On the day I returned to Beijing, the fire at my adoptive parents' house had just been extinguished.
The sedan that came to pick you up from the Yan Mansion stopped beside the scorched earth. My aunt said coldly through the curtain: "It's not enough to kill my own brother. Even the place where you were raised will be reduced to ashes."
I lowered my eyes and got into the sedan, hiding half of the burned mandarin duck brocade in my sleeve - that was the evidence that I had lit it with my own hands.
Later, the Yan Mansion was haunted every night, and mud from Yuanyangdu always appeared in my father's study.
On the day when my grandmother's prayer beads suddenly broke, King Jing Li Songsheng grabbed my wrist and said, "Miss Yan, have you had enough of the drama?"
I laughed to tears and wrapped another piece of brocade around his fingertips: "Your Highness, my play has just begun."
[The whole book is historical fiction. Any similarities are purely coincidental. It is an ancient style of house fighting and plotting for revenge. There is no golden finger, no time travel, no rebirth. It is female-centered]
[Indifferent, alienated, self-destructive, white-cut, black wolf-sculpted prince × self-directed, self-acted, pig-eating tiger, emotionally dull, ruthless, bird-sculpted lady]
