She buried her face in it, inhaling deeply, greedily, and forcefully, as if she wanted to suck that scent into her lungs, melt it into her blood, and keep it in her body forever.
“Don’t leave me…”
Her voice was muffled in the clothes, dull and carrying a trace of a tremble.
“Don’t leave me…”
She said it again, holding it even tighter.
When she had first arranged these things, she had already thought it through.
Xia Ling and Xia Shuang were responsible for accompanying Song Ning, and usually, they washed their own clothes.
But Song Ning’s would not do. She had told Xia Ling:
“The Young Master’s clothes are precious; I don’t trust you to wash them. Send them all to my courtyard, and I will have someone wash them together.”
Xia Ling was stunned for a moment then, but she dared not say much.
When the Second Young Lady spoke, one had to be as obedient as possible, and she didn’t dare to seem overly industrious.
Naturally, Song Ning wouldn’t say much either.
He never liked letting the Xia sisters do much manual labor; if someone else took over, he was naturally happy about it.
So all of Song Ning’s clothes, utensils, and everything he touched would flow to her.
The things that truly needed washing, she would have people clean.
But the ones she wanted to keep, she would quietly withhold and hide in this trunk.
One piece, then another.
One day, then another.
Without realizing it, she had already accumulated a full trunk.
Song Youyi held that inner garment, slowly curling up on the bed.
She curled her body into a small ball, holding the garment tightly in her arms with her face buried inside. She huddled in the corner of the bed like a wounded young beast.
‘Don’t leave me…’
Her voice grew lighter and weaker, like a dream.
‘Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me…’
She recited it over and over, like an incantation.
The light outside the window gradually dimmed.
She curled there, holding that garment, before frantically pulling out even more clothes.
Especially the ones worn close to the skin—more of the intimate garments she had deliberately kept.
Song Youyi pressed everything against her body, sniffing greedily.
His scent, faint and elusive, entered her nostrils and seeped into her very soul.
That scent made her feel at ease, obsessed, and left her wanting more.
More.
More.
She closed her eyes and began to fantasize.
She fantasized about a day when her brother could go nowhere.
Not the Qi Mansion, not any other place, only here with her.
Only this courtyard, this room, and this bed.
She imagined locking the door from the outside, keeping the key in her bosom, close to her heart, where no one could ever take it.
The windows would also be sealed tight, leaving not a single crack.
People outside could not enter, and the person inside could not leave.
Only her and him.
Day and night, year after year.
He couldn’t see; how wonderful that was.
Precisely because he couldn’t see, she could disguise everything to look as it once did.
She could tell him: ‘Brother, the outside is in chaos with war; you cannot go out.’
‘Brother, something happened to the Qi family, so the marriage contract has been canceled.’
‘Brother, Eldest Sister was promoted and cannot come back for a while.’
She could tell him anything.
Anyway, he couldn’t see.
Anyway, he could only believe her.
She could prepare everything for him—the food, the clothes, and the supplies—all prepared by her own hands.
She would take better care of him than anyone else.
So good that he would never be able to leave her.
So good that he would have to rely on her for the rest of his life.
She fantasized about sitting by the bed, watching him eat.
If he asked about matters outside, she would speak of them lightly and then change the subject.
If he asked about Xia Ling and Xia Shuang, she would say they had left the Song Mansion.
If he asked about Mother, she would say Mother was in good health, just busy dealing with matters outside and had no time to see him.
One lie after another.
Anyway, he couldn’t see her expression or the smile in the depths of her eyes.
She fantasized about helping him change his clothes, her fingers lightly brushing over his shoulders, his back, his arms, and his waist.
He couldn’t see her gaze or the greedy, obsessed light within her eyes.
He would only turn his head slightly and say warmly, “Thank you for your hard work, Youyi.”
‘Hard work?’
‘How could it be hard work?’
This was her greatest happiness.
She fantasized about lying beside him in the dead of night, listening to his breathing—even and long, like a song that would never end.
Sometimes she would quietly get up and lean over, using the faint light coming through the window to look at his sleeping face.
She could watch him like that all night, from dusk till dawn, never seeing enough.
She fantasized that one day, he would grow accustomed to her presence.
Accustomed to her voice, her touch, and her scent.
Accustomed to hearing her greeting first thing every morning and her goodnight last thing every night.
Accustomed to every thing she did for him, every bite of food he ate, and every piece of clothing he wore.
By then, even if he knew the truth, he wouldn’t be able to leave her.
Because he would have become accustomed to it.
Habit was something more terrifying than love.
Love could disappear, but habit would not.
She fantasized that she finally could not help herself and, while he was asleep, she would lightly kiss his lips.
Once, twice, thrice.
Lightly, for fear of waking him.
But she would not stop.
She fantasized about kissing his brows, his eyes, his nose, and his chin.
Kissing his neck, his collarbone, and that tiny bit of skin revealed beneath his collar.
She imagined his hands finally wrapping around her waist, responding to her kiss, “looking” at her with those sightless eyes, and softly calling her name.
‘Youyi.’
Not the way a brother calls a sister.
Something else.
The way a husband calls his wife.
At this thought, Song Youyi trembled all over. Her fragrant tongue licked her lips, and her fingers…
She held the inner garment even tighter, almost burying her entire self inside.
“Let’s get married, let’s get married.”
Her voice was muffled in the clothes, dull and trembling.
Over and over again.
The light outside the window finally faded into complete darkness.
……
The wedding day arrived as scheduled, ultimately set to be held at the Song Mansion since it was inconvenient for Song Ning to travel.
Before dawn, the Song Mansion became bustling.
Large red lanterns were hung under the eaves, red silk wrapped from the main gate all the way to the back courtyard, Double Happiness characters were pasted on the window frames, and even the trees in the yard were tied with red strings.
Servants bustled in and out—moving things, setting up the venue, and greeting guests—too busy to even catch their breath.
Steam rose from the kitchen; the fire on the stove never went out.
Dish after dish was brought out, packed in red lacquered food boxes, waiting to be sent to the banquet hall.
Outside the main gate, carriages and horses formed a long line.
An endless stream of guests came to offer congratulations—some in official robes, some in brocade robes; some arriving by carriage, others on horseback.
The manager at the door greeting guests had a face stiff from smiling, yet he had to keep smiling, keep greeting, and keep leading them inside.
Song Ning sat in his room, listening to the faint clamor from outside, his face devoid of expression.
Xia Ling was helping him put on his wedding robe.
It was a large red robe made of excellent material, embroidered with gold-threaded Dragon and Phoenix patterns that glowed softly under the candlelight.
She tied his belt, straightened his collar, and knelt down to tidy the hem of his robe.
“Young Master,” she suddenly spoke, her voice somewhat muffled. “You look truly handsome today.”