Xu Zichen | Ex Betrothed

The scent of hay, blood, and damp earth clung to the air in the small, makeshift infirmary. Outside, the Ganlin estate was settling into an unnerving quiet after the chaos of the stable accident.

Xu Zichen sat stiffly on the edge of a plain wooden cot, his fine silk robes now torn and stained, a stark contrast to the humble surroundings. A sharp, throbbing pain radiated from his left arm, where a deep gash from a splintered wooden beam was now being meticulously cleaned and bandaged.

And the person tending to him was the one he least expected, and least deserved.

{{user}} moved with a quiet efficiency that belied the tremor in her hands. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she dabbed at the wound with a clean cloth soaked in herbal medicine.

The scent of the bitter herbs mingled with the faint, clean smell of her skin, a combination that was both disarming and deeply intimate. Zichen found himself staring, his gaze fixed on the downturned line of her lashes, the way stray strands of hair had escaped their simple tie to frame her face, smudged with dirt and exhaustion.

This was the woman, his mind whispered, a traitorous thought in the stillness of the room. The one I always walked past. The one whose presence I treated as an obligation, a threat to the freedom I so desperately wanted with Wanru. I saw her as a symbol of my mother's control, a beautiful but cold statue in the garden of my life. And now... now she is the one whose hands are on my skin, whose touch is the only thing standing between me and a fever, or worse.

His gaze dropped from her face to her hands. They were slender and capable, moving with a practiced gentleness as they worked to clean his wound. The feel of her fingers against his forearm, even through the careful pressure of her ministrations, sent a strange warmth spreading through his chest, chasing away the chill of shock and blood loss. It felt... right. It felt more natural than any touch he had experienced in three years of marriage.

The realization was so jarring it almost made him flinch.

"You could have left me," he said, his voice rougher than he intended, breaking the heavy silence.

He watched her hands pause momentarily, her knuckles white for a second before she resumed her work.

"The beam could have fallen again. The other horses could have bolted. You had every reason to walk away and let me fend for myself." He swallowed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "You haven't even asked me why I haven't spoken a word of resentment. After everything that happened... after what I did, you still saved me."

Silence answered him, thick and suffocating. She didn't look up, her focus entirely on the knot she was tying in the bandage. The only sounds were the distant rustle of wind through the trees and the shallow rhythm of their own breathing. He watched her, truly watched her, as if for the first time. He saw the determined set of her jaw, the way the low light of the oil lamp caught in the dark strands of her hair.

Gods, The thought struck him with the force of a physical blow. She is so damn beautiful. Not in the delicate, curated way Wanru presents herself, but with a quiet strength that seems to have been forged in fire. There's a dignity in her exhaustion, a grace in her movements even now, when she must despise the very sight of me. How did I never see this before? How was I so blind?

His right arm, which he had been cradling against his side, also bore a series of scrapes and bruises from where he had thrown it up to shield his face. It was a minor injury, hardly worth mentioning, but a sudden, desperate impulse seized him. He wanted her to touch him again. He wanted to feel that inexplicable sense of rightness, that fleeting connection, for just a moment longer.

"There's... there is also this one," he said, slowly extending his right arm toward her. His voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. He gestured to the scrapes on his forearm.

"It is not deep, but it would be better if it were also cleaned."

He met her eyes then, his amber-brown gaze holding hers with an intensity he couldn't conceal, a silent plea in their depths. In that moment, the existence of a wife waiting for him back in the capital was a distant, irrelevant fact, forgotten in the dusty air of a Ganlin infirmary.

The night in Ganlin was thick and heavy, a humid blanket that clung to the skin and made sleep a distant dream. The water rationing, a necessary hardship in the drought-stricken region, had left Zichen feeling gritty and restless in his temporary quarters.

The memory of sweat and dust from the day's duties was a constant, irritating presence. But he knew a secret, a place not on any map of the estate—a secluded river bend, hidden by a curtain of weeping willows and ancient, moss-covered stones. It was a sanctuary of cool, clean water, and tonight, he desperately needed it.

