Unparalleled Beauty

Chapter C024 pt1

Wushuang counted on her fingers, enumerating the suspicious points she had discovered to Ji Yang.

For instance, her eldest sister always mentioned the second young master of Duke Zhao's residence in front of her. Before her visit to Marquis Xuanping's mansion, she specifically mentioned Zhao Jianzhi, and even gifted her a copy of the Yacheng Poetry Collection.

To corroborate her claims, Wushuang specifically got down from the bed to retrieve the poetry collection.

It wasn't just this one; Mei Wuxia had actually given her three copies of the Yacheng Poetry Collection, all with identical content. The only difference was that newer editions included a few more of Zhao Jianzhi's new poems than the previous ones.

Wushuang brought them all out to show Ji Yang, proving her eldest sister's ill intentions.

In fact, Ji Yang was also following Wushuang's line of thought: Unsolicited kindness hides either treachery or theft. What about this girl was worth coveting?

Her family fortune?

Family fortune wouldn't necessitate repeatedly mentioning an outsider, nor repeatedly gifting the outsider's poetry collection.

Ji Yang flipped through the books, scoffing at them as mere sentimental drivel. There was no need to guess further; the covetousness must be directed at him. Of all things about this girl, only he was worth coveting.

It must be said, Ji Yang was supremely confident, even arrogant.

He had actually said it. Wushuang was astonished by his audacity. Did this man not understand humility? What did he mean by, "Of all things about this girl, only he was worth coveting"?

Wushuang felt a surge of resentment but dared not express it. In truth, he wasn't entirely wrong; Mei Wuxia was indeed scheming against him.

“So my eldest sister is such a person!” she exclaimed, feigning shock, sorrow, and disbelief.

Ji Yang's fingers had been unconsciously tracing her face. Wushuang, preoccupied with her accusations, hadn't noticed. Now, Ji Yang stopped, pinching her cheek, his gaze slightly disdainful: “If you're going to accuse someone, just do it. Why make such a strange face?”

A strange face?

Wushuang, being a girl, was also thin-skinned. This was her first time accusing someone, and to be spoken to like this—she felt both shame and humiliation. Her face flushed crimson; her dignity was utterly lost. If there had been a crack in the bed, she would have gladly slipped into it.

These emotions spurred her to lash out, pushing his hand away.

“I didn’t make a strange face!”

Angered, she turned her back to him, refusing to speak further.

Was this anger? Ji Yang rubbed his fingertips together.

No one had ever dared to show anger in his presence. Most people prioritized his mood above their own; given ten lives, they wouldn't dare to express their own anger.

He reached out and tugged at the long hair cascading down her back, pulling it several times without receiving a response.

Truly angry?

While pondering this, his other hand continued to flip through the poetry collections. It was initially mindless, his attention elsewhere, until he noticed the varying conditions of the books. The newest volume appeared untouched, another was moderately worn, but one stood out—it was significantly aged, seemingly read countless times, its cover worn white, the pages slightly curled.

His hand stilled.

…

With her back turned, Wushuang thought that if he just said a word, she would readily accept his apology.

But he only tugged at her hair and said nothing; now, he wasn't even tugging her hair anymore.

She waited a few more breaths, unable to resist turning her head to glance at him.

She saw him examining the poetry collections, unlike his previous casual flipping; now, his perusal was noticeably more focused and deliberate.

He was actually reading the poetry collections?

At this moment, Wushuang hadn't yet grasped the gravity of the situation, until Ji Yang lifted the book in his hand, inquiring, "You are fond of this poetry collection?"

Fond? What do you mean by fond?

Wushuang still hadn't understood his meaning. Following his gaze, she looked at the other two books, then back at the one in his hand, finally noticing the anomaly.

This book seemed exceptionally worn.

Fragments of memories suddenly surfaced in her mind. In the dead of night, in moments of utter desolation, in times of self-pity and dejection, she would always turn to Zhao Jianzhi's poetry collection—a source of solace, a means to distract herself from her misery.

This was the very first Yacheng Poetry Collection Mei Wuxia had gifted her, a book she had pored over day and night, until it had deteriorated to this state.

Wushuang, to her credit, was not entirely obtuse. She now realized a grave problem—if, as she suspected, all this was her elder sister's machinations, why would she have been reading a poetry collection she 'didn't like'?

More importantly, the man before her was Ji Yang. Bound by betrothal, sharing the same bed, her actions could be construed as informing on someone, but the problem she had exposed was far greater.

Wushuang's hairs stood on end.

"I wasn't particularly fond of it, I just browsed it occasionally. I didn't have other books to pass the time, so I often looked at it," she tried to appear nonchalant.

"You enjoy reading?"

She nodded repeatedly.

"Nothing else to occupy your time?"

She nodded vigorously.

"Just casual browsing?"

Wushuang admitted she couldn't bear it any longer. She found Ji Yang's veiled sarcasm unbearable. It wasn't necessarily sarcasm, but his questioning style evoked unpleasant memories; in those memories, he had spoken this way, and she had suffered the consequences.

She decided to confess honestly, lest he discover the truth from another source, leading to a reckoning of past and present transgressions, a 'cumulative punishment'.

"Someone gifted me the books, so I read them. I thought the author was quite talented, his poetry and verses were decent. Besides, I was young and naive then. Although we had a betrothal, no one took it seriously at the time, and I didn't think I needed to be circumspect."

