The garden behind Madam Yan's private residence was silent, save for the soft rattle of bamboo leaves brushing against each other in the evening breeze.
Syra sat on one of the low stone benches, her gown for the evening's quiet family dinner folded neatly around her. Across from her, Madam Yan poured tea from a thin porcelain pot with the same steady precision she did everything else.
No attendants.
No hovering advisors.
Just the two of them, in a pocket of time carved away from the expectations pressing against the estate walls.
Syra waited.
Madam Yan didn't call private meetings casually.
Finally, after the third cup had been poured and the second had cooled untouched, Madam Yan spoke.
"When I was your age," she said, not looking up, "I was engaged too."
Syra blinked, startled. She hadn't imagined Madam Yan—who wore steel in her bones—as ever being young enough for such things.
"My marriage was arranged before I understood what being a wife would mean," Madam Yan continued, her voice steady but quieter than usual. "I thought it would be a partnership. A shelter."
She smiled thinly, as if at a private joke.
"It was a battlefield."
Syra stayed silent, but inside, her thoughts churned.
Was she truly marrying the man she loved—or walking into a war she didn't fully understand?
All she ever wanted was simple: to survive with dignity, with the man she loved at her side.
Not to conquer. Not to prove herself.
And certainly not to live under the constant microscope of a society she had no interest in impressing.
The high life—the parties, the whispers, the endless power games—had never interested her.
It didn't interest Lou Yan either.
So why did their love seem to trigger so much noise, so much scrutiny, from a world neither of them had asked to join?
Madam Yan set the teapot down carefully.
"Most days, it felt like I was drowning in expectations I never agreed to. But drowning gracefully enough that no one would think to throw a rope."
Syra's hands tightened in her lap.
Each word sharpened the path ahead into a harsher reality.
She wasn't just stepping into a marriage.
She was stepping into a legacy that would never fully accept her, no matter how brightly she smiled or how hard she worked.
Madam Yan's gaze sharpened.
"It will never be enough for some. Understand that now. Prepare for it."
Syra nodded slowly, absorbing the truth without resistance.
"You survive," Madam Yan said, voice low and firm. "You endure. And you build something they cannot tear down."
---
Later, as Syra made her way back toward the main house, she spotted Lou waiting under the covered walkway, his posture straight, hands tucked neatly behind his back. Their eyes met, and Syra felt the tension in her chest ease slightly.
Lou didn't ask what Madam Yan had said.
Instead, he stepped forward and offered his arm in a gesture so natural, so innocent, that it almost broke something in her chest.
Syra moved without thinking, slipping her arm through his. As she hooked her arm into his, her body brushed lightly against his side—and the inside of her arm pressed gently against the side of his chest and his elbow unintentionally grazed the side of her fleshy chest. The unexpected softness of the contact rendered Lou momentarily motionless. He froze—just for a second—his breath catching sharply in his throat. It was nothing but everything.
A simple, innocent touch, and yet it fired through him like a strike of heat, more potent than any intimacy he had ever imagined.
The scent of her—something soft and clean, a mixture of paint and faint lavender—filled his senses, overwhelming the monk-like restraint he had spent decades honing.
Lou Yan forced his body to move again, to adjust, to continue walking slowly with her toward the house. But inside, he was burning. Embarrassed by his reaction. Disappointed in himself.
He had been celibate for more than thirty-two years. He had endured rigorous training. Silent retreats. Years of solitude. He had mastered pain and hunger and temptation.
And yet these few months of waiting, these few moments near her, were harder—more exquisitely painful—than anything he could remember. Control yourself, he told himself, forcing the words into the tightness of his chest.
Syra didn't seem to notice the subtle tremor that passed through him. She just walked beside him, calm and trusting, her small hand lightly resting against his sleeve. And that—more than anything—was what undid him. Her innocence. Her complete trust. Her silent loyalty.
He adjusted his breathing as they neared the entrance. By the time they stepped inside, his expression was once again composed.
Calm. Unshakable. But inside, he carried the warmth of her touch like a brand against his skin.
