The day I married into the Gu marquis’s household, my father-in-law died and my mother-in-law fell ill.
The wedding feast became a funeral banquet, and I was forced to take charge in the midst of the crisis, assuming control of the household and carrying the funeral through with composure.
My husband thanked me for preserving the Gu family’s dignity, yet never set foot in my room again.
In time, he filled the household with concubines and fathered a brood of sons and daughters by them.
I raised them conscientiously and planned for their futures.
Then I overheard my husband speaking to them behind my back.
“I have never met anyone as coldhearted as your mother. Your grandfather died, and she did not shed a single tear. You may call her Mother, but never learn from her. She is unworthy of the name.”
By then, a physician had already told me I did not have long to live.
Not one of those children came to visit me or bring me medicine; they simply left me to die.
With my last strength, I set fire to the Gu residence and burned that cold, loveless place to the ground.
When I opened my eyes again, I had been reborn.
The Gu family came to propose marriage, and as I looked at the refined, handsome man before me, we spoke the same words at the same time.
“I refuse.”
It turned out I was not the only one who had returned.
