Chapter 6
Ever since returning from the Civil Affairs Bureau, Fang Xianxing felt a heavy weight pressing on her chest. She continued her work as usual, yet her thoughts drifted now and then.
She wondered if Xie Zhi’s family had properly signed the consent form, and whether he was pleased with the outcome.
In truth, though, whatever transpired on Xie Zhi’s end no longer concerned her—his happiness or lack thereof held little significance now.
The ring had arrived at the company five days prior, delivered by mail.
Her parents had called three days ago to inquire about it.
From their account, Xie Zhi’s mother and father had brought him to their home in person to offer apologies, fully accepting blame for backing out of the engagement at the eleventh hour.
The fathers of both households taught at the same school, bound by years of camaraderie. They spoke candidly, revealing the root of Xie Zhi’s capriciousness.
Fang Xianxing’s mother and father were stunned—unaware she had even taken Xie Zhi to the Civil Affairs Bureau. Upon reflection, they deemed her the greater culprit.
Both families valued decorum and yielded to each other graciously. Over a casual meal, they smoothed over the matter, reducing it to a trifle, laughing it off. Only Fang Xianxing remained burdened by a lingering gloom.
That stifled feeling persisted for days, unrelieved by even the slightest measure.
It grated on her, tinged with an unspoken defiance and reluctance she couldn’t voice.
Thus, when the director of Song Longsha’s *Yuan Shun Emperor* crew invited her to dinner, Fang Xianxing accepted.
She knew well the nature of a banquet arranged for investors, yet she attended nonetheless.
Stepping into the private room, her gaze sharpened—half the table was occupied by striking male actors. Her younger sister, Song Longsha, sat among them, tucked in a corner, subtly winking at her.
Upon hearing of Fang Xianxing’s acceptance, Song Longsha had unleashed a barrage of texts.
What was she playing at? Hadn’t she just married? Surely she wouldn’t assume that with a secure foundation at home, she could now trifle with others—wasn’t that turning everything upside down?
Moreover, those alluring young stars, stripped of their stage lights, paled beside Xie Zhi’s radiance.
Song Longsha disapproved. Xie Zhi had only just become her brother-in-law—how unfortunate would it be for Fang Xianxing to turn reckless now?
What brother-in-law?
Fang Xianxing inwardly smirked, but should she tell Song Longsha the truth? She faltered, sending not a single word in response.
Even now, Song Longsha’s messages went unanswered. Resolute, she had appeared at tonight’s banquet, intent on confronting her sister directly and safeguarding her new brother-in-law’s honor.
In her youthful folly, she had once been captivated by Xie Zhi’s aloof, exquisite charm, though their interactions were scant and left little mark. She’d been momentarily dazed last time, shocked to learn he was to marry her sister.
Now, with Fang Xianxing having suffered a heavy loss to pave her path, Song Longsha refused to let their sisterly bond fracture.

Fang Xianxing disregarded her earnest efforts, taking her assigned seat as directed.
Once settled, the table buzzed with energy.
Director Su Mu had risen to prominence in recent years, her artistic talent matched by ambition. Far from rigid, she understood that achieving lofty aims often required bending to certain conventions, harnessing favorable currents.
Thus, she had personally invited Fang Xianxing, the investor who’d eased her pressing woes, bringing along her crew to curry favor and forge a connection.
Noticing a shrewd young star maneuvering to sit beside Fang Xianxing, Su Mu smiled and turned a blind eye.
Fang Xianxing arched an eyebrow faintly but stayed still.
A young man with delicate features and light brown eyes approached, wine glass in hand, to toast her. Trembling, he struggled to string a sentence together.
Shy and awkward, he evoked pity, yet his eyes betrayed his intent plainly.
Unbidden, she compared him to Xie Zhi. That man owed much to his looks—though his acting was middling, the shift of his gaze could effortlessly sway others, guiding them to his will.
Xie Zhi again—did one pang of reluctance mean she’d forever fixate on that vexing man?
