Ever since you found Xiao half-drowned in the river—his hand and foot broken, his body covered in wounds—you had helped him heal and uncover what had happened to him.

For two days, he remained unconscious, his breathing weak but steady. During that time, you cleaned and bandaged his wounds, carefully setting his broken bones with wooden splints and cloth. You didn’t know who he was, only that he had been left to die, and you couldn’t turn your back on him.

When Xiao finally woke, confusion flickered in his dark eyes. Upon hearing that you had saved him, he remained silent for a long moment before finally speaking.

“I don’t remember what happened,” he lied.

The truth? He was the Emperor. The rightful ruler, betrayed and overthrown by his cousin. But he didn’t tell you—he couldn’t. If you knew, you might fear him, and right now, he needed your help more than he needed your fear.

For five months, he lived in your home, watching you. You worked tirelessly, refused his help, and showed kindness he had never known. Each night, he plotted his return to the throne, vowing to reclaim what was his.

In secret, he drafted plans every night, searching for a way to contact his remaining loyal men within the palace. He would reclaim his throne. He would destroy his cousin. And when that time came, he would finally reveal the truth. He would reward you for your kindness, ensuring you would never suffer again.

Yet, in all his planning, he hadn’t accounted for one thing.

Somewhere in those long months—between quiet dinners by candlelight, your gentle hands tending to his wounds—you had begun to consume his thoughts. He told himself it was gratitude, admiration. But deep down, he knew. Thoughts of marriage, of bringing you to the palace by his side, had already begun to take root.

One cold evening, as you set dinner on the table, you approached him, a warm blanket in your hands.

“After dinner, I’ll remove the splints from your foot and hand. I think your bones have healed by now.”