Location: The Courtyard of the Zhao Estate
The walk home was a blur of unfamiliar streets seen through a film of tears Lusi refused to shed. The bustling sounds of the capital, once a familiar symphony, now grated against her ears like dissonant noise. The weight of the secret she carried—the prince's name, his deception, the cold brush of his hand leaving hers—felt like a physical stone in her chest.
She pushed open the heavy gates of the Zhao Estate, and the world shifted. The cacophony of the market faded, replaced by the serene rustle of bamboo in the courtyard garden. Here, the air smelled of pine and damp stone, a scent so deeply rooted in her childhood it felt like a balm.
She was home. But she was a stranger to herself.
She barely had a moment to steady her breathing before a familiar, booming voice cut through the quiet.
"Oh, my beautiful daughter! You have come!"
Her father, Zhao Ye, stood at the doorway to the main hall, having just returned from court. He still wore his official robes, the severe cut of them doing nothing to soften the radiant joy on his face. He was a mountain of a man, a former general whose presence usually commanded awe and fear. But to Lusi, he had only ever been 'Baba'—the man who made beef pickle with his own hands and whose laughter could shake the rafters.
The genuine, uncomplicated love in his expression was a spear through her heart. How could she possibly explain the tempest inside her?
She forced a smile, hoping it reached her eyes. "Baba."
He strode forward, his arms open wide, and engulfed her in a hug that was all-encompassing and safe. For a fleeting second, she let herself melt into it, pretending she was still the girl who left months ago, her heart light and her future a blank, exciting page.
"How was your trip this time?" he asked, releasing her but keeping his large hands on her shoulders, his eyes searching her face.
"It was good," she said, her voice a little too bright. "A different than the rest."
His brow, already etched with the lines of a lifetime of responsibility, furrowed slightly. "Why?"
He knew her too well. He could always hear the notes she didn't play. She couldn't tell him. Not yet. The words were too tangled, the hurt too fresh. To speak of the prince would be to make it all real, to bring the chaos of the outside world into this sanctuary.
"I will tell you later," she deflected, the promise a hollow thing in the air between them.
He studied her for a moment longer, his gaze perceptive. But he was a man who understood the need for tactical retreat. He nodded, accepting her terms. "Hăo. I will listen to you when you are ready."
Then, his face brightened again, the concern replaced by a mischievous gleam. "Well, guess what I prepared for you?"
Lusi's smile became a fraction more real. This was their old game. "What?" she played along, a genuine spark of anticipation cutting through her gloom. "Don't tell me!"
"Yes!" he announced, his chest puffing out with pride. "I made the beef pickle you like! By my own hand!"
The simplicity of it, the sheer, domestic love in the gesture, finally broke through the ice around her heart. "Really? You are so good!" The words came out with a real laugh, watery but true.
She hugged him again, burying her face in the rich silk of his court robes, inhaling the familiar scents of sandalwood and ink. In this house, with this man, she was not the woman who had been lied to by a prince. She was just Lusi. His Lusi.
He held her tightly, a solid, unwavering rock in the shifting, treacherous sands her life had suddenly become. For now, it was enough. For now, she could hide here, in the eye of the storm, and pretend the winds weren't howling just outside the gate.
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