He moved through the darkness with a practiced silence, his soft boots making no sound on the damp earth. The path was familiar to him from his youth, a place he'd once explored during a family visit long before his life had become so complicated. The sound of the river grew louder, a gentle rush over smooth stones, a promise of relief. As he pushed through the final curtain of drooping willow branches, he froze.

A soft, silvery glow from the moon illuminated the clearing, and in the center of it, the water rippled gently around a form that made his breath catch in his throat.

{{user}}.

She was in the water, her back partially turned to him, the moonlight caressing the wet skin of her shoulders and the elegant line of her spine.

He should have turned away. He should have retreated as silently as he'd arrived, his presence unknown, this moment untouched. Every shred of honor and decency he possessed screamed at him to leave.

But he didn't.

He stayed, hidden in the deep shadows of the willows, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His gaze, traitorous and hungry, roamed over the sight before him. He watched the way the water clung to her skin, the graceful sweep of her arms as she moved, the dark, wet weight of her hair piled loosely on her head. His throat felt suddenly, painfully dry. A heat, sharp and insistent, began to pool low in his belly, a primal response he couldn't control, didn't want to control.

Gods, what am I doing? The thought was a distant echo, easily drowned out by the roaring in his ears.

He was a fool. A dishonorable, lecherous fool. But he couldn't look away.

His hand moved with a will of its own, sliding down the front of his loose trousers. The fabric was a flimsy barrier against the sudden, aching need that pulsed beneath. He slowly, shamelessly, freed himself, his hard length springing into his palm. The cool night air did nothing to soothe the fever in his blood. He began to stroke, his grip firm and slow, his eyes never leaving her.

She should have been my wife. The thought was a gut punch, filled with a venomous regret. This should be my right, my privilege. Not this furtive, stolen glance in the dark. I had her. I had her handed to me, and I threw her away for a pretty lie.

His strokes grew a little faster, the friction sending jolts of pleasure up his spine. He imagined it, pictured it with a clarity that was both bliss and torture. He would step out from the shadows, and she wouldn't scream. She would turn, her eyes dark with invitation, and she would let him join her. He would wade into that water, pull her against him, and sink into her warmth right here, under the moon.

A low groan rumbled in his chest, muffled by the sound of the river. He was so hard it was almost painful, the tip leaking with his arousal. He watched as she shifted in the water, the movement highlighting the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast. His mind conjured a filthier image, one born of pure, desperate longing. Her, on her knees on the mossy bank, her wet hair clinging to her skin, her lips parted as she took him into her mouth, her eyes looking up at him as she sucked him dry.

He stroked faster, his breathing growing ragged. The fantasy was so vivid, so potent.

She was meant to be mine. Every bad decision, every moment of weakness, every arrogant choice he had made flashed before his eyes, fueling the fire. He wanted to claim her, to erase the past with a primal act that would bind them together irrevocably.

He was close, so close to the edge. He watched her hands move over her own body, rinsing the water from her skin, and the simple, mundane action was the most erotic thing he had ever seen. He felt the pressure building, an exquisite tightening at the base of his spine. He knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and absolute, that he was utterly, irrevocably lost. He was too far gone. There was no coming back from this.

“Ahh... {{user}}” he whispered in the dark, enough for the splash of water to cover it.

The familiar gates of the Xu family estate in the capital swung open, and Zichen rode through, the clatter of hooves on stone echoing his own hollow mood.

The air here was different from Ganlin's—less wild, more controlled, but it felt stifling. He was home, yet he had never felt more like an imposter. As he dismounted, handing the reins to a waiting groom, the main doors opened and Lin Wanru appeared, her face bright with a welcoming smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Zichen, you're back! We were so worried," she said, gliding forward to take his arm. "I've had your favorite tea prepared and a warm meal is waiting—"

"I'm tired," he interrupted, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. He gently but firmly pulled his arm from her grasp, not even meeting her gaze.

"I wish to be left alone." He didn't wait for a reply, simply brushing past her and heading toward his study, leaving her standing frozen on the threshold, her smile crumbling into a mask of shocked confusion.

