Before Zong Si could respond, Ning Fu furrowed her brows and added, “Does that mean, in the future, the man I choose as my husband must first gain the Heir’s approval before the marriage can proceed?”

Though her words were mild, the quiet sarcasm woven into them was even more pronounced than before.

For the sake of the Duke’s residence, Ning Fu had always been willing to show some patience and allow Zong Si to give her orders—but she would not tolerate him overstepping.

Zong Si looked at her. Her expression remained cordial and unchanged, but the faint blush at the tips of her ears betrayed her emotions—clearly, she was irritated. “I don’t look down on you,” he said.

Ning Fu did not respond.

“My aunt has already chosen candidates for Meng Ze’s concubines,” Zong Si explained. “Besides, he has never been restrained when it comes to women. Even if he likes you now, someone new will catch his eye soon enough.”

“If the Heir’s intentions are kind, he might consider phrasing them more kindly,” Ning Fu replied.

“It was you who cast me as the villain from the very beginning,” Zong Si remarked, meaningfully.

Ning Fu paused, recalling his earlier words. Indeed, he had only warned her that she wouldn’t benefit from entangling with Meng Ze. For a moment, she was at a loss. Perhaps it was the unfavorable impressions he’d left—both in her previous life and in this one—that made her instinctively assume he meant harm.

“Can we speak civilly now?” Zong Si asked, passing her a hand warmer.

After a moment’s thought, Ning Fu accepted it and sat beside him. “You’ve delayed the investigation into Minister Song’s case, using your injury as an excuse. By rights, you should still be recovering. And now you’re heading north after the New Year—how was this explained to the Sixth Prince?”

The carriage was cramped, and the distance between them was not far.

Zong Si turned slightly, just enough to glimpse the flower-shaped hairpin in her hair—delicate and graceful, swaying with her movements.

Fourth Miss Ning carried herself with remarkable poise. No matter how much she moved, her hairpins and ornaments never fluttered out of place, never losing their elegance.

Zong Si said, “The Hu people have been conserving their strength for half a year. Now they’re watching closely, and the situation is critical. Even if I were missing a leg, rushing there now wouldn’t raise suspicions.”

“To resolve the matter in the north takes time—and it’s of greater importance. It conveniently allows the investigation of Minister Song’s case to be postponed for half a year,” Ning Fu noted, realizing his plan. She couldn’t help but admire how perfectly he had orchestrated everything.

By using his injury to delay departure, Meng Ze couldn’t say much. And once Zong Si was in the north, Meng Ze could say even less. As for Elder Song’s case being dealt with after his return, it was no coincidence. By then, Prince Xuan’s household would likely have achieved new military merit, and Emperor Jingwen wouldn’t be able to show bias in handling the case.

Zong Si had arranged it all so seamlessly—not just removing obstacles, but timing everything precisely. No wonder, in their past life, Minister Song had met such a grim fate.

“May I ask what the Heir wished to speak with me about today?” Ning Fu asked.

“If you hear any news about Divine Physician Mu, Fourth Miss may write a letter and send it to Qingtian Pavilion.” Zong Si took out a stick of ink. “This is disappearing ink. Once it dries, the writing will vanish from the paper. To read it again, one must apply a special reagent.”

He was clearly concerned about the risk of intercepted letters.

“I’ll proceed cautiously. And please take care in the north—the battlefield shows no mercy,” she said, though in her heart she knew he would likely remain safe. “Still, injuries hurt… and they do affect daily life.”

Zong Si’s thoughts drifted to the book of conjugal arts Ning Fu had once gifted him. He spoke slowly, “What sort of injury would affect daily life? Say, one to the waist or abdomen?”

“An injury to the waist or abdomen would certainly impact daily life—and not just a little,” Ning Fu replied. She imagined how difficult riding and archery might be for someone wounded there, and couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret.

Zong Si let out a soft, unreadable chuckle. “Thank you for your concern, Fourth Miss.”

Ning Fu was puzzled. “I’ll be on my way,” she said, tucking away the ink stick.

Zong Si watched her lift the curtain, checking that no one was nearby before stepping down from the carriage.

After these recent interactions, his view of Ning Fu had shifted slightly. Though she had her schemes, she wasn’t malicious. She was thoughtful and perceptive—clearly a clever young lady.

Still, to say his attitude toward her had changed without the influence of those two dreams would be untrue. As long as those dreams lingered in his memory—though he didn’t treat them as reality—they had nonetheless colored the way he faced Ning Fu.

At the very least, during meetings with other ministers or visits to the lavish, pleasure-filled halls of Yixiang Pavilion, the woman who came to Zong Si’s mind first amidst all the dancing and extravagance was Ning Fu.

He’d been momentarily surprised at first, but accepted it calmly in the next breath. The Fourth Young Miss’s beauty was indeed rare—such was the nature of taste.

“Fourth Miss.”

Just as Ning Fu was about to leave with the palace maid waiting outside the carriage, she heard Zong Si call to her.

She turned back. In the night, his figure loomed tall and upright, half-veiled in shadow.

“Wishing you peace in the New Year,” Zong Si said coolly.

Ning Fu froze for a moment. In her past life, Zong Si rarely wrote to her—but every New Year, without fail, he’d send her a letter. And it always bore those same four words.

Now, everything had changed. People, time, fate. Ning Fu quietly sighed to herself and replied, “And to you, Heir.”

…

On the way back to the Prince’s residence, Zong Duo glanced at Zong Ning and suddenly asked, “Why aren’t you wearing a floral hairpin?”

Zong Si looked up.

“Second Brother commenting on a lady’s accessories today?” Zong Ning asked, surprised.

Zong Duo himself was caught off guard—he had spoken without thinking. A bit embarrassed now, he muttered, “Just wondering. Cousin Jingwen looked quite nice.”

Zong Ning frowned, puzzled. “But Cousin Jingwen wasn’t wearing a floral pin—she had a jade one. So who exactly did Second Brother think looked good wearing it?”