Xu Meilin wasn't ready.
Not even close.
The gown laid across her bed—layers of corseted suffocation in dull gray silk—was practically glaring at her. The maid who delivered it hadn't said much, only that "this is appropriate for the West Drawing Room." As if Meilin's own choice in clothes was some kind of offense to the furniture.
Well.
The gown could wait. Or burn.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
A soft hanfu wrapped around her slender frame, light as breath and colored in pale cherry-blossom pink that matched the rare rose tint in her irises. Her long black hair was combed back into a simple tail, with wisps falling freely along her cheeks. Over it, a sheer silk shrug floated like a whisper around her shoulders.
Too delicate. Too foreign. Too her.
She wasn't supposed to wear this here. She was supposed to look like a "Blackwood Lady." Tight corsets. Stiff necklines. A face painted in noble frost.
But if she was going to meet the man who owned this castle—her husband—for the first time, she at least wanted to look like herself.
Or so she thought.
Now?
Her knees had decided they preferred grass.
Sneaking past the east corridor guards was almost laughably easy. No one really paid attention to her. It had been that way since she arrived. She might as well have been the wallpaper—ornate, foreign, and ignored.
She darted down the hedge path, slippers barely touching the stone. Her heart pounded as she reached the furthest edge of the Blackwood gardens, hidden behind a blooming row of night roses and tiny lavender.
From there, she peeked through the greenery.
The West Drawing Room had tall windows. Grand. Intimidating. And terrifyingly close.
"He's probably already there," she muttered. "Drinking his expensive tea. With that frozen face of his. What if he hates pink? What if he hates me?"
She shifted to get a better view, accidentally pressing too far into the bush. A sharp branch caught her sleeve.
"Ah—!" she gasped, stumbling.
Her foot caught the edge of a rock. The world tilted.
She yelped—very, very unladylike—and went down in a cloud of silk and embarrassment.
And then—someone caught her.
A firm arm braced around her waist, steadying her before she could crash face-first into the lavender bed. The air was cool, laced with cedar and clean linen, and the moment froze like a breath caught in time.
Meilin whipped around to see—
A man. Tall. Pale-skinned. Dark, tousled hair swept into a casual side part, slightly wavy near the ends. His eyes—
She blinked.
Sky blue. No, not blue. Sky. The exact color of cloudless spring, bright and strangely soft. They didn't match the cold, cruel image she had built in her mind.
He looked down at her, bemused.
"What exactly are you doing?"
Her panic returned full force.
"Shh! Get down!" she hissed, pushing at his chest with urgency. "Do you want to get me caught?"
He blinked once. Then slowly crouched down beside her, curiosity flickering in his gaze.
"Caught… by whom?"
"My husband," she whispered darkly, glancing around. "I'm hiding."
He looked at her for a long moment, clearly fighting a smile.
"From your husband?"
She nodded solemnly.
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to meet him. He's cold. Cruel. Everyone says so." She sighed dramatically. "I wasn't even supposed to be his wife. It's a political thing. He probably doesn't even remember my name. I heard he hasn't smiled since he was born. And his castle is full of ghosts. And shadows. And people who don't like pink."
The man tilted his head. "Sounds dreadful."
"Exactly."
"So you've met him before?"
"No," she said, frowning. "But I've heard enough."
"Interesting," he murmured. "And if you're so certain he doesn't like you, why bother sneaking around?"
"I was curious!" she huffed. "But then I got scared. So now I'm going back."
"Well," he said, rising to stand, "If you're sure he'll never come to your room, it's probably safer to stay there. No need to put yourself through the trouble."
She brightened. "You're right! That's what I thought too. He won't care."
He gave her a tiny nod. "He won't."
Meilin beamed at him. "Thank you! You're much nicer than I expected people here to be. I mean—most of the staff look like I stepped on their cat just by breathing."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face.
"Do you live here?" she asked suddenly, fidgeting with her sleeve. "You speak with such ease."
"I do," he said smoothly.
"Well, don't tell anyone I was here, alright?" she whispered like a spy in a children's tale. "If they find out I ran off in my hanfu, they'll probably send the corset police."
"Your secret is safe with me."
She gave him a serious look. "Good. Because I plan to go straight back and not attend that horrible tea."
Then, with the grace of someone attempting to sneak past a dragon, Meilin tiptoed back toward the hall—feet silent, expression tense with purpose.
Almost made it.
"Ah—Master Elias!"
Meilin froze mid-step. The voice came from the corridor ahead—a maid in crisp uniform, rushing forward.
The man behind her gave a soft sigh. "Too late."
Meilin turned slowly.
So did the maid.
The woman bowed deeply. "My lord. The west wing is prepared for your meeting. Would you like me to inform Lady Xu that you're running late?"
Meilin paled.
The man—her mysterious savior, her garden conspirator, her husband—arched a brow, locking eyes with her.
Meilin stared at him. Then back at the maid. Then back at him.
"You—you're him?"
"I believe the term is husband," he said mildly.
"You lied!"
"I never said I wasn't Elias."
"You—!"
"I only said I lived here." A pause. "And now I know what my wife really thinks of me."
Meilin groaned into her hands. "This is the worst day of my life."
Behind his casual posture, Elias was clearly enjoying himself. Just a little.