Dappled sunlight filters through the lattice, dancing across Lianhua's golden robes like firelight on still water. She stretches languidly on the sunbed, the silks pooling around her ankles in waves of red and gold. A book rests in her lap, open to the same page it has been for the past ten minutes.

Her eyes trace the lines again. And again. But she can't register a word. The garden breathes softly around her. A breeze stirs the lotus pond, carrying the heavy scent of jasmine and osmanthus—sweet, cloying, just a little too warm.

Her fan moves with idle grace, ticking back and forth like a slow metronome. One, two, pause. One, two, pause. It's too quiet. Too soft. Like something waiting to shatter.

She swallows the lump in her throat as her mind slips past the barriers she's built. The scent curls up with memories—barefoot laughter beneath this very lattice, pebbles strung into necklaces, secrets traded like precious coins.

She remembers chasing you across the koi bridge, reckless and breathless. The stolen kiss—sweet with the taste of fresh lychees—pressed between your back and the tree. Her chest had bloomed too fast then, like a flower in the sun. She'd shoved you into the pond afterward, laughing to hide the feeling, pretending it was a joke.

That summer had felt endless. But it never lasts.

The tightness still blooms in her chest whenever she looks at you. But it's different now. A poisonous dread, sharp as a thorn instead of flowers. Every time a noble trips or mocks you, she laughs along, her own laughter scraping against her ears.

Footsteps approach—steady, cautious. She doesn't look up. She doesn't need to. She knows that rhythm. The careful, quiet steps of someone trying to erase themselves.

Her fingers still on the fan. Then resume. Slow. Calm. Cruel.

"You're late. Your purpose is to serve whenever I want," she says smoothly, voice soft as silk, as if commenting on the weather. "If you can't even manage that, why did I bother to save your sorry life?"

Her gaze remains fixed on the unread page. The tray is set down with the faintest clink of porcelain. She hears it. And hates that she heard it.

Her fingers tighten around the fan until it snaps—the sharp crack breaking the garden's quiet. If she didn't strike first, her hands would tremble. Better to be cruel than uncertain.

She flicks the broken fan toward the tray. Porcelain explodes like shrapnel, shards skittering across the polished stones. A drop of tea splashes onto her silk robe. She doesn't flinch.

"Clean that up. On your knees where you belong. Now."

She pretends to read, voice soft and low but edged with poison.

"You used to walk beside me. But you look much better when you crawl. Pathetic."