The distant scent of sandalwood and rain clung to the night air, a phantom embrace that both soothed and terrified Xia. Her fingers traced the cool glass of the window, the moonlight painting silver streaks across the manicured lawns of the Lu Mansion. The deepfake was underway; it will be an android looking exactly like her with all her movement and speech patterns. She was buying herself enough time to come with a better solution. If her life had taught her one thing, it was that nothing ever stayed calm for long.
She sighed, her breath fogging the glass. The weight of her secret grew heavier each day, a silent passenger in her womb. Twins. Two lives intertwined with hers, irrevocably bound to the man who haunted her waking thoughts and fevered dreams. He seemed to be everywhere around her, a silent guardian, a powerful force she couldn't run from. The news that she had been moved to the Lu Mansion was shocking. Was he deliberately moving her closer to him, or was it a move orchestrated by his grandfather?
The mansion was a gilded cage, its opulence a stark reminder of the chasm between her world and Zhenting’s. Every silk drape, every priceless artifact, whispered of generations of wealth and power—a legacy she could never truly be a part of. Despite the luxury, a sense of claustrophobia began to creep in; the walls seemed to close in on her each passing day. It felt like she was being prepped as a breeding stock and not as a human being.
Her morning sickness had become a relentless torment, a constant reminder of her changing state. She tried to hide it, feigning headaches or fatigue, but Zhenting's watchful eyes missed nothing. She found herself avoiding him, retreating to the mansion's sprawling library late at night, seeking solace in the quiet solitude of ancient texts and forgotten stories.
The library became her sanctuary—a vast, hushed space filled with the scent of old paper and leather-bound books. She’d lose herself in the pages, her fingers tracing the faded inscriptions, her mind momentarily escaping the complexities of her reality. It was there, surrounded by the ghosts of authors past, that she felt a fleeting sense of peace. She would bring a humidifier and several stalks of jasmine to keep herself in the best headspace.
One particularly stormy night, she couldn’t sleep. The thunder rumbled outside, the rain lashing against the windows like a relentless tide. She wandered into the library, drawn by its familiar comfort. The electricity flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. As she reached for a book, the lights suddenly went out, plunging the entire mansion into darkness.
A gasp escaped her lips. She hated the dark. Her mother used to read her stories about how darkness hid all sort of evil creatures. She stumbled backward, her hands outstretched, trying to navigate the unfamiliar space. Then, a voice—deep, resonant, and laced with a raw intensity—cut through the darkness. “Xia?”