She married into the Jing’an Marquis household in place of her late elder sister. Her only task was to copy one of her sister’s old letters each day in exchange for the Shen family’s safety.
She thought she was a substitute, a tool, someone living in the shadow of the dead.
But that inkstone had been handed to her by her elder sister herself on her deathbed. Every “old letter,” from the very first one three years ago, had been written by her own hand.
Gu Changyuan, the Marquis of Jing’an, was stern, taciturn, and unfathomable. On their wedding night, he brought out the first letter and ordered her to copy it. The handwriting on it was hers, and its date was long before their engagement. The woman he had married had never been the Shen family’s legitimate daughter.
She asked him, “When did you know?”
He answered, “From the first letter.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
After a long silence, he said six words: “Because I was afraid you’d run.”
The ink was proof, and the strokes were a vow. He had recognized her handwriting from the start, yet willingly played along with her substitute act, just to keep her by his side. But with turmoil in the court, schemes from her stepmother, and the truth behind her elder sister’s death, the game of chess that began with a single letter was far more complicated than either of them had imagined.
