Everyone in the house knows that my prince husband is a madman. He would suddenly become silent during family banquets, staring at the beam above his head, as if there was a non-existent person hanging on it; he would also wake up in the middle of the night, walk barefoot through the corridor, and touch the cold carvings on the corridor over and over again. Everyone said that he missed his deceased wife and became depressed. The officials in the East Palace advised me: "Mother, Your Highness is not in good health, please take care of me." The concubines in the harem took pity on me: "Poor girl, she will be a widow at such a young age." Even my biological mother wrote a letter to warn me, stay safe and don't anger a madman. I am lucky to keep my position as Crown Princess. I thought so too at first. I carefully played the role of a docile and non-threatening Crown Princess, preparing soups and medicines for him, facing temptations from all sides in the palace, just to live peacefully in this gorgeous cage. Until that day, I accidentally knocked over his treasured food box. There was no priceless jewelry in it, only a dry, moldy, half-eaten piece of wheat cake. At that moment, the way he looked at me was no longer crazy and empty, but with tempered vigilance and murderous intent. It dawned on me. Everything about love that lasts forever, depression and illness, are all fake! This seemingly shaky prince is actually the most sober player in the entire chess game. He uses "madness" as his armor, hides all his sharp edges, and watches all enemies in the dark. And I, the chess piece sent to him by the family to monitor and control him, accidentally peeked into his biggest secret. That night, he sat beside my bed, playing with a sharp gold hairpin in his hand.
