A Second Wife Without a Wedding

On the day I married into the Shen household, there were no miles of red silk.

No phoenix crown.

No bridal procession.

Adrian Shen sent a small red sedan chair to carry me through the side gate.

A second wife did not require spectacle.

Especially not when the first wife had died not long ago.

Especially not when the first wife had been my elder sister.

“Clara,” Adrian said that night, lifting my hand with a caution that almost looked like reverence, “I will make it up to you. A proper wedding. A proper ceremony. The mourning period just passed. If we celebrated too loudly, people would speak. I was too impatient. I waited too long for this day…”

He pressed his lips to my fingers.

His hands were warm.

Broad.

Callused from years of holding weapons.

Once, that warmth could have made me forget the world.

Now, I felt only cold.

“Adrian.”

I pulled my hand away.

“Why pretend?”

His face whitened.

“Clara…”

“You betrayed me first. Then you betrayed my sister. Now you look at me like this. For whom are you acting?”

His eyes reddened.

I should have felt satisfaction.

I did not.

Between us lay my sister’s life.

How could he expect me to step across it?

“The Adrian I loved died that winter,” I said. “I am not your Clara. I am only the Shen family’s replacement wife.”

“I’m sorry.”

I looked at him.

The famous general.

Protector of the border.

The man whose spear had held back three kingdoms.

Tonight, he looked like a boy who had lost his way.

Once, he had been a boy.

A reckless, beautiful boy who lounged on walls with a twig between his teeth and asked me,

“Can you make that crispy fish pie again?”

Back then, my family had just arrived in the capital.

We had little money and no foundation.

My mother cooked well, so Father used most of our savings to rent a small shop and open a restaurant.

The location was poor.

Guests were few.

Every day, my parents and elder sister sighed over the accounts.

So one afternoon, I ran to the busiest street in the capital and asked passersby one by one,

“Would you like to eat at my family’s restaurant?”

Most people laughed and walked away.

Then I collided with a young nobleman in embroidered robes.

He was the only son of the Minister of Revenue.

Adrian Shen.

He wore a pale blue brocade robe embroidered with qilin patterns. His belt flashed white and gold. Beneath sharp brows were a pair of peach-blossom eyes bright enough to ruin a girl’s good sense.

He stared at me.

“What does your family make?”

I had never seen anyone so handsome.

For a while, I forgot to answer.

Then I blurted,

“Do you like fish? I can make crispy river-fish pie!”

He smiled.

“Lead the way.”

After that, Adrian came often.

Too often.

He pestered me to cook for him.

He sat in the back of our restaurant as if he belonged there.

Because of him, our business improved.

Years later, that little restaurant became Feast Hall, one of the most famous places in the capital.

Those days were beautiful.

So beautiful that remembering them felt like swallowing glass.

How had we come to this?

Adrian slept beside me that night, fully clothed, careful not to touch me.

He said he could wait.

Wait until I changed my mind.

I almost laughed.

How shameless.

How foolish.

How cruelly familiar.