The world moved around her, but Jing barely breathed.
Today was the day.
Not a day of joy or celebration. Not a beginning. It was a sentence written in silk and blood.
Her wedding day.
The morning light seeped through gauzy curtains like a dying breath, washing the chamber in a sterile glow. The air felt thick—dense with lavender, powder, and the scent of finality. Jing lay still beneath the covers, her body heavy, her mind adrift. Sleep had stolen her without permission, and now that she was awake, everything felt like a dream slowly turning into a nightmare.
Her limbs ached as if drugged. Her mouth was dry. Her chest hollow. No tears came. She'd spent them all.
A knock. Then the door creaked open.
They entered like ghosts.
Maidens in pale robes, silent and efficient, eyes lowered in practiced detachment. They said nothing,asked nothing.
They didn't need to. Perhaps they had already decided that she was no longer a person—only a body to be prepared, polished, and paraded.
Warm water filled a silver basin, perfumed with rose and something bitter beneath. One girl lifted her hair, brushing with reverent fingers. Another peeled away her nightdress, replacing it with soft cloth and silence. The room became a theater of quiet motions: combs, water, powders, laces.
And then—the gown.
Two of them carried it, as if bearing an offering to a god.
It shimmered like moonlight caught in snow. White silk embroidered with pale gold, the thread forming phoenixes and chrysanthemums that coiled across the hem and bodice like forgotten myths. The corset was laced tight—tight enough to reshape her breath. The sleeves clung like vines, and the train behind her was long enough to drown in.
She was dressed. Painted. Crowned in gold pins and jade combs. Her lips were painted red. Her skin powdered pale. She looked like Ling.
But she wasn't Ling.
She wasn't anyone at all.
Just a girl in a beautiful cage.
Just a vessel walking toward something she couldn't name.
---
The car glided over the rain-slick road, veiled in mist, the world outside blurring into a watercolor of gray.
Beside her sat Mrs. Jian.
The scent of her perfume—too floral, too sweet, too thick—clung to the air like a mask. The woman's expression was a calm veneer, her hands folded neatly on her lap, every inch the satisfied matriarch.
"All our worries will be over once you marry Yinguang Lei," she said, her voice syrupy, as if she were describing a garden party. "The company will rise again. A phoenix from the ashes."
She turned to Jing with a warm smile. "You'll be happy, eventually. He's rich, after all. And he chose you."
Her hand reached out and patted Jing's, gently, motherly.
Do this for the family.
Make us proud.
Make us whole.
Jing didn't flinch. But her eyes remained locked on the window.
Outside, the trees passed like silent witnesses—branches clawing at the sky. Inside, the air grew colder.
Then, quietly:
"What the hell, Mum…" Jing whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse. "I know you. I see you."
She turned to face her mother slowly. Her voice didn't rise, but it cut.
"Did you plan this with Ling? Did you sell me off like something replaceable?"
Her breath caught. "Her diary haunts me. Nothing makes sense. Not her, not you, not any of this."
Mrs. Jian's smile faltered. Only for a heartbeat. Then it returned, tighter.
"You always said family came first," Jing murmured, eyes narrowing. "But you never said which daughter you were willing to bury."
Silence.
Not denial. Not protest. Just silence.
Outside, the forest deepened. Shadows lengthened. And the car continued.
It was 4:38 p.m.
The wedding was at five.
Time was running out.
Rain whispered against the windows—soft, steady, funereal.
The veil lay across her lap like a shroud. Her gown, heavy with embroidery, pressed down on her chest like a coffin lid. Her mother's perfume choked the air.
Jing stared ahead.
Her reflection in the tinted glass was pale, painted, hollow. She looked like a doll placed in a tomb.
"Is this how it ends?" she thought. "Or just the beginning of something worse?"
The thought didn't feel like hers. It came from deeper—somewhere cold and distant. A place inside her she'd never touched before.
"I would've endured anything. But him... Yinguang Lei..."
The name turned her stomach.
He was no man. Not truly. His name brought silence to rooms. His touch turned warmth into fear. Wealth, charm, power—those were his masks. But beneath?
There was something inhuman.
Something that hungered.
Jing's fingers clenched the seat, knuckles white beneath the silk gloves. Her mother had threatened her, blackmailed her, crushed her spirit—but even she hadn't managed to hollow her out completely.
Lei would.
He would devour her.
Consume her, and the worst part? He would do it beautifully.
The car turned.
She didn't ask where they were going. She already knew.
To him.
To the altar wrapped in gold and lies.
To the man who would become her husband—and her doom.
She breathed slow. Controlled. Her face remained unreadable. Her mother couldn't see her unraveling. That would be dangerous.
Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw her reflection again.
And this time—
It smiled.
Not out of joy. Not madness.
Defiance.
Faint. Fragile. But real.
The beginning of something that couldn't be caged.
Not by silk.....nor family.
Not even by him.