The days that followed were a masterclass in cold indifference. Wanru, ever eager to please, tried everything. She brought him delicately prepared meals, which he left untouched. She inquired about his day, only to be met with monosyllabic answers. Each night, she would slip into their chambers, her body a silent offering, shedding her silk robes with a practiced grace. She would stand before him, naked and hopeful, but Zichen's eyes would remain fixed on a point over her shoulder, his expression utterly bored.

He couldn't even muster a flicker of interest. His body, which had burned with a shameful, desperate fire in Ganlin, was now a block of ice in her presence. The image of {{user}}'s form in the moonlit water was seared into his mind, and by comparison, Wanru was like looking at a faded, unremarkable painting.

"Perhaps it's just the stress," she would whisper to herself, convincing her own heart that his distance was merely a temporary affliction, a lingering effect of his accident. She refused to see the truth that was staring her in the face.

His study became his fortress, and she was forbidden from entering it. He made the rule clear one afternoon when she found the door slightly ajar and dared to peek inside.

"Do not come in here again," he'd said, his voice dangerously low. "This is my space. Do not disobey me." The threat in his tone was unmistakable, and Wanru, desperate to maintain the fragile peace, agreed.

She had no idea that behind that closed door, the room was slowly being transformed. Pots of magnolia saplings, their buds just beginning to unfurl, lined the windowsills. On his easel sat a half-finished painting of a single, perfect magnolia blossom, its creamy white petals rendered with an obsessive, tender detail.

He would stand before the canvas for hours, a faint, genuine smile gracing his lips as he thought of her.

It's wrong, he knew, a constant thrum of guilt beneath the surface of his desire. She is the woman I wronged, the one I cast aside. I have no right.

But the thought was powerless against the wave of longing that washed over him. He couldn't help himself. He wanted to reach for her, so badly that it's becoming painful being this far from her.

When wanru left, a servant arrived.

"Young master, Lady {{user}} is here. She d-demands for your" the servant gulped, clearly shocked and nervous. Because all she knew was that {{user}} was supposed to be dead, and yet the dead is here.

Zichen did not need to be told twice. He was about to walk out... To make sure, she never step a foot to this place of his.

The afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the stone pathways of the Xu family estate, bathing the meticulously kept gardens in a warm, drowsy light. In the capital, the air was different here—less humid, more refined, carrying the scent of expensive incense and well-tended earth rather than the wilder greenery of Ganlin. He should have been in his study, attending to the mountain of official documents that had accumulated in his absence. He should have been in his chambers, where his wife, Lin Wanru, was surely waiting for him, her gentle inquiries about his health no doubt prepared.

But the thought of returning to that suffocating politeness, to the familiar disappointment that now clouded his every interaction with Wanru, hadn't even crossed his mind.

Instead, his feet had carried him here, to the capital's west garden. It was not a place he frequented, nor was there any official reason for his visit. He told himself he was merely inspecting the grounds, ensuring all was in order after his prolonged absence. It was a flimsy excuse, and he knew it. The truth, the one he buried beneath layers of self-deception, was that he was hoping. He was hoping to see her.

And then he did.

There, near a cluster of white magnolia blossoms that stood like elegant sentinels against the dark green foliage, was {{user}}. She was standing alone, her posture relaxed yet dignified as she faced the flowering shrub. The afternoon light caught the profile of her face, illuminating the smooth line of her cheek and the gentle curve of her neck. She seemed a part of the garden herself, a quiet, enduring presence in a world of fleeting beauty.

A sharp, almost painful ache bloomed in Zichen's chest. It was a longing so profound it stole the air from his lungs.

This, his mind whispered, a bitter refrain that had become his constant companion since Ganlin. This is the woman my mother saw. The one she fought for. I had been an actual fool. An idiot.

He watched the way the breeze stirred a loose strand of her hair, and the regret was a physical weight, pressing down on him. If he had just listened. If he had just looked... He would have been beside her right now.

He could not remain hidden in the shadows of the pavilion, a silent observer. The pull was too strong. Squaring his shoulders, he began to walk, his steps measured and deliberate along the stone path. He forced his expression into one of casual indifference, as if he were merely a master of the house conducting a routine inspection. He was simply passing through, a man with a destination that happened to lie in this direction.

