Chapter 1

The night wind drifted through the small window of the secluded courtyard, carrying a sliver of moonlight that gently spilled onto the floor.

Ran Nannan lifted her head slightly and saw her slender shadow cast against the window lattice — like a young willow bent by the breeze.

She was ten years old that year and had already lived in this remote courtyard for three.

Originally a storage space in the Zhou residence, the courtyard had been cleared out and repurposed for a single purpose — to “raise” her.

The old matron used to say:
“Second Miss, you’re being raised for the eyes of a nobleman. You can’t just ruin your looks.”

Ran Nannan had been too young to understand what that meant. All she knew was that every day, she had to soak in warm floral water, comb her hair a hundred times with a silver brush, and practice posture drills until her spine was so straight one could rest a ruler on it. Even blinking had to be delicate.

Still, the matron always called her clumsy — her smile was wrong, her walk was wrong.

Once, the matron made her balance a bamboo scroll on her head and walk from one end of the room to the other. Halfway through, her foot was pricked by a sharp stone protruding from the tiles, and she stumbled. The scroll tumbled to the floor.

Smack—

The sound startled two sparrows in the yard into flight.

Then came the sharp hiss of wind — the cane lashing across her calves. The sting bloomed instantly. Ran Nannan couldn’t hold back a cry.

“Oh? You know how to scream now?” The matron raised a brow, her face dark. “Try crying again, I dare you.”

Ran Nannan bit her lip hard — so hard the taste of blood filled her mouth.

The matron kicked the bamboo scroll aside. “Still standing there? Start over.”

She bowed her head and murmured, “Yes.” She picked up the scroll and balanced it again.

Once.
Twice.
A third time…

By the time the moon climbed above the eaves and the night turned heavy, she was finally allowed back into the house.

Inside, the oil lamp flickered with small pops and crackles — like it was mocking her.

The next morning, when she rose, her calves felt as if they’d been flayed. Even the slightest touch burned.

She lifted her skirt. The welts were still there, crisscrossed in angry red and purple. The maid stood nearby with a jar of medicine powder, eyes avoiding her bruised legs.

“I’ll do it,” Ran Nannan said softly.

Only then did the maid kneel, trembling slightly, and gently applied the cool powder. The chill of the medicine made her gasp.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” the maid whispered.

Ran Nannan shook her head. “It’s all right.”

The pain faded quickly, replaced by a prickling itch. But she didn’t blame the maid. She didn’t even blame the matron.

The matron always said:
“If you want to be angry, be angry at that face of yours. Born beautiful, you live under rules like this. If you’d been plain, you’d be married off early as a concubine and live worse. Either way, it’s just fate.”

At a young age, Ran Nannan came to understand:
In this world, fate is written at birth.

That summer was particularly brutal. By midday, the sun poured over the courtyard walls, turning even the flagstones hot to the touch.

The matron made her practice turning and tiptoeing in the courtyard. She wore a light moon-white robe and had a small pendant of ice hanging around her neck to keep sweat from wetting her hairline.

“Lighter. Bend your waist more. Tilt your head — your eyes should shimmer like water,” the matron instructed, voice cold.

She followed. By the third turn, darkness swam before her eyes. She almost stumbled.

The matron caught her by the arm, yanking her upright.

“What now? You can’t even manage three turns? Do you know how many times the girls in Qinghong Pavilion dance each night? Some twirl until dawn and still smile!”

The matron’s fingers dug into her arm like iron pincers.

Ran Nannan clutched the hem of her dress tightly and murmured, “Yes.”

That night, back in her room, she took off her shoes and saw her ankles had chafed red and swollen. She touched them gently and inhaled through her teeth.

Then she looked out at the stars through the window and slowly exhaled. If she could endure just a bit more — be a little better — perhaps it would bring glory to the Zhou family. Perhaps even to herself.

The matron had once said:
“In two more years, you’ll be worth enough to ruin a man’s family in a single night.”

And she believed it.

By the time she turned thirteen, her figure had become even more graceful. The matron finally looked at her with something close to satisfaction.

“Look at that waist, those shoulders — sharp like porcelain. And that face — if Lord Cheng sees you, he’ll throw down dozens of gold ingots without blinking.”

From then on, she was no longer simply the second miss of the Zhou family. She was an asset — quietly recorded in the family’s ledger.

Master Zhou would boast to guests:
“My daughter’s not bad looking. If a wealthy patron takes a liking, our family’s fortunes will turn.”

She overheard this once while walking past the veranda. A flicker of quiet hope rose in her heart — and then extinguished like fireworks in the dark.

That night, lying in bed, she gently touched her face — smooth and delicate, just like the “merchandise” the matron constantly reminded her to protect.

But deep inside, a strange ache stirred.
It was like a small insect crawling across her chest, keeping her restless through the night.

The Accident by the Small Bridge

Once, the Zhou household entertained merchants from the south. After several rounds of wine, someone suggested a dance — they wanted to see what kind of beauties Yangzhou had to offer.

The matron sent her out. Ran Nannan changed into a pale pink silk robe and was led into the flower hall.

She lifted her eyes. The hall was thick with incense smoke. The scent curled upward from the burners. Several richly dressed men lounged lazily on chairs, their eyes fixed on her — like she was an item brought out for bidding.

The music began. She swallowed her nausea and began to dance. Each step soft, every motion carrying the delicate grace she’d learned from Qinghong Pavilion. When she turned, she let a trace of shyness show — her eyes shimmering with moisture, like a frightened doe.

Someone laughed lowly.
“What a little fox. If Lord Cheng sees her, you think he’ll let her go?”

Her heart skipped. Her foot nearly faltered. But she steadied herself in time.

As the music ended, she bowed low, lashes lowered to conceal her emotions.

As she retreated, those lewd laughs still rang in her ears. Her chest felt tight — like something was stuck there, making her want to vomit.

Just then, from the corridor beyond the flower hall, she caught sight of a young man in a blue robe standing behind the carved railings. He watched her quietly.

His gaze was cool, like moonlight on water — but held a trace of inexplicable pity.

In that fleeting moment, their eyes met — and something trembled inside her. Tears nearly spilled.

But when she blinked, he had already turned away, leaving only the faint scent of tea drifting on the night breeze.