Fang Xianxing grew weary. Casting him from her mind, she asked idly, “What role do you play?”
“President Fang, I play Fu Clan,” the youth replied, his eyes brightening at her interest in the production. “It’s a small part, just a few scenes.”
Fang Xianxing massaged her temples. She’d asked offhandedly, not promising to boost his role.
Couldn’t he mask his aims a little? Xie Zhi excelled at that.
Him again. Her head throbbed. “Who’s Fu Clan? What’s his name?”
Seeing their exchange, Su Mu slyly shifted seats. The young man slid into the spot on Fang Xianxing’s right, leaving her to carry on the listless chat.
Yet the youth to her left interjected first, undermining him: “Fu Clan is Wen Ru’s sole husband, you know. His role’s quite decent already.”
“Sole?” Fang Xianxing, lately attuned to Wen Ru’s name, was genuinely taken aback. A single husband in an ancient life—no wonder Wen Ru, long gone, still enthralled Xie Zhi, gracing his phone’s wallpaper day and night, even inspiring his pursuit of underwater archaeology. Remarkable indeed.
“Yes,” the young man said, his demeanor growing bolder as he held her attention. “Though Fu Clan alone bore an official title—there were many others she dallied with.”
Fang Xianxing straightened slightly. Her expression remained sparse, but inwardly she urged, Go on, I’m all ears—tell me more.
Nearby, others refused to let him dominate. Noting her curiosity about history, actors—male and female—from across the table drew closer.
“They say Wen Ru wed her husband as a ruse. Her true love was Yuan Shun Emperor. After Wen Ru’s death, the Emperor erected a cenotaph for her and penned a mourning verse. Five years ago, when they unsealed Wen Ru’s cenotaph, the coffin bore the words, ‘My lady departs in silence, mountains and seas crumble,’ dazzling the archaeologists.”
Fang Xianxing’s lips parted in surprise before she swiftly closed them. “A love between women? Quite ahead of its time.”
“There’s more. Rumor has it Yuan Shun Emperor’s brother, Yiyang Prince, was entangled with her too. The histories confirm it—the year Wen Ru vanished in a sea storm, Yiyang Prince perished in a fire sparked by a shaman’s curse. The blaze raged three days, leaving no remains, only a jade pendant etched with ‘Wen’ amid the ashes. Perhaps they staged their deaths to roam the free lands together.”
“No chance. Histories portray Wen Ru as a court devotee, a patriot devoted to her people—she’d never forsake the realm to wander the free lands. I find the tale of Gu Tingtong assassinating her more plausible. Records state Gu Tingtong rose from the inner palace; his mother, a state chancellor, fell to a plot by the then-Crown Princess—now Emperor—and Wen Ru.”
“I’ve heard that too, though some claim Gu Tingtong’s ascent from servitude to Male Empress bore Wen Ru’s hand throughout. His feelings for her likely mingled love with resentment.”
Fang Xianxing: “…”
She craved tales of Wen Ru’s brazen exploits—hoarding male concubines, reveling in brothels—to soothe herself that Xie Zhi’s taste was flawed, his failing, not hers.
How Wen Ru entwined with history’s luminaries? She cared not a whit.
It reeked of idle gossip.
How could every named figure in history be caught in such tangled passions? Absurd.
Fang Xianxing glanced at Su Mu, sipping wine and nibbling dishes with ease. “Director Su, is this what you’re filming? Are these stories credible?”
Su Mu set down her chopsticks, smiling. “The Yuan Shun era lies far back—only scraps of official history endure. In my school days, it merited perhaps fifty words. Wen Ru’s tomb, opened these past years, has merely fueled chatter. Half true, half fable, I’d wager. President Fang, take it as a tale for amusement. Our script blends the most talked-of threads for the crowd’s delight—no one studies history through dramas. The ruler-subject bond of Yuan Shun Emperor and Wen Ru anchors our show—it’ll clear review easily.”
