The Golden Hairpin

"How could there be any guilt? It was I who allowed you to stay here," someone laughed behind her. "Besides, there's no such thing as first come first served here. Don't be too meek, lest others take advantage."

Wang Shao turned to see Prince Yun and immediately lowered her head in greeting, her lashes casting delicate shadows as she smiled without speaking.

Prince Yun took her hand, studying her carefully before murmuring, "That day at your family home, when I first saw you, I could scarcely believe such beauty existed in this world. Even now, looking at you, it still seems unbelievable... The Wang family guarded your existence well, never revealing you to the world."

"My health was frail since childhood, so I was left at a Taoist temple," Wang Shao replied with a demure smile. "I thought... my youth would be wasted there."

"Then it was fate that you waited until now to become mine."

She nestled against his chest with a smile, swiftly reviewing everything she knew about this man in her mind: Prince Yun, the emperor's eldest son, born to a lowly and unfavored mother. Sent away from the Daming Palace in his youth, his future remained uncertain.

Such men were not uncommon in her past life in Yangzhou. What he needed was a simple, delicate woman who would cling to him like ivy—someone to make him feel triumphant amid his long-standing disappointments.

What did it matter if she had to play a role and feign affection her whole life? She felt nothing for the man before her anyway. This was merely survival, a means to secure a better life.

So when he drew her to the bed, she feigned such shyness she couldn't even raise her head. She thought of her youth, when her teacher had said, "Wanzhi, your talent with the pipa is unmatched in my lifetime." Yet despite this rare gift, she'd practiced day and night without rest, treating it as her lifeline—something to be cherished above all.

Now came the time to cherish this man before her.

As her robes slipped away, she closed her eyes and clung to this stranger, soft and yielding, as though treasuring her second chance at life.

Outside the corridor, rain began to fall—a gentle, distant patter, lingering like whispered endearments.

Through the haze before her eyes, she saw Cheng Jingxiu, looking just as he had at their first meeting. He'd bowed deeply and said, "Miss, your beauty is unparalleled in this world. Might I have the honor of painting your portrait?"

Back then, willful and mischievous, she'd assumed he was just another man seeking an elegant pretext to approach her. With a sidelong glance, she'd plucked a hairpin—one she'd long grown tired of wearing—and tossed it into the nearby river. "Only if you can retrieve this for me," she'd challenged.

He'd gazed at her in the sunlight with a smile both helpless and indulgent.

She remembered that day had also brought such rain. Fearing the courtyard roses would be battered by the storm, she'd risen early the next morning—only to find Cheng Jingxiu already waiting beneath the rose bushes, drenched from head to toe, her hairpin cradled in his hands.

How strange life was. Had she never seen Cheng Jingxiu standing bedraggled beneath the roses that day, his eyes the only clear thing about him—would she still be in Yangzhou now? Playing pipa melodies in the Yunshao Pavilion, her flower-like youth withering as time slipped through her fingers.

Everything seemed to dissolve into dust, vanishing in the blink of an eye.Only she remained, twisting and moaning beneath another man, shedding two lines of tears as he held her tight, like a newly bloomed flower unable to withstand the night’s storm. The pigeon blood hidden in the wax pill stained her embroidered robe, leaving scattered crimson marks. The pain rising in her chest and the self-loathing made her quietly nauseous.

In the end, everything settled. Alone in the silent night, she lay with her eyes open, listening to the rain outside, each drop seeming to strike her heart.

Wang Lin had told her that Cheng Jingxiu had already left the capital with Xue Se. He had always been a tolerant and gentle man. Knowing he would become a stumbling block for her, he buried everything deep in his heart and left.

For a moment, she felt she had wronged him. But then she thought, hadn’t he wronged her too? Over the years, it was simply two people who shouldn’t have been together, wasting each other’s youth, only to realize in the end that neither could give the other what they truly wanted.

The only person in this world she had truly wronged was her Xue Se.

Xue Se… Xue Se.

Soft, tiny, a piece of flesh that had fallen from her, like a delicate snowflake nestled in a plum blossom’s heart, so tender it might melt under the sun’s gaze. Her daughter, who would never see her mother again.

Because her mother was cold-hearted, ruthless, and unyielding.

With that thought, she raised her arm to cover her eyes, curling up on the fragrant couch adorned with glass and precious stones.

Lying beside another man, she told herself, Mei Wanzhi, you must live well. For the sake of clinging to splendor and luxury, you’ve already committed acts worse than beasts. If you don’t live freely now, heaven and earth will not tolerate you!

(2) Reflections of Towers in the Lotus Pond

The room where Wang Fu had once lived was lavishly decorated, so ornate that it felt oppressive.

When she first entered the prince’s residence, Wang Shao often wore light-colored clothes—pale green, soft yellow, faint blue. She knew this would make her appear more delicate and fragile, softening her naturally striking beauty and helping her seem more girlish.

She also had most of the room’s decorations removed, striving for simplicity in its furnishings.

When Prince Yun asked about it, she merely hugged the books Wang Fu had left behind, nervously smiling with a slight frown. “It’s already improper for me to live in my sister’s room. I dare not make it any more extravagant.”

“At such a young age, don’t be overly obedient,” Prince Yun teased her.

She lowered her head with a smile, pretending to read to hide the faint mockery in her eyes.

A withered petal of a poppy, pressed between the pages, slowly drifted down as she turned them.

She picked up the petal and examined it while absentmindedly reading the words on the page:

Do not mistake today’s favor for forgetting past kindness.

With tears in her eyes as she gazes at flowers,

She refuses to speak to the King of Chu.

It was Wang Wei’s poem Lady Xi .

Her chest felt as though pierced by scattered needles—not excruciating, but slowly bleeding. Yet her face wore an even gentler smile, prompting Prince Yun to pull her close and kiss her ear. “Such a girlish heart,” he murmured. “What’s so fascinating about a withered petal?”