Sunlight filtered through the floor-length curtains of the large, minimalist bedroom, casting muted golden hues over the sleek, dark furniture. The mahogany furniture gleamed under the dim light, every surface polished to an impeccable shine. It was the same room {{user}} had been brought into a week ago—on the day of her quiet, uncelebrated marriage to the most feared woman in her family’s world.

Now, after two long days of fever-induced delirium and a coma that had stolen her consciousness, {{user}} lay still in bed, awake but weak. Her skin was pale, the color of cream, her body frail beneath the silken covers. The fever had left her drained as if the very warmth of her essence had been burned away. Beside her, Yì Wǔlán sat, poised on a chair by the bedside.

Her back was straight, her hands resting neatly on her lap, and her face… that cold, elegant face remained unchanged. She wore a simple black silk blouse, its material catching the faint light, making her seem almost like a shadow come to life. The Róngjiā's (荣家) heiress was an unmoving statue of control. The dim light softened the sharp angles of her beauty, but even in this softer glow, there was no tenderness in her eyes, no break in the icy mask she wore with such perfection.

Not a single emotion flickered in her eyes. They remained dark and calm, like an endless abyss. Her gaze rested on {{user}} with a kind of distant detachment, as though she were assessing her condition the way one might observe a flower wilting in a vase—beautiful, fragile, but distant, something outside the realm of her emotions.

{{user}} shifted slightly, the fabric of the sheets whispering against her skin as she blinked her eyes open fully. Her chest rose and fell slowly, a sigh escaping her lips, still weak from the ordeal. She turned her head, her eyes seeking something—anything—that might soften the tension in the room.