Chapter Seventy-Four: Ultimately, Unresolved Longings

He might truly be angry, Ye Qianran thought.

Since the day they parted ways on the forest path, she had not seen him again. In truth, even if she met him now, she would not know what to say. Choosing to marry this man had been nothing more than a way to hold onto him, to ensure he would not abandon her halfway, to give herself something to rely upon so she would no longer feel anxious and afraid.

Now, the most difficult times had passed, but their relationship needed to be redefined. They were husband and wife, yet not truly so. She knew why she had married him, and he understood her reasons as well, so they had always treated each other with polite distance.

Wei Zhuang had said countless times that all he did for her was simply to gain her, and she had always believed it. Thinking back now, if he wanted, he could have had her long ago, but even after their marriage, even now, he had never touched her. Suddenly, she began to doubt whether the words he had once spoken about wanting her were true. He was not a good man by nature, merely a merchant, yet he always made losing deals for her. He had done so much for her, seemed to have set many conditions, but he only ever stated them; he never demanded she fulfill them.

She truly had not fulfilled them.

In the end, she married him because she needed to. He had always indulged her, never truly refusing her.

Outside the window, the autumn wind brought a chill, moonlight pale and thin. Ye Qianran sat before her mirror, arranging her hair, the gauze curtains fluttering and candlelight flickering. In the hazy glow, she saw the scenes of her time with him. She had never admitted to having any affection for this man, not even to herself. Her upbringing in strict morals made her keep a deliberate distance. He was too unruly and carefree, too unacceptable to the world; rumors about him abounded. She, on the other hand, was overly proper, unable to shed her status, everything she did measured against propriety. Naturally, she dared not let him linger in her heart. She always told herself that Liu Yun was the man she truly admired—gentle, elegant, the very model of virtue, the kind of man the world praised, the ideal choice for a cultured daughter of a scholarly family. Her grandparents had spent fifteen years shaping her into the image of a perfect lady. She felt she owed them that.

But morals can bind one’s actions, not one’s thoughts. The more she resisted, the more that faint affection grew, surging like a tide, impossible to escape, lingering daily in her heart.

Wei Zhuang lived so freely and beautifully, coming and going as he pleased, mature and rational, yet wild and unruly. Sometimes a rogue, sometimes a gentleman, his reputation poor, but his affection for her was unwavering. How could she not be moved by such a man? Yet even as her heart stirred, she had already chosen Liu Yun. Moreover, she could never truly open herself, so she buried that secret admiration, believing that if she stayed with Liu Yun, she would forget that fleeting emotion. For a time, she did. But fate brought her and Wei Zhuang together once more.

She remembered clearly how he once said he would never marry.

Yet she became his wife.

When she was with Liu Yun, thinking of Wei Zhuang brought a guilty feeling. Now as his wife, remembering Liu Yun brought a similar sense of shame.

Time flows, the world shifts.

Setting down her comb, Ye Qianran rose and went downstairs. She realized she did not dislike him, and she was his wife—a fact that could not be changed.

Outside, the autumn wind swept fallen leaves; dusk had settled, and the air carried a hint of late autumn desolation. In the mountain night, thin mist began to rise. Occasionally, the harsh cries of a solitary crow echoed. Juan Bi accompanied Ye Qianran across the winding bridge; at its end stood a small building hidden among flowers and trees, where Wei Zhuang lived.

Inside, Hua Niang was making the bed. Seeing Ye Qianran approach, she smiled and put down her work. “Madam, you’re here to see Young Master Zhuang, I suppose? He hasn’t returned yet. You may wait if you wish.” To Hua Niang, this couple was quite odd—married, yet living as if they were not, each in their own quarters, each eating their own meals. Occasionally, there were tender moments, such as the Madam making porridge for Young Master, but never did they seem like true husband and wife. She could not understand these young people. When she married her husband, she could hardly bear to be apart for even a moment; each separation felt endless. But these two—Young Master Zhuang was rarely home, and even when he was, it was always late at night, leaving again before dawn. They scarcely saw each other. Even she, an outsider, sensed something was wrong, but they acted as if nothing was amiss.

Ye Qianran smiled. “Since he isn’t back yet, I’ll return. I just came to see how things were.” With that, she went downstairs.

Hua Niang shook her head helplessly and continued making the bed.

As Ye Qianran descended, she unexpectedly encountered Wei Zhuang. This time, he was not alone; a woman was supporting him.

Wei Zhuang was drunk, barely able to stand. The woman struggled to hold him upright as they swayed down the path. When they stopped before Ye Qianran, the woman asked, “And you are?”

Ye Qianran’s gaze settled on Wei Zhuang. He raised his eyes in a haze and seemed to smile. “Sheng Sheng, this is my wife.”

The woman called Sheng Sheng was not surprised. She simply smiled quietly. “I once thought the Young Master avoided home because of a fierce wife. Now that I see you, Madam, so beautiful and extraordinary, why does he spend his days in revelry?”

Wei Zhuang chuckled softly at her words but said nothing. Sheng Sheng nodded to Ye Qianran and then, stumbling, helped Wei Zhuang upstairs.

Juan Bi rushed forward to stop them, but Ye Qianran pulled her back. Watching the pair ascend, their posture intimate, Juan Bi looked at Ye Qianran with indignation. “Miss, you are Mr. Wei’s wife. How can that Sheng Sheng behave so boldly?”

Ye Qianran merely smiled faintly and said nothing.

Wei Zhuang, halfway up the stairs, suddenly paused. Leaning on the railing, he looked back. Mist swirled around them; she did not turn. His body was drunk, but his heart was not. Yet he would rather both be intoxicated.

In the dead of night, Wei Zhuang awoke suddenly. He glanced at the woman sleeping beside him, and a nameless loneliness surged within. He rose, donned his robe, and stepped outside.

Looking up at the bright moon, he reflected: what he wished for remained beyond reach. Even if all the beauties in the world filled his arms, what did it matter? Wei Zhuang realized he had changed. He had known solitude before, but never such deep desolation. In recent nights, he often woke in the darkness, with new women beside him each time, yet the emptiness in his heart only grew, leaving him weary.

He was not one to compromise easily, yet on some lonely night, he found himself wishing for a warm embrace to rely on.

He had wandered for more than twenty years—a true vagabond—yet he was tired, more exhausted than ever. His desires were simple: from childhood, all he wanted was a home. Watching other children nestled in their parents’ arms, he longed for a family, parents to spoil him. As he grew older, he still wished for a home—a beloved wife, adorable children. Now, at twenty-eight, he remained alone.

No, he was not truly alone; he did have a wife, and she was the woman he desired. But her heart was never his. From the beginning, she saw him only as a savior.

He used to believe that one day Ye Qianran would be his. Now, she truly was, yet the distance between them only grew. He once thought she was simple, easy to understand, but now he found her more and more enigmatic. He could not read her thoughts, just as she never understood his. She never grasped his feelings.

He felt weary—body and soul.

He no longer wished to go on. In this life, the only thing he could not manage was her. Despite all his efforts, he could not win her. He wanted to give up; he believed he had no other way. The only thing left was to let go—of her and of himself. But...

In the end, his feelings remained unresolved.