Silence pressed down on the vast, ornate living room. Jiāng Cíyuǎn, propped against plush cushions on the sofa, watched her. His gaze, usually guarded, held a flicker of something unreadable. Sū Wǎntáng met his eyes directly. No fear. No hesitation. Just a steady, assessing look that pierced through his usual defenses.
Minutes stretched. The air grew heavy, thick with unspoken questions. He expected her to flinch, to break the contact, to show some sign of discomfort or resentment. Every woman he'd ever met, every person in his life, had an agenda, a hidden thought, a calculating glint in their eyes. Yet, she remained unwavering.
He cleared his throat. "Sū Wǎntáng," his voice was raspy, unused to extended conversation, "I understand this is... sudden." He paused, searching for the right words. His family had forced this. He knew what she must be thinking. *Pity. Disgust. An escape plan.* He braced himself for her polite refusal.
"If you discuss it with me, or you don't want to stay in this marriage," he continued, his voice softer, resigned, "I can just move to another place. After two months, you can divorce me. I'll agree to the divorce." He spoke slowly, laying out the terms he knew she must want. His chest felt tight, not from the exertion, but from the familiar sting of his reality.
He had rehearsed this. Every arranged marriage in his family had eventually crumbled under the weight of his illness and the schemes of his relatives. He offered her an easy exit, a clean break, a way to reclaim her freedom without further scandal. It was the least he could do.
"Who said I don't want this marriage?" Her voice cut through his carefully constructed resignation. Sharp. Clear. Unexpected. He blinked, a faint tremor running through his frail frame. She stepped closer, her expression firm.
"Even if you want a divorce, I don't want to." Her words hung in the air, defiant and resolute. "You're my husband from this moment onwards." She didn't offer an explanation. Didn't elaborate. She simply stated a fact, a declaration that left him stunned.
Jiāng Cíyuǎn’s mind reeled. He searched for the lie, the hidden motive behind her words. With anyone else, he’d already know. He’d hear the buzzing whispers of their true intentions, the secret contempt, the greed. But with her, there was nothing. Only the calm resonance of her spoken words. This was… new.
---
"Come," she said, a gentle command, "It's late. You need rest." She moved with a quiet efficiency, approaching him. He watched her, wary. No one touched him unless absolutely necessary, and then, always with a tremor of fear. Her touch was different. Her hand, slender and cool, reached for his arm.
He flinched instinctively, a reflex born of years of being handled like a fragile, infectious thing. Her hand paused, hovering, then settled lightly on his forearm. Her touch was firm, not hesitant. It was a simple gesture, yet it sent a jolt through him.
Slowly, she helped him rise. His legs protested, weak from disuse. He leaned heavily on her, surprised by the strength in her lithe frame. Guiding him towards the bedroom, she opened the door to a large, opulent space. His space.
"You'll need a change of clothes," she murmured, her gaze scanning the room for his luggage. It sat by the wardrobe, packed by his attendants. She moved towards it, opening a suitcase. His eyes followed her, a strange mix of apprehension and a nascent curiosity churning within him.
She pulled out a set of silk pajamas. "Lift your arms," she instructed, her voice calm, devoid of the usual pity or revulsion. His movements were stiff, painful. He felt the brush of her fingers against his skin as she carefully unbuttoned his shirt, peeling it away from his shoulders. His body, scarred and thin, was exposed.
Embarrassment heated his cheeks. He usually had his personal valet. This was intimate, too much for a stranger he’d just met. Yet, her expression remained neutral, focused solely on the task. She eased his arms into the fresh sleeves, her hands brushing his chest, his back. It was awkward, undeniably so. The air thrummed with unspoken tension, the gravity of their new, forced proximity.
He watched her, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. What was this? Why was she doing this? His ability, usually a cacophony of others' hidden thoughts, remained silent when it came to her. A frightening, unprecedented blankness. It unnerved him more than any malicious thought could.
Finished, she stepped back. "There," she said, a small, almost imperceptible smile gracing her lips. "Better." She led him to the massive bed. He hesitated, looking at the expanse of white sheets. This was their marital bed. They, two strangers, were about to share it.
