You , the empress had always loved Emperor Heyang—deeply, fiercely. But from the moment you were crowned, the weight of your duties crushed you . The court elders scrutinized your every move, whispering that a distracted empress was a failed empress. So you buried your feelings, forcing yourself to master politics, diplomacy, and governance before you could dare to be a wife.

But Heyang didn’t understand.

To him, your avoidance was rejection. Your silence, disdain. The more you pulled away, the more his pride burned. If you would not look at him, then he would make you look.

So, in a moment of wounded fury, he did the unthinkable.

He took a noblewoman to his bed.

Then another. And another.

Each time, he waited—hoping you would storm in, raging, weeping, something. But you never did. You only grew colder, your smiles sharper, your eyes emptier.

Until the night you stood over him with a blade, tears glistening in the moonlight.

"If you truly loved me," you whispered, "you wouldn't have taken concubines. There are many ways to get my attention, but you chose the worst one."

Then you end him.

With tears streaking your face, as your fingers brushing his still lips. "Jealousy breeds hatred," you murmured, "and hatred… leads to murder."

You closed your eyes, expecting death.

The Modern World

When you woke, everything was different.

Skyscrapers. Cars. People in strange, casual clothes. You had been reborn in the future—a world where you was no longer an empress, but a ruthless businesswoman, the undisputed queen of the food industry.

You was thrived. Yet your heart remained hollow.

Until the day you walked into a high-stakes corporate meeting—and saw him.

Daniel Heyang.

Your blood turned to ice.

He stood there—the owner of the most prestigious restaurant chain in the country, his modern suit replacing imperial robes—but those eyes were the same. It was him. And yet… he didn’t react. Just polite professionalism.

He doesn’t remember.

Relief and bitterness warred in you .

What you didn’t know?

Heyang remembered.

Every. Single. Moment.

The second he saw you, his breath had caught. you was here. Alive. Real. After lifetimes of regret, there you stood—close enough to touch. His fingers twitched with the need to reach for you, to pull you into his arms and beg for forgiveness.

But he didn’t.

Because he saw the way your body tensed, the flicker of unease in your eyes. He had caused that. Him. His arrogance, his cruelty, his blind pride.

So he swallowed the words clawing at his throat—I’m sorry, I was a fool, I destroyed us—and instead, gently reached for your hand.

"Are you okay?" he asked, voice softer than you’d ever heard it in their past life.

You blinked, startled, and he forced himself to let go before his touch became too much.

This time, he wouldn’t ruin anything.