"Just like that?"

She nodded repeatedly. "Later, you sent word to my family, so I put these things away to avoid misunderstandings. See, that one was a recent gift; I haven't even opened it, it's been gathering dust at the bottom of a chest."

"Bottom of the chest?"

Precious things are kept away, of course, unwanted things are also kept away, but Ji Yang clearly implied that only precious things were kept out of sight.

"Don't misunderstand, I truly didn't want to see these things anymore, that's why they were put away," Wushuang explained, feeling wronged. "I couldn't just throw them away. I heard these poetry collections are expensive, and if I threw them away, the maids would know, and if the maids knew, my elder sister would certainly find out."

Ji Yang remained silent, his expression unreadable.

But this silence only heightened Wushuang's fear, for in her past life, because of Zhao Jianzhi, Ji Yang had caused her countless troubles.

Back then, she hadn't understood, but he would inexplicably fixate on anything related to Zhao Jianzhi, frequently losing his temper. Later, she realized it was jealousy.

The man was utterly domineering. She was a married woman; as long as she wasn't divorced, any connection with Zhao Jianzhi would provoke his jealousy. What right did he have to be jealous?

But he was unreasonable; he would be jealous, and his jealousy would manifest as outbursts, leaving her to suffer the consequences. To ensure her own well-being, she had to exhaust herself trying to appease him, to coax him into a good mood, only then could she have a peaceful life.

Wushuang stole a glance at him. A subtle curve played on his lips, yet his sword-like brows were furrowed low, his face as cold as ice, his eyes swirling with obscure emotions.

A shiver ran down her spine. She quickly nestled against him, pressing herself against his chest, adopting the most innocent, vulnerable, and harmless posture.

This was the posture she had devised during one of his episodes—the most harmless, the least aggressive, the most likely to disarm his suspicions and avoid any resistance.

Are you angry?" she asked cautiously, tugging at his sleeve, nestling against him, her gaze fixed on his. "Don't be angry. I'm scared."

After a beat or two of silence, his fingers brushed hers, this time tracing her jawline and lingering on her earlobe.

She nestled closer, sinking into his embrace.

She reached out to touch him, her fingers tracing his neck, gently caressing it at first. Only when he seemed accustomed to her touch did she move to the nape of his neck, pressing lightly, gradually easing the tension there.

Ji Yang, for reasons he couldn't fathom, felt the turmoil and bloodlust that had consumed him suddenly subside.

He lowered his gaze—

She was in his arms.

Sensing his relaxation, she snuggled further into his embrace, her hand finding his and linking it around her waist. Now, Ji Yang's hand rested on Wushuang's earlobe, the other encircling her slender waist, holding her completely within his embrace.

He seemed to find this position agreeable, his expression softening.

Nestled against his chest, Wushuang whispered, "I always believed I was their biological daughter. Only later did I learn I was merely a guest in their house. After discovering the truth, I became cautious, afraid of incurring their anger. Then Old Madam summoned Master Qin, who subjected me to strict discipline, often resorting to beatings and punishments. I always felt something was wrong. Why was I the only one forced to learn these things?"

"What I told you about not having other books was true. I only had 'Female Precepts,' 'Inner Instructions,' 'Female Analects,' and 'Model for Women.' I hated them, yet I had to learn them. So, whenever someone gave me another book, I would often take it out and read it, looking at the mountains, the water, imagining what the world beyond was like…"

Wushuang had once pondered what exactly she admired about Zhao Jianzhi, that she would heed Mei Wuxia's instigation and plot against others to marry him.

Perhaps due to her personality, when something happened, Wushuang would first look for reasons within herself, rather than blaming others. Indeed, if she had remained unmoved, Mei Wuxia's machinations would have been futile.

So, what exactly did she admire about Zhao Jianzhi?

After much reflection, she realized that her initial fantasies and desires for Zhao Jianzhi stemmed from the Yacheng Poetry Collection.

She had been trapped for far too long in this cage called Marquis Changyang's Mansion, a prison meticulously constructed by many hands. She yearned for the outside world, longed to escape, to break free from her present circumstances.

The Yacheng Poetry Collection was her only window to the outside world. The author's vision was so vibrant and rich, that she transferred her affections, projecting her hopes and desires onto Zhao Jianzhi, the poet.

But that wasn't admiration; she merely hoped someone would rescue her.

The Yacheng Poetry Collection was the lure, Prince Wei's ill reputation was the lure, Mei Wuxia's instigation was the lure—these lures led her on, making her believe she could escape, only to discover it was all an illusion.

…

Wushuang's voice trailed off, fading into silence.

She hadn't intended to offer a mere excuse, yet her thoughts had spiraled so far. Feeling slightly embarrassed, she kept her head down, still buried in his embrace, and yawned softly. "Your Highness, are you tired? Shall we sleep?"

And then she fell asleep.

Ji Yang said nothing. Extending his hand beyond the curtains, with a sweep of his wide sleeve, the lampstand on the high cabinet extinguished itself.

Wushuang slept soundly.

But in the darkness, Ji Yang remained sleepless. His fingers traced her earlobe and cheek, and as they brushed her eyelids, he felt a trace of moisture.

He touched it with his finger, then gently wiped it away.