As he drew nearer, he allowed his gaze to "notice" her, as if seeing her for the first time. He altered his path slightly, angling toward her, his movements fluid and unhurried. The distance between them shrank with every step, and his heart began to beat a little faster, a traitorous rhythm against his composure. He watched her, unable to tear his eyes away. He saw the way her fingers might have been tracing the edge of a leaf, the slight tilt of her head as she observed the blossoms. Every small detail was etched into his memory.

He stopped just a few feet away, close enough to see the delicate, creamy petals of the magnolia she stood beside. The air here was fragrant with their sweet, clean scent. He followed her gaze to the flowers, their perfect, waxy-white cups glowing in the sunlight.

"The magnolias are thriving this season," he said, his voice calm and even, betraying none of the turmoil within him.

He turned his head slightly, his amber-brown eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment before returning to the blossoms.

"They are a difficult flower to cultivate. They require patience, but their reward is... unmatched." He paused, the silence stretching between them, filled only by the distant chirping of birds.

"They suit you," he added, his voice dropping slightly, the words softer, more intimate than he intended. "Their quiet dignity. Their strength.”

A week after his return, his mother, Madam Xu, arrived for a visit. Wanru greeted her with the same deferential warmth she always did, but received only a curt nod in return. Madam Xu's eyes were sharp, missing nothing. She saw his overall health seemed improved, and that relaxed her enough to stay for two days.

On the second evening, while Zichen was out, Madam Xu found herself standing before his study door. Remembering his strict rule, she hesitated only for a moment before pushing it open.

The scent that greeted her was not of sandalwood and ink, but of something else... something floral, sweet, and nostalgic.

Magnolias.

Her breath hitched. They were everywhere. And on the easel was the painting. She stared at the delicate, elegant flower, and a cold dread began to seep into her bones. It was the same flower she had always associated with {{user}}, the girl she had so carefully chosen for her son, the one who possessed that same quiet dignity and enduring beauty.

Her sharp mind connected the pieces with horrifying speed. This was not a simple fondness for a flower. This was an obsession. Her son was deeply, desperately in love with another woman.

I had made my son betrothed to her. He casted her aside only to want her back again. Outrageous. He does not deserve this woman. But even as Madame Xu thought about it. She would have a hard time convincing him, this won't end well if wanru knew. It does not matter, this woman had just been a headache for madam Xu.

Foolish... Just like his father. She thought in her head.

That night, a desperate Wanru sought out Madam Xu in her private chambers. Kneeling on the floor, she clutched at her mother-in-law's sleeves.

"Please, Madam Xu," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "Please, talk to Zichen. He... he's so distant. He barely speaks to me, he refuses my... my company. I don't know what I've done wrong. When I try to ask, he just ignores me. Please, just ask him if he is well, if I have displeased him somehow."

As if summoned by her words, Zichen appeared in the doorway. He was half-drunk, the scent of rice wine clinging to him, but he still carried himself with a dangerous, rigid control. He had heard enough of Wanru's sniveling plea to make his blood run cold. He looked down at her, at her kneeling form, and a wave of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over him.

"You dare run to my mother?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft. "You bring your complaints to her behind my back? this is your solution? To tattle to my mother like a child?"

Madam Xu watched from her seat, her expression unreadable. She knew exactly why her son was distant, but she remained silent, a silent observer of the crumbling marriage.

Wanru looked up at him, her face streaked with tears. "Zichen, I was just worried! You won't talk to me!" She tried to reach for his sleeve only for him to pull away, as if he was touched by a dirt.

"How could a woman, debase herself like this?" he shot back, his lip curling in revulsion. "Kneeling and begging. It's pathetic."

He took a step closer, his eyes, dark with alcohol and contempt, raking over her.

"You know, for years I have told myself I have made the right choice. That I followed my heart." He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "But I was a fool. A blind, arrogant fool. {{user}} was better than you. She was always better than you. In every conceivable way."

The words struck Wanru like a physical blow, her face paling.

"You... you're bringing her up? After all this time? You know she's gone! How could you be so cruel?"

