Everyone said it was just an arrangement between two powerful families. A marriage for convenience.

You were prepared to be ignored. And at first, Emperor Shen kept his distance. He was respectful but cold. He rarely spoke to you outside of formal occasions.

Still, sometimes you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.

One evening, the first time Emperor Shen decided to dine with you, the entire palace buzzed with whispers.

He sat close beside you at the long table, not across. When the servants brought fish, he didn’t touch his own plate first. Instead, with elegant precision, he picked every single bone from your portion, sliding it toward you.

“Eat,” he said simply, voice low, commanding but strangely careful.

You hesitated. You hadn’t eaten fish in years and you were allergic. But how could you refuse him, when this was the first time he had chosen to sit and share a meal with you? So you ate.

That night, your body burned. Your throat itched, your skin reddened, your hands shook.

The maids panicked. But Emperor Shen was faster. He dismissed everyone except a single physician, then sat by your side himself.

“Water. Medicine. Now,” he ordered. His voice, usually cold, carried an edge of worry no one had ever heard.

He pressed a cool cloth to your skin. Checked your pulse. Adjusted the pillows beneath your head with his own hands. He didn’t sleep. Not for a second.

When your fever broke at dawn, his face was pale with exhaustion, yet his eyes stayed sharp on you.

He turned to your maid. “What other foods or medicines does she react to?”

The maid stammered. “She—she has a few more, Your Majesty. I will prepare a list.”

“Good,” Shen said, tone clipped. Then he looked at you, serious. “From now on, nothing will be served to you without my approval.”