“Take it off.”
Xiao Jingheng stood by the bed, his black python-embroidered robe still carrying the chill of the night dew. He had just returned from the northern frontier camp, dust and weariness etched across his features, yet he looked at her as if she were nothing more than an object.
Shen Zhiwei lowered her eyes and reached for her sash.
Three years. She had been Princess Consort Jing for three years and had long grown used to nights like this. He never kissed her or called her by name. He only wanted her to lie there, a cold, lifeless shell for him to vent the fury he had brought back from the battlefield.
“Tonight...” Her voice was barely audible. “Could we light a candle?”
Xiao Jingheng paused as he undid his belt.
He looked up at her, his dark eyes devoid of emotion. “Do you deserve that?”
Shen Zhiwei’s fingers trembled, and her sash slipped loose.
That was right. She did not deserve it. She was merely the most insignificant illegitimate daughter in the Minister’s household. She had married into Prince Jing’s household as his principal wife only because her face bore a seven-tenths resemblance to Liu Wu. Liu Wu was the woman he cherished above all others, the one he had been betrothed to at fourteen, the woman he had defied the late emperor to marry.
But Liu Wu was frail, and the imperial physicians had declared she would not live to see twenty. The Pei family... no, the Xiao family, the imperial clan of the Great Zhou, could never allow a sickly woman to become a princess consort.
So Xiao Jingheng had chosen her from among all the noble young ladies. She had no power or influence, resembled the woman he loved, and could be discarded at any time.
“A Wu sent a letter today,” Xiao Jingheng said suddenly, never stopping what he was doing. “She said the northern frontier is bitterly cold and told me to take care of myself.”
Shen Zhiwei lay on the bed...
