Chapter 9
The sickly-sweet scent of incense curled into the air of Lady Zhao Shi-shi’s reception room, thick with the perfume of a dozen ladies and their carefully veiled judgments.
Yun-yao sat with her spine straight, her hands folded gracefully in her lap, her expression the customary mask of serene composure.
The weight of her jade bracelets felt like shackles.
She'd spent three days selecting the perfect outfit, preparing gifts, preparing witty conversation topics—all for this moment.
Reconnecting with her childhood friends should have been a joy.
Once a girl wed, the rules of propriety drew invisible lines—unmarried maidens were meant to keep their distance from young wives.
One by one, her companions had slipped away, their bonds fraying with each wedding ceremony.
“Yun-yao, how fortunate you could join us today,” her childhood companion Shi-shi said delicately, her fan moving in languid strokes, like a serpent coiling before a strike.
Yun-yao inclined her head just so—the precise angle of polite gratitude. “The General’s duties keep me occupied at home. But I’m honored by your invitation.”
Xie Mei-lan—married to the Deputy Revenue Minister and proud of her excellent match—leaned in, her voice dripping with false sympathy.
“Such a shame, though. Your father could have secured you a match with any scholarly family. The Minister of Rites’ third son is said to be quite handsome—and so refined! ”
“Such an unusual marriage,” Zhao Shi-shi remarked, her delicate fan fluttering. “The Emperor himself arranging it! One wonders what prompted such... intervention.”
“How fortunate though,” Chen Ying-lu chimed in “We all feared, after your... unfortunate circumstances, that you might never—”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the circle.
Yun-yao’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around her teacup.
She had heard this before—the pitying clucks, the veiled insults, the way they spoke of her as if she weren’t there.
The poor Chancellor’s daughter. The leftover maiden.
Inauspicious stars. The girl who couldn’t even keep her betrothed alive.
“His Imperial Majesty’s decree was most generous,” Yun-yao interrupted, her voice smooth as silk over steel. “The General is highly favored at court.”
“How are you finding married life?” Xie Mei-lan asked, leaning forward with poorly disguised curiosity. “It must be quite an adjustment.”
“My days are quite full,” Yun-yao replied, as if discussing the weather.
Zhao Shi-shi exchanged a meaningful glance with Chen Ying-lu. “Of course. Military men have such... demanding temperaments.”
The other women tittered while they whispered to each other behind their fans, not to her face, of course, but enough that she caught some wafts.
The Bloody General. Barbaric. Low-born. Insatiable.
Such a shame. Yun-yao’s face remained porcelain-smooth, betraying none of the rage churning inside her.
But the words settled under her skin like thorns.
By the time the visit concluded, Yun-yao’s face ached from maintaining her serene expression. The sedan chair that carried her home felt like a blessed sanctuary, hidden behind silk curtains where she could finally allow her smile to fall away.
How naive she'd been to imagine these gatherings would be as they once were—sharing secrets and dreams under flowering trees. Those innocent girls were gone, replaced by these calculating women whose friendship extended only to those within their exclusive circle of properly married ladies.
And Yun-yao, despite her marriage to the Great General, remained firmly outside.
She dismissed her maids the moment she stepped into the General’s Residence, her steps quickening toward the garden house—her garden house, the one Zhen-ting had built for her.
She didn’t weep. She never wept.
But the pressure behind her eyes was a betrayal, the tightness in her throat a rebellion. She pressed her palms to the cool wooden railing and breathed in the scent of jasmine, willing herself to steady.
Gentle Breeze Retreat had become her refuge in the weeks since Zhen-ting had presented it to her.
After their confrontation—his passionate declaration, her panicked flight—they had established an uneasy truce.
He never mentioned the incident, and she pretended it hadn't happened.
But the retreat! She loved that it was her space, yet she found herself thinking of him every day that she was here.
She pressed her fingers to her temples. Why did their pity sting so much? She had endured far worse during her years as the unmarried daughter, the girl whose betrothed had died before the wedding. Their whispers should mean nothing.
But today, for some reason, they had pierced her armor.
