Amid the curfew drums, Li Zhaoyang’s sedan chair collided with a Song family carriage at Anshang Gate. When the carriage curtain lifted, she saw a young man’s barely concealed look of amazement, utterly unlike the dead, lifeless gaze he had given her on their wedding night in her previous life.
A contrast from her previous life: “Why put on an act, Your Highness?” Song Juliang tossed a sheet of poetry into the brazier. Ash fell onto the battle robe she had spent the whole night sewing. “You were much more sincere when you ended my career with a single marriage decree.”
