Ten years ago, Shen Zhiyi died in Xiao Jue’s arms. An arrow pierced her chest, and her blood seeped into the white jade at his waist, fusing with the stone. Her body dissolved in his arms, leaving nothing behind.
For ten years, beautiful women were sent to him without end. Xiao Jue never looked closely. One glance was enough to know they weren’t her.
Until the prefect of the capital sent him a woman of unknown origins. Xiao Jue passed by the side gate and took one look.
The jade pendant at his waist suddenly began to burn.
“What’s your name?”
“Shen Zhiyi.”
Xiao Jue let out a low laugh, sending a chill down her spine. “A lovely name. I once knew someone with that name, too.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s dead.” A tender smile spread across his face, but the hand gripping the jade turned white at the knuckles. “So tell me, who are you?”
Shen Zhiyi had no idea what he was talking about. She was just a modern woman who’d been hit by a car and sent to the past, coolheaded and rational, ready to meet every move with one of her own. The regent wanted her to stay? Fine. She’d work as his accountant to pay for room and board. The more he looked at her that way, the more she built a wall with return-on-investment calculations. But someone called her in her dreams, and that voice was the same one she’d heard crying in the darkness at the time of the accident.
It wasn’t until she remembered everything that she knew: the boy who taught her to play chess deep in the palace, the arrow that flew during the succession struggle. She grabbed Xiao Jue by the collar. “Who said you could turn yourself into this pathetic, half-dead mess!”
At last, the gentle jade-like mask shattered. Xiao Jue buried his face in the crook of her neck, his shoulders trembling faintly. “Zhiyi, I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”
“Don’t be silly. I just couldn’t find my way home.”
