Chapter Sixty-Eight: How Do You Truly See Me?

She knew full well it was him, yet she refused to look up, as if sulking. Instead, she reached for another glass of wine. Before it touched her lips, he had already snatched it away. Setting the glass aside, he seized her wrist and dragged her from her chair. Only then did Ye Qianran see his expression clearly—his eyes, dark as obsidian, were shot through with blood-red veins, as if they might burst. He pinned her against the wall, his voice low and trembling with suppressed fury.

“If I hadn’t come in, would you have never taken a step out?”

She had wanted so desperately to see him, yet now that he was before her, all she felt was anger and wounded pride. Her free hand shoved at him, but he didn’t budge. Frustration overwhelmed her and tears spilled uncontrollably. She kicked at his leg; he didn’t dodge, only grunted, then held her even tighter. She struggled restlessly in his arms, one fist beating against his chest, her voice sharp enough to pierce the eardrums.

“Go! Go away! Didn’t you say you never wanted to see me again? Then why are you here? You bastard, you scoundrel, you heartless wretch—go! Leave!” The tears fell harder, as if pouring out all the pain and grievance of the past three months.

No one had told her that the more she drank, the clearer her mind would become. The fierce, burning liquor only brought her memories floating back like drifting clouds, each thread distinct, each one a needle’s prick to her heart.

If you hadn’t left so abruptly, would I have always taken your kindness for granted?

A gust of wind, heavy with rain, swept in through the door. Wei Zhuang snatched the wine from her hand and drained it in one swallow, his voice as cold and pure as winter plum blossoms.

“When did you learn to drink like this?”

It was him.

She knew it was him, yet she didn’t look up, stubbornly reaching for another glass, which he took from her before she could drink. He gripped her wrist, pulled her up from the chair—only then did she see his eyes, red and wild, his anger barely contained.

“If I hadn’t come in, would you have just stayed here, never coming out?” He pressed her to the wall, his voice tight with fury. She had longed so to see him, and now all she felt was fury and grievance. Her free hand shoved him, but he was immovable. Her tears fell, betraying her; she kicked him, and though he winced, he only held her tighter. She struggled, beating his chest with her fist, her voice shrill.

“Go! I told you, go! Didn’t you say you’d never see me again? Then why are you here? You bastard, you heartless brute—just go!” The tears streamed down, as if finally unleashing the pain of the past three months.

Suddenly, he pulled her into his arms, her tear-stained face pressed to his chest, her hands lying quietly at her sides. His hand gently stroked her hair, his voice soft and calm, as if he had never left her side.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things, shouldn’t have made you so sad, isn’t that right? You were hurt—I wasn’t any better.” He kissed her dark hair. “I’m sorry.”

Wind spilled in through the half-open window, making the candle flame gutter. Wei Zhuang’s dark cloak wrapped around her like a great shield, leaving her unable to think, unable to breathe.

Fragrant incense drifted from the censer, weaving a transparent web in the air, enshrouding the small chamber in a hazy mist.

Ye Qianran lifted her head in a daze, her eyes meeting his—gentle, black, unwavering. In the flickering candlelight, his face was resolute yet tender, and her tear-filled eyes, so enchanting, were as clear and innocent as a newborn’s. Something stirred suddenly in Wei Zhuang’s heart, as if in a remote border town, long buried by wind and sand and the passage of years, the first knock had sounded on its gates, and the entire city awoke.

His throat moved almost imperceptibly as he struggled to control himself. He lowered his head and kissed her lips—cool and soft, like the first dewdrop on a lotus leaf at dawn, delicate and fragrant, as if afraid to disturb the dream of melting snow in early winter.

Ye Qianran’s arms slid around his neck; she closed her eyes.

The world outside was a matter of the heart’s indifference; the one before her was the one her heart clung to.

How wonderful it was.

She leaned against his neck. Wei Zhuang did not move; all the anger, all the hardness he’d brought with him, vanished in this moment. If all the suffering that heaven had made him endure was only to bring him to this instant, then he would accept it willingly.

He held her as if she were the world’s most precious treasure. He could feel the flutter of her eyelashes, and tightened his arm around her waist.

Ye Qianran clung to his neck, her face buried in his shoulder. Her voice was muffled, yet every word rang clear in his ear.

Suddenly, a clap of thunder split the sky, vibrating in their bones. Wei Zhuang abruptly pushed her away. That peerless face was now distorted by anger.

She spoke: “What are you planning to do with my father?”

Her tenderness had only been to ask this single question: what would they do with her father? Everything she had done against him had its reason.

No one had ever humiliated him like this—never.

Just as he was about to melt under her touch, she had cast him out with a single sentence. No one else could strike so precisely and mercilessly.

She was the only one.

Outside, autumn rain lashed wildly, beating the garden into chaos. The candle sputtered out, plunging the room into darkness.

Wei Zhuang’s hand clamped around her throat.

Hatred and uncontrollable anger shook his grip; his hand trembled with shameful intensity. Ye Qianran suddenly could not breathe, her face flushing red, unable to see his expression in the darkness.

