace, he gave Claire the title of Consort Anna—naming her “Anna” to mean peace, to tell her to be calm and not cause trouble.

Who could have guessed Hazel would act first?

When a spy reported the queen preparing a fatal poison, Marcus simply thought: enough. Why were the women in my harem so foolish? Compared to the cruel, cunning consorts of the late emperor, these were like different worlds.

Without much hesitation he chose to let Claire live, and he also didn’t kill Hazel.

He had reasoned that if the queen died, Hazel’s own life was secondary; keeping her alive as a bargaining chip against Henry was not a bad idea.

Marcus did things cleanly. If he spared someone, there was always a use for them.

He didn’t expect Hazel’s survival to be only an excuse for her to vent on him.

Every time a scout reported, “Evan is back in the palace,” or “The lights in Consort Anna’s quarters burn late,” an inexplicable jealousy would seize him and nearly drive him mad.

She was just a woman—what did it matter if she gave herself to another? Since when did Marcus Aldridge care about propriety?

So why—why did he once again wake until dawn?

Like the sleepless nights of his childhood, at dawn he decided to take back what was his.

Even if he didn’t love her, it was his. Even Evan could not have it.

He knew he was already trapped.

But he refused to think too deeply. He told himself that his concern was merely the anger of someone whose possession was coveted—yes, just anger.

He exiled Evan to the far, bitter border of Qiongzhou. He wanted to control what was his.

That day he truly faced his fear.

The pregnancy was advanced; abortion would endanger the mother. He gritted his teeth and, feigning indifference, watched her carry the child that belonged to another.

Marcus thought coldly: it’s fine. Babies die all the time.

The physician’s due date was still weeks off, but floods and unrest outside the palace forced him to go out.

He saw her sitting on the swing in the cold palace, staring blankly, the light gone from her eyes.

Evan had made her so worried.

He was damnable. Truly.

Too late to act against Evan, he heard from outside the palace that Claire had gone into premature labor and the cold palace had caught fire. For a moment, his busy life collapsed like a struck man, the world went black.

In that endless dark, he had to admit: he had probably fallen in love with Claire Bennett.

He decided not to run.

When he returned he mercilessly executed a few conspicuous concubines—no matter their backing. He only wanted to make Claire’s life quieter. She looked exhausted.

When she hugged that child that wasn’t hers and forced a weary smile, she truly looked tired.

He didn’t expose her lies. He was intoxicated by that brief, lethal tenderness. He wanted to pretend forever, Claire.

But it could not last. She had coldly traded her child; the next step would be regicide.

They slept in the same bed but hid knives beneath the sheets.

Her feigned obedience was meant to lower his guard; the deeper he sank, the more he resented the child she bore.

How could he pretend not to care?

He pictured a daughter with Claire—holding her, he would be delirious, then the child’s cries would split his head.

Children are so fragile: such soft faces, such tiny hands and feet… If only that child were his.

In the end he hardened. In a crazy fugue he thought: remove this cursed obstacle, and he and Claire could start over.

Remove her, remove her—remove the curse. Doctor Xavier Park’s medicine would work. It had to.

The drug did work—but only bought him seven short years.

At some point he noticed the deep fatigue beneath her gentle smile, a mask that cracked silently at one corner.

He wanted to be wary, but he was exhausted.

A child of their own became his obsessive thought—but every attempt failed, failed, failed.

He was so tired. He had survived every political trap and conspiracy in his earlier life; now he felt utterly spent.

The last time he drank with her, he tasted bitterness but showed a smile.

Until she told him, with her own lips, that he had killed her child.

The smile died.

He thought of that child’s clear eyes.

Everything felt unbearably heavy; he was too tired.

He forced his eyes open, tilted his head up—and still saw nothing but endless black.

No one knew he was afraid of the dark.

Well, maybe someone did. One year there had been a little lamp that burned whether he could see it or not—a tiny lamp meant to ease Samuel’s troubles… Maybe it was karma. He almost laughed. Who made himself blind back then?

Something cold dripped onto his face.

A choking pain in his chest; he forced a word out between teeth: “You—”

Then his eyes closed forever. Life snapped off.

She would never know that what he wanted to say was—Claire, don’t cry. The deep root of your suffering is that both your kindness and your cruelty are not pure enough. You should be crueller. Don’t cry.

He remembered the year the wind rose and blew her dark hair at her temples.

Finally.

Evan’s afterword: All he wanted… was just Lily.

The first time Evan and Claire met, he gave her a gift that changed her life.

He arranged for the gravely wounded Marcus to be left in Claire’s path home, then dragged his injured body to draw off the pursuers.

First: scouts reported that Claire’s mother could heal, and Claire herself was naïve and kind; second, Henry Bennett could never imagine that the man he’d hunted to the ends of the earth was hiding in his own daughter’s home. In short, Claire was the perfect person to “save” Marcus.

He only glanced at the girl before leaving—how could he know that he would later regret this meticulous plan for the rest of his life?

When they met again, he watched her calmly burn paper for her dead mother. Saying he felt no guilt was self‑deception. The palace was a battlefield. So many had died chasing the throne—how could anyone stop?

Claire wasn’t as stupid as Samuel said. She had a misty pair of eyes; when they looked at you, it seemed like a smile—but it wasn’t.

She was watching.

At first glance she decided Evan would be the first stepping stone on her path of revenge.

She bowed her head and smiled at him without a ripple in her eyes.

He was hooked.

She proposed an alliance, never asking what he wanted. In her mind he was supposed to obey.

Sometimes Evan felt oddly wronged, but he didn’t dare speak up.

He wasn’t interested in the throne. He wasn’t interested in anything.

Except her.

He had been born a cheerful, fortunate child—the youngest legitimate son—so everyone fussed over him.

It wasn’t that he’d never been spoiled or arrogant. But whenever Samuel was bullied, he couldn’t help but step in for him, even though Samuel usually didn’t appreciate it.

That didn’t stop him from loving Samuel. He had many brothers, but none were like Samuel—brilliant yet reserved, cautious yet imperious.

He was a walking contradiction.

He always knew Samuel was meant for great things.

His admiration for Samuel never wavered—until he met Lily.

Suddenly he began to doubt Samuel. He began to doubt himself.

Why sacrifice another person’s life to polish your own glory?

Is cold-blooded cruelty a royal birthright?

It was a riddle without an answer.

During those seven years in Riverside County, he thought he had come to terms with it. But when he saw Lily again, his eyes filled with tears.

Because the architect of all this suffering wasn’t someone else—it was him.

The past faded and fell away.

All he wanted was Lily.

– The End –

Premium chapters locked

Unlock the rest of the story

200 Book Coins

The next scene of I Married Into a House of Lies begins with: I relaxed and smiled, then changed the subject. "Do you regret it, Evan?"… Continue with the remaining 561 story sections.

Get Book Coins to Unlock

Trending

Trending keyword

Trending

Trending keyword