Thirty-nine days to go. Thirty-nine days to endure the sweetest kind of suffering he had ever known. Thirty-nine days until he could finally hold her without restraint, without guilt, without fear. And he would wait. Because she was worth every second.
After dinner, Assistant Ming was already waiting at the estate's side entrance, standing beside the black sedan with practiced discretion. Lou opened the car door for Syra without a word, allowing her to slip inside first before joining her in the backseat.
The drive to Syra's apartment was quiet, save for the occasional soft hum of the city blurring past. Syra sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her body tilted slightly toward him, not close enough to touch, but enough to feel her presence pressing against the small space between them.
When the car pulled up in front of her building, she hesitated, hand on the door handle. "Lou," she said, her voice low and hesitant, "would you like to come up for some tea?" The offer was innocent. Casual, almost.
But Lou Yan stiffened, every instinct in him flaring with warning.
He wanted to. God, he wanted to. But he was scared—terrified of what a few more minutes alone with her could unravel.
He turned slightly, forcing a polite smile. "I should go. It's late," he said, voice carefully neutral. Syra's face fell—just slightly.
Then, in a move that nearly made his heart stop, she pouted. A soft, childlike expression—lower lip jutting out just a little, her dark eyes wide and pleading, her full cherry lips glistening under the faint glow of the streetlights. "Just for a little while?" she said, her voice lilting sweetly, almost teasing.
Lou felt something in his brain short-circuit.
He knew he should say no again.
He meant to say no again.
But somehow, his body betrayed him before his mind could catch up. He followed her out of the car like a man under a spell, his feet moving without permission.
She looked so enchanting, so soft, so achingly beautiful in that moment that logic simply ceased to exist. It wasn't her fault.
She wasn't seducing him. She was just being Syra—unguarded, natural, trusting. And it broke every wall he had built. Inside her apartment, Syra slipped off her shoes by the door, moving with the easy grace he had always admired. She padded toward the kitchen, humming quietly under her breath, as if having him there was the most natural thing in the world.
Lou stood frozen near the doorway, guilt and desire warring violently inside him. He regretted his decision the moment he stepped across the threshold.
Already, the air inside felt too intimate, too warm, scented faintly with vanilla and paint.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to anchor himself. Syra glanced over her shoulder, smiling when she saw him hovering awkwardly near the entrance.
"Make yourself comfortable," she said lightly, pulling down two teacups from a cabinet.
But Lou couldn't relax. Every breath he took filled his lungs with the scent of her. Every movement she made tugged at the fraying edges of his control. This was dangerous. More dangerous than he had ever allowed himself to admit.
What am I doing? he thought bitterly.
He had been celibate for thirty-two years. Thirty-two years of discipline, of silence, of mastery over himself. And yet these last few months—the waiting, the watching, the aching—had stripped away those layers faster than he could rebuild them.
Syra's presence, her trust, her innocent sweetness, were harder to resist than any physical temptation he had faced before.
And tonight, with her pouting and smiling at him with those soft, devastating lips, she had dismantled what little remained of his defenses without even trying.
When Syra set the tea down on the coffee table and curled up on the couch, patting the seat beside her invitingly, Lou knew he was outmatched.
He stood there a second too long, then, with a resigned breath, crossed the room and sat down carefully—putting just enough space between them to survive it.
Or so he hoped.
Syra handed him a cup, her fingers brushing lightly against his. He swallowed hard, focusing on the ceramic heat rather than the unbearable warmth of her skin. They sipped in silence, the city lights flickering outside the window. Small, ordinary. And yet it was the most dangerous moment he had lived through in years.
When he finally left an hour later—after polite conversation, after tea gone cold, after a thousand silent battles fought and won inside his own chest—Lou Yan walked back to the car feeling both proud and broken.
Proud he hadn't crossed a line. Broken because staying faithful to his vow was costing him more of himself than he thought possible.
Thirty-nine more days.
He would endure it. He would endure anything. Because Syra was worth it. Even if the waiting carved him down to nothing.