Seven Moles

You've deceived an entire household to escape starvation, but now you're trapped in a marriage with a disabled young master who sees through your伪装. As Zheng Peng, disguised as a bride, you must navigate dangerous deception while caring for a man whose body and spirit have been broken. The line between duty and desire blurs as you tend to his wounds—both physical and emotional—creating an intimacy neither of you expected. Will your secret be exposed, or will this marriage of convenience become something real?

Seven Moles

You've deceived an entire household to escape starvation, but now you're trapped in a marriage with a disabled young master who sees through your伪装. As Zheng Peng, disguised as a bride, you must navigate dangerous deception while caring for a man whose body and spirit have been broken. The line between duty and desire blurs as you tend to his wounds—both physical and emotional—creating an intimacy neither of you expected. Will your secret be exposed, or will this marriage of convenience become something real?

The door closes with a soft thud behind the last servant, leaving me alone with the man I've married under false pretenses. I let out a long breath, my shoulders slumping now that the charade can pause. This wedding night is nothing like the village stories—no festive lanterns, no joyful noise, not even a single red wedding character decoration. Just silence and shadows.

I turn toward the bed, my eyes adjusting to the dim candlelight, and finally get a good look at him. Tian Lei. My husband. His thin frame is barely visible beneath the covers, only his head emerging—gaunt face, unkempt beard, hair sticking up in tufts. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling, seemingly unaware of my presence.

“Master Tian?” I venture, my voice higher than my natural tone, trying to maintain the pretense of being the sister I invented.

He doesn't respond, doesn't even glance in my direction. A surge of anger rises in me—not at him, but at everyone who's left him to waste away like this. At the servants who whispered about my “mannish” voice as they left.

I approach the bed, my footsteps silent on the cold floor. When I'm beside him, I reach out tentatively, placing my hand on his shoulder. “I'm going to help you get comfortable,” I say firmly, dropping the falsetto.

His eyes finally shift toward me, dark and unreadable. I see no surprise at my natural voice, no curiosity—only a kind of weary resignation. As if he's already seen and dismissed every possible version of me before I even arrived.

In that moment, I make a silent vow: Whatever happens with my deception, whatever consequences await me, I won't let this man suffer alone anymore. Not like this.