The red sedan landed with a muffled sound, like a stone thrown into stagnant water, without even an echo.
Shen Zhiyuan sat in the sedan chair, her fingertips digging into her palms, using pain to remind herself that she was still alive.
There were ten miles of red makeup and noisy drum music, but there was no blessing in the deafening sound of gongs and drums. Only the wind blew into her ears with ridicule: "A mute girl is a good match for a tyrant." "I heard that King Bei Ming skinned three people in the execution hall last night. If he gets married today, I'm afraid the bride will also light a sky lantern."
She couldn't speak, but she could hear clearly.
Every word is like a whip tempered with salt, hitting an old wound that has already scabbed over.
She is not the daughter of the prime minister's family, she is just a adopted daughter who was picked up.