Fang Xianxing rued her hasty investment.
This drama sounded utterly frivolous—Xie Zhi, hearing it, might wish to silence them all.
Song Longsha, seeing Fang Xianxing’s face darken, sensed trouble. She winked frantically, then excused herself to the restroom, slipping out.
Fang Xianxing paid her no heed, addressing Su Mu gravely. “If you’re riding history’s coattails, respect its essence, lest the tide turn against you.”
Su Mu bristled at an investor’s meddling, yet nodded amiably, vowing to seek expert counsel.
Fang Xianxing’s frown softened. Rising, she cited the restroom and left the room.
Barely outside, Song Longsha seized her wrist, pulling her to a secluded hallway nook.
“Sister, guess who I saw?”
“Who?” Fang Xianxing smoothed her rumpled sleeve, leaning idly against the wall. The muddled tales had sapped her spirits further.
“Your husband—I saw him!”
Song Longsha, irked by her sister’s detachment, shook her hand, winking toward a direction before her face fell.
“Sis, he’s not here to check on you, is he? I sent you heaps of texts, and you ignored them—now you’re cornered. You were just chatting so merrily with those stars. Some of those fresh faces are seasoned schemers—foul tactics aplenty. Today they cozy up beside you; tomorrow they’ll slip into your bed. And you let them carry on!”
“He must be furious. I saw his face, dark as thunder, half a bottle of baijiu gone.”
Fang Xianxing nearly retorted, *What husband?* but merely pressed her lips together. “Where?”
“This floor, northwest corner booth, by some greenery,” Song Longsha replied eagerly.
Fang Xianxing hummed, unmoving, eyes downcast against the wall, lost in thought.
“Sis?” Song Longsha bent forward, tilting her head to peer curiously at her.

Fang Xianxing pushed her face away with a hand. “Tell Director Su there’s no need for such courtesy next time—I’m busy, no time to spare.” Song Longsha nodded briskly. “Right, right. Sis, go appease him—I’ll handle this end, don’t fret!” Fang Xianxing sighed faintly, drifting toward the spot Song Longsha had indicated.
Hastening like this felt demeaning.
She quietly hoped Xie Zhi would be gone by the time she arrived.
Yet, if she went out of her way only for him to leave as she reached him, wouldn’t her effort be for naught?
No, he must wait.
*
Xie Zhi’s baijiu scorched his throat and chest with each swallow, yet only this could temper his discontent, steadying him somewhat.
Perhaps his lone figure, nursing a drink in silence, drew others near. They’d approach, see his frown and glance at the phone on the table, then hesitate and retreat.
As Fang Xianxing neared, one brushed past her, retreating.
She paused, her gaze chilling, warming only slightly as she stood by Xie Zhi.
His phone lay on the table, screen aglow, 110 typed out—one tap from a call.
Fang Xianxing’s eyes softened with wry amusement. Xie Zhi always managed to stir both humor and exasperation in her.
He frowned. This latest lingerer overstayed. Raising a hand, he poised a slender finger over the call button, a silent warning.
Yet such flirtation, if pressed, barely qualified as harassment. The police at 110 weren’t so idle—he merely bluffed, banking on others’ aversion to trouble.
Fang Xianxing spoke. “Xie Zhi!”
His hand stilled above the phone, fingers curling. He drew it back a fraction, resting it on the table, then turned to meet her gaze.
Fang Xianxing stood backlit, the glow behind her framing her in a warm orange-red halo. Xie Zhi’s nose prickled briefly. He averted his eyes, draining the last of his baijiu.
Fang Xianxing frowned, taking the seat across from him.
“What’s wrong?”
She inwardly chided herself the moment the words left her.
Why care what troubled Xie Zhi? Even if she played the kind soul this once, she’d only ensure his safe return if he drank too much—nothing beyond that. She mustn’t court trouble.
Yet somehow, concern had slipped out naturally, as though ingrained.