The night air in the Tang estate felt thinner, charged with a restless energy that kept Yilan pacing the floor of her private chambers long after the moon had reached its zenith.
Every time she closed her eyes, she didn't see the ledgers or the clan seals, she saw Shen Yu's golden gaze, felt the ghost of his hands on her face, and heard that single, world-shattering word: Love.
By the time the first grey light of dawn touched the horizon, she hadn't slept a wink.
At exactly five-fifty, she stood before her bronze mirror, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She had chosen a simple, elegant robe of pale lavender, devoid of the heavy, stifling embroidery. It felt dangerously light, as if by shedding her official attire, she was already shedding her soul's armor.
"Six am," she whispered to her reflection, her face flushing as she smoothed her hair. "Just a few hours. For the sake of the cure."
She was lying to herself, and the mirror knew it.