The words echoed in her mind, but it wasn't the pity that stung.
It was the disdain. The way they spoke of Zhen-ting—not as the man who had bled for ten years to keep their silk-robed husbands safe, not as the general whose strategies had secured the borders of their precious empire and stopped the war that nearly crippled Great Xi, but as some thing to be tolerated.
A necessary evil. A man of low birth who had somehow, unfortunately, become her husband.
Her fingers curled into fists against the smooth wood of the railing.
A bitter laugh escaped her. Oh, they would sing his praises in their banquet halls, would toast to the Great General Who Guards the Nation when the Emperor demanded it.
But in the quiet of their reception rooms, among their own kind?
He was still just the orphan. The upstart.
The man who didn't belong in their world, no matter how much blood he had spilled to protect it.
She turned sharply, her skirts whipping around her, and paced the length of the pavilion.
How dare they. How dare they look down on him, when every one of their comfortable lives had been bought with his sacrifice.
How dare they pity her, as if she had been forced into some terrible fate, when in truth she was the one who had married a man of honor—something she could say of precious few in their circle.
The injustice of it burned in her chest, hotter than any embarrassment she might have felt for herself. Because Zhen-ting deserved better. He deserved their respect. Their gratitude. Not their whispered barbs and pitying glances.
A rustle of fabric. A shadow in the doorway.
“Yun-yao?”
She didn't turn. Didn't trust herself to speak yet. If she opened her mouth, she might say something unladylike.
“The servants said you wished to be alone,” Zhen-ting said quietly. “But you seemed... I can go if you prefer.”
She should tell him. Should let him know how they had spoken of him. But the words lodged in her throat, because she knew what he would do. He would smile that tight, polite smile, and say it didn't matter. He would tell her not to trouble herself over it.
And that would be a lie.
Because it did matter.
She turned to face him, her composure cracking. “They don't deserve you,” she said, her voice low and fierce.
Zhen-ting stilled, his dark eyes searching her face.
“They don't,” she insisted, stepping closer. “They sit in their gardens and they whisper about how unfortunate it is that I married you, when they should be on their knees thanking you that they can sit in their gardens at all!”
His expression darkened, not with anger, but with something raw. Vulnerable. “Yun-yao—”
“Do you know what they said?” She didn't wait for an answer. “That it’s a shame. That I could have married a scholar, someone refined. As if you—” Her voice broke. She swallowed hard. “As if you aren't ten times the man any of them will ever be.”
For a long moment, he didn't speak. Didn't move. Then, slowly, he reached for her, his calloused hands cupping her face with a tenderness that made her breath catch.
“You don't have to defend me,” he said roughly.
“Yes,” she whispered, her hands coming up to cover his. “I do.”
His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, his gaze locked onto hers, searching. There was something new in his eyes—a spark, fierce and hopeful. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away. When his lips finally met hers, the touch was soft, questioning, infinitely patient.
Yun-yao froze for a heartbeat, then something within her chest broke loose, the flood of feeling she'd held back for so long. She kissed him back, her free hand rising to his shoulder, fingers gripping the thick cotton of his tunic.
So this is what kissing is like.
Then all thought vanished as their kiss deepened, months of tension dissolving into hunger and heat.
His mouth moved against hers, desperate, starving, as if he'd been waiting for this—for her—for years.
She met his desperation with her own, hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, holding him close.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against hers. “Yun-yao,” he confessed with a rugged grin, “I've wanted to do that for weeks.”
Mortified, she felt a hot blush spread from her cheeks to her ears, down to her toes. Mood spoiler, she thought, her mind flashing to the huabens she'd read. Men really are idiots.
But before she could pull away, he was kissing her again—slower this time, deeper.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight against him, and she went willingly, her heart pounding in her chest. Her hands framed his face, thumbs tracing the strong line of his jaw, the faint scar along his cheekbone.
Her husband. Her general. The man no one else saw as she did.
Outside, the garden was hushed, the lanterns still unlit. But here, in this little retreat he had built for her, the world felt different. Brighter. More real. And she knew why.
She wasn't just defending him anymore.
She was choosing him.