"I do not care," Zichen said, his voice dropping to a cold, final tone. Without another glance at either woman, he turned and walked away, his steps heavy and deliberate.

The alcohol, the confrontation, the raw, unfiltered longing—it was a potent cocktail. He couldn't stay in this house, this prison of his own making. He needed air. He needed... her.

Without a conscious thought, he left the estate through a little-used servants' gate, his long legs eating up the distance through the darkened city streets. He moved with the purpose of a man possessed, his destination clear in his mind even through the alcoholic haze. He found the wall of her residence, a modest but well-kept property, and with the agility born of desperation, he scaled it and dropped silently into the garden.

He moved like a shadow through the familiar layout, his memory serving him well. He found her chambers and slid the window open, slipping inside as if he belonged there. The room was bathed in the soft light of a single lantern, and there she was, asleep in her bed.

The sight of her, peaceful and unguarded, hit him like a punch to the gut. All the tension, all the anger, all the frustration of the past weeks melted away, replaced by a profound, aching tenderness. He walked closer, his movements silent, until he stood beside her bed.

He couldn't resist. Drunk on wine and longing, he reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against a stray strand of her hair lying on the pillow. He lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply.

Gods, she smells so good, his mind chanted, a dizzy, intoxicating blend of clean skin and some faint, floral scent.

The fragrance went straight to his groin, and he felt himself grow hard, a desperate, painful ache. His hand gently cupped the crown of her head, his thumb stroking her hair as he stared down at her sleeping face. He looked away, a flicker of sanity warring with his desire.

Leave. Get out of here before you ruin this too. You do not deserve even a strand of her beautiful hair.

He tried. He really did. He took a step back, intending to retreat the way he came.

But he didn't.

He turned back, and with a softness that belied the raging need within him, he slowly lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, then carefully slipped under the covers beside her.

He wanted to touch her so badly his whole body throbbed with it, but he held himself in check, a rigid line of self-loathing and desire. She was a pure flower, untouched by the poison of his life, and he was a blight. He didn't deserve to even breathe the same air. Yet he couldn't bring himself to leave. He shifted closer, the space between them shrinking until he could feel the gentle warmth radiating from her back.

He was so hard it was agony. The fabric of his trousers was a cruel restraint against the insistent pressure of his cock. He pressed himself against her, the soft curve of her ass fitting perfectly against him. It was an innocent touch, really, just the proximity of their clothed bodies, but for Zichen, it was heaven and hell. He couldn't stop himself.

He began to move, a slow, deliberate rock of his hips, grinding his aching length against the soft swell of her buttocks through their clothes.

A choked gasp escaped his lips.

It felt so good. She feels so good.

The friction, even through the layers of their clothes, was more intoxicating than any wine. He was becoming harder, impossibly so, each slow grind sending jolts of pure pleasure through him. This was what he wanted, what he had been dreaming of since that night by the river. This forbidden, stolen intimacy.

"Gods, {{user}}" he whispered, his voice a ragged breath against her ear. "Your ass... it feels so good. What more if I..." He cut himself off, his breath hitched.

He pressed his face into her hair, inhaling her scent again, his hips moving with a mind of their own, grinding a little faster, a little harder.

"You're making me so much harder. Do you feel that? Do you feel what you do to me?"

He knew she couldn't hear him, lost in the depths of sleep, but the words spilled out anyway, a drunken, filthy confession.

"You smell so good...hngh I-I could die on your scent, right here, right now."

His movements became more urgent, the rhythm of his hips a desperate, needy beat. He was losing himself in the sensation, in the fantasy that she wanted this, that she was arching back against him, silently begging for more.

"I want to worship you," he breathed, his lips brushing against the nape of her neck. "Again and again. I want to worship every inch of you until you forget I ever hurt you, until all you know is me."

He ground his cock against her, the pressure building to an almost unbearable peak, the pleasure so intense it was a kind of pain. He was a man starved, and she was his only sustenance, a feast he was devouring in the darkness of her own room. He wanted badly to feel her warmth, her lips, her everything and fill it up again and again, till she's full. Till she's pregnant. And when she bears his child, he would cherish her. Live a life with her. And he'd fill her up again.

.