He sat on the edge, feeling the soft mattress give beneath his weight. She moved to the other side, pulling back the covers. "Get in," she urged, her voice quiet. He slid beneath the covers, the crisp linen cool against his skin. She extinguished the main lights, leaving only a soft glow from a bedside lamp.
Then, she lay down. On the other side of the bed. Far, far away. The distance between them felt vast, a chasm of unspoken thoughts and unfamiliarity. He lay rigid, staring at the ceiling. His mind raced, processing the day, her unexpected declarations, her strange composure.
Sleep felt impossible. Every rustle of the sheets, every shift of her weight, was amplified in the oppressive quiet. This was nerve-wracking. The air itself seemed to crackle with the unspoken truth: they were strangers, married, and now, sharing a bed. He closed his eyes, feigning sleep, but his senses were acutely aware of her presence, of the enigma that was Sū Wǎntáng.
---
Sunlight streamed through the window, painting stripes across the pristine carpet. He woke to the faint sound of movement. Sū Wǎntáng was already up, a silhouette against the brightening room. She moved with quiet grace, her presence a soft counterpoint to the usual silence of his mornings.
She turned. "Good morning, husband." A small, genuine smile touched her lips. His stomach tightened. *Husband*. The word felt alien, yet strangely potent. He managed a stiff nod in return. This was still all so surreal.
Moments later, she was by his side. "Need help?" she asked softly, her gaze assessing his tired face. He nodded, feeling a blush creep up his neck. He was a grown man, reliant on a stranger for basic tasks. The humiliation was sharp.
Patiently, she helped him sit up. His muscles screamed in protest. She offered a warm, damp cloth. The scent of a faint herbal concoction clung to it, soothing and clean. She cleaned his face, his hands, her movements careful, gentle. There was no rush, no hint of obligation, only a quiet attentiveness that further baffled him.
After he was somewhat refreshed, she guided him to the dining table in the room. A delicate porcelain bowl sat steaming. A subtle, earthy aroma filled the air. She set it before him. "Medicinal breakfast," she explained. "Good for your constitution." Her eyes held a spark of determination he couldn't quite decipher.
He looked at the bowl. A thick, creamy porridge, flecked with unfamiliar herbs. He usually ate bland, prescribed meals. This was different. He picked up the spoon, a faint curiosity outweighing his usual aversion to new foods. The first mouthful was surprisingly palatable, a mild bitterness followed by a comforting warmth.
Sū Wǎntáng watched him eat, a quiet satisfaction in her posture. She made a silent promise to herself. *He needs care. Real care. I will nurse him back. Slowly. Carefully.* She wouldn’t make it too obvious, not yet. Not enough to raise alarm, to fuel the suspicions she knew must be forming in his mind. Her intentions were pure, driven by her medical instincts and a growing sense of responsibility towards this man who was now her husband.
He, however, was already suspicious. How could someone just accept this marriage, a forced arrangement, and then be this cheerful about it? Her calm acceptance, her easy smiles, her willingness to touch him, to care for him – it all felt wrong. Too good. Too perfect. He had lived his life surrounded by people who saw him as a burden, a means to an end. This sudden, unwavering kindness, it was unprecedented.
*What is her game?* he wondered, spooning another mouthful of the herbal porridge. *Everyone has a game.* His mind, usually a conduit for a thousand echoing thoughts, searched for the true motives behind her actions. He felt the familiar hum of his unique ability, an intrinsic part of his being that he had learned to hate, to fear, to rely upon.
For his entire life, he had carried this burden, this terrifying ability he couldn't tell anyone about. He could read minds. Not always perfectly, sometimes a jumble, but enough to know the dark, swirling undercurrents beneath polite smiles. When people spoke to him, their thoughts were rarely aligned with their words. They all had evil thoughts, malicious intent. They all wanted to benefit from him or to scheme against him. He had heard it all: *Weakling. Puppet. Dying sooner, the better.* He had heard the resentment of his relatives, the calculating thoughts of his staff, the forced pity of his parents.
But Sū Wǎntáng. When she talked to him, her thoughts were clear. Not like the others. Not like anyone he had ever encountered. There was no buzzing static, no hidden agenda, no malicious intent. She didn't have any thoughts at all beyond the words she spoke, beyond the actions she performed. She just spoke her mind, her words resonating with a startling, pure sincerity. This, more than anything else, surprised him. He had never met anyone like her.