But in that moment, she felt it all the more clearly—Wei Zhuang truly wanted to kill her.

“Did you ask Yan Qing the same question, just now?” His voice was low and vicious, as if ground out from between his teeth.

“When you need me, you’re gentle and sweet; when you don’t, I’m nothing to you. I’ve always thought myself cold, but you’re even more so.” His hatred was obvious, his grip unrelenting; she had truly driven him to madness. He spoke every word distinctly, afraid she would not hear, afraid he would not hear himself.

Ye Qianran felt she was suffocating. His fingers were like iron, squeezing her air away. Her cheeks burned as if they might burst. Fear rose in her heart—this time, she had truly angered him. In the darkness, she looked into his eyes, black as ink, filled with unconcealed hatred and fury.

“You hate me,” she gasped, pausing before adding, “because you think I used you.”

Suddenly, his grip loosened and fresh air rushed in. Ye Qianran clutched her throat, her gaze locked on him. Wei Zhuang’s hand slid down along her temple, his voice abruptly turning light and mocking, the hatred gone. He looked her over as if she were an object of amusement, his eyes deep as ever.

“Sometimes I really want to destroy your face. I want to see if what I like is you, or just your face. Qianran, take care of it. If it’s ruined, maybe I’ll stop letting you use and trample me so easily.” He whispered in her ear, his tone intimate, as if the previous animosity had never existed.

“What are you planning to do with my father?” she pressed, as if she hadn’t heard, caring only for this matter.

Wei Zhuang burst into laughter, stepping back two or three paces, as if he found it hilarious. “Your greatest virtue is that you only care about people close to you. Everything else—chaos in the world, the fall of dynasties—none of it matters. People like you should attract me most, yet I am not among those you care for. Isn’t that sad?” His words were sorrowful, but his expression was mocking, half-smile twisted with a thousand icy threads, devoid of warmth.

True or false, false or true—who can really know another’s heart?

“What will you do with my father?” Ye Qianran persisted. She knew this was no trivial matter.

Wei Zhuang smiled faintly, toying with a jade ring on his finger. “Why should I tell you?”

Silence—dead silence.

Why? She’d never questioned it before.

The autumn rain drummed on; the curtains fluttered like strange spirits in the night. His voice was so soft it seemed to dissolve. “If you want me to tell you, it’s not impossible.”

Ye Qianran waited for him to go on, but he said nothing. He was waiting for her to ask—for it was not he who should be anxious now.

“What must I do?” she asked.

Wei Zhuang walked slowly to the half-open window. The slanting rain soaked the pattern on his chest, splashed his face. He spoke quietly, “Marry me.”

Marry me.

Ye Qianran froze. She had not expected this condition.

If he had wanted her, he could have had her three months ago. Why, then, demand this now?

Seeing her hesitate, Wei Zhuang gave a low, careless laugh. “Just like last time, I’ll only ask once. Will you, or won’t you?”

Only the autumn wind howled; rain battered the withered blossoms.

After a long silence, Ye Qianran finally spoke, “I will.”

Wei Zhuang smiled as if he’d expected her answer. He turned, keeping his distance, his voice low and clear: “You will be my wife. From now on, don’t pine for anyone you shouldn’t, and don’t see anyone you shouldn’t. Otherwise, I’ll be angry. Do you understand?”

Wife? For a fleeting moment, Ye Qianran found it absurd. Could Wei Zhuang really have a wife—could she really be his wife?

She answered coolly, “You know my heart has always belonged to someone else. I can’t just stop thinking of him because you say so. You can restrain my actions, but not my heart—not even I can do that.”

Wei Zhuang stepped closer, stroking her delicate cheek. “I knew before that there was someone in your heart. But from now on, I don’t know, and I hope you won’t know either. Otherwise, you know what kind of person I am, and what the consequences will be.”

He clenched his fists, then let go helplessly. She nodded wearily, “All right.”

The word had barely left her lips before Wei Zhuang seized her in another kiss. This time, it was not gentle but forceful, tinged with punishment, his lips trailing feverishly down her neck, the sensation intoxicating. Ye Qianran tried to resist, clinging to her last shred of reason, but it was futile. For one wild moment, she nearly surrendered.

A sharp crack—a jade pendant crashed to the floor.

She came to her senses instantly.

It was the jade pendant Liu Yun had left him.

She shoved Wei Zhuang away and slapped him hard across the face.

The passion in his eyes faded. Ye Qianran laughed coldly, “You say I never cared for you. But have you ever truly cared for me? All along I was just a fish refusing your bait—because you couldn’t catch me, you tried harder. But in the end, what difference does it make?”

She straightened her clothes, picked up the broken pendant, and slipped quietly into the inner chamber, never once looking back at Wei Zhuang.

Watching her slender figure disappear into the darkness, Wei Zhuang felt as if a heavy stone had lodged in his chest, stifling him. He smashed a fist into the wall, blood oozing, pain reflected in his midnight eyes.

“I really am going mad. How do I see you? How do you see me?”

Outside, the night rain fell, crackling and endless.