That night, as Song Luan looked in the mirror, she noticed red marks still visible on her chin. No wonder it hurt so much she was close to tears—Zhao Nanyu must have really used some force. Her body, as delicate as soft tofu, bruised at the slightest touch, and the marks always took a long time to fade.

Before going to bed, Song Luan called in the maid standing guard at the door and asked, “Did the young master say when he would be coming?”

The maid, though not as terrified of her as before, remained cautious and reserved. She answered respectfully, fearing even a single wrong word might earn her a beating. “The young master hasn’t sent any word, so he won’t be coming.”

The maid couldn’t figure out what had gotten into her mistress tonight. Normally, the young master almost never stayed the night in this courtyard—perhaps twice a month at most. And during those rare occasions, the mistress always seemed visibly impatient and full of disdain. Why was she suddenly asking about him now?

Song Luan, however, wasn’t aware that their relationship had grown so cold. Zhao Nanyu would only come to her courtyard if she caused some trouble again or if Zhao Zhiger was brought over for discipline. Otherwise, he rarely set foot here.

She let out a small sigh of relief. “I see. You may leave now.”

“Yes, madam.” The maid hesitated for a moment, then lowered her head and whispered, “Shall I bring you some calming soup?”

Song Luan immediately wanted to refuse. The thought of that bitter concoction made her stomach churn. But before she could dismiss the idea outright, the maid added timidly, “If you don’t drink it, you’ll have trouble sleeping again tonight.”

An idea suddenly struck her, and she changed her mind. “Fine, bring it over.”

Even so, the bowl of medicine never made it into Song Luan’s stomach. She hadn’t forgotten the poisoning incident. Since the book Minister of Power hadn’t mentioned anything about it, she could only rely on herself to uncover the truth.

After the maid left, Song Luan poured the medicine into the potted plant by the window. If there really was poison, the plant would die soon enough.

That night, Zhao Nanyu didn’t come, which was for the best. Song Luan actually hoped he wouldn’t show up—her chin was still aching.

The next morning, she woke to the bright light of day. The early spring weather was warm and pleasant, and the courtyard was filled with the faint fragrance of the blooming flowers.

After washing up, breakfast was brought to her, as usual—a light porridge. She didn’t make any fuss about it and ate two small bowls with pickled vegetables, feeling much better once her stomach was satisfied.

For the next few days, Song Luan enjoyed a peaceful routine at Huaishui Residence. Zhao Nanyu didn’t come, nor did he send anyone with a message. She didn’t make an effort to approach him either. The only regret was that Zhao Zhiger was being kept under close watch in the front courtyard, and she had no chance to see him.

Days passed, and Song Luan noticed that the potted plant she’d been feeding with the calming soup was still thriving. She felt a huge sense of relief—there seemed to be no issue with the soup after all.

On the day of the spring solstice, Zhao Nanyu finally appeared before her. He was holding the hand of four-year-old Zhao Zhiger , the obedient child walking beside him. Father and son shared the same gentle expression.

That day, Song Luan wore a scarlet waist-length ruqun. The top was a pale white, and the slim waist emphasized her delicate figure. Her eyes and brows shimmered with a lively charm, making her a striking sight from a distance.

Zhao Zhiger called out to her, “Mother.”

From the bottom of her heart, Song Luan adored this obedient, soft child. She couldn’t help but reach out to pat his head, but quickly withdrew her hand.

She could sense Zhao Nanyu’s gaze on her from beside her, cold and calculating. Song Luan didn’t dare meet his eyes, feeling both frightened and uneasy under his stare. Though his expression was outwardly gentle, there was an underlying chill, a trace of hostility hidden beneath it.

During lunch, the atmosphere was tense, with only the sound of chopsticks moving. Song Luan wanted to cry. She didn’t dare eat much, nor did she dare reach her chopsticks anywhere near him. The meal felt like a punishment.

Zhao Nanyu was the first to put down his chopsticks, leisurely watching her. “Does your chin still hurt?”

Where were you when it hurt so badly?! She wanted to scream. It’s been days since then, don’t you think it’s a bit late to ask now?!

She raged silently in her mind, but didn’t dare to speak. Instead, she shook her head. “It’s already fine.”

He nodded, then fell silent again.

Zhao Zhiger suddenly spoke up, “I’m done eating.”

Song Luan couldn’t help but marvel again—this child was so well-behaved. Perhaps it was the bloodline, but the more she looked at him, the more she liked him. She wanted to reach out and pinch his little face, to tease him and play with him.

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