On the wedding night, my husband, the good-for-nothing prince who was said to have lost his arm and was seriously injured and could not survive more than three months, did not come.
The whole capital is waiting to see my joke, to see how I, the daughter of an imperial physician, can remain a widow.
But I didn't panic at all.
Because the old turtle that had been basking in the sun for decades in the palace garden told me that he was hiding in the study, using his "crippled" hand to flexibly dismantle the precision machine expansion arm, while cursing and ordering the secret guard: "Go and see if that woman is dead, and don't dirty the king's bed."
Later, he held me in his arms with red eyes and said in a hoarse voice, "Lingxi, don't leave me."
I touched his head, like soothing a big cat with explosive fur.
After all, the Persian cat he raised had already complained to me, saying that he hugged my pillow and slept miserably all night.
