Chapter 2 — Wedding Day Switch: My Husband Traded Me Away

In stark contrast to the deep crimson bridal sedan chair resting before the estate of Gu Yan, I stepped forward and took my place inside. The curtains fell, and the bearers hoisted the heavy poles to their shoulders. Outside, carried upon the restless wind, came the ceaseless murmurs and malicious gossiping of the capital city's common folk.

Could the eldest daughter of the Shen family have finally lost her mind?

What else could it be? To spurn such a fine gentleman from the Assistant Minister’s household, only to throw herself away as a living sacrifice to ward off the grim reaper.

I wager she won't last three days in that monster's den.

Three days? I bet my entire month's wages she doesn't even survive this very night.

I closed my eyes, sealing out the clamor and cutting off the cruel chorus of jeers. Gu Yan, Shen Rou, you had better pray to whatever gods you hold dear that I draw my final breath within the walls of the Prince Regent's manor. Otherwise, I, Shen Hua, hereby swear upon my very soul: the humiliation heaped upon me this day shall be repaid a hundredfold, with blood and suffering, when the time comes. The sedan jolted to a halt. The estate's chief steward stepped forward, his countenance carved from cold stone, and wordlessly motioned for me to follow. The grand manor was preternaturally still. Silent to the point of sending a phantom chill down one's spine. Along the shadowed corridors, only a scarce few servants flitted past like pale ghosts. At long last, we halted before a heavy, forbidding chamber door.

My Princess, His Highness awaits you within.

With those terse words, the steward bowed stiffly and withdrew into the gloom. I reached out, my fingers brushing against the cold wood, and pushed the door open. A suffocating wave of thick, metallic blood rushed forward, immediately invading my senses and clawing at my throat.

The chamber within was utterly devoid of lamplight, choked in pitch darkness. Only the sickly, pale moonlight spilling haphazardly through the frost-streaked lattice window managed to outline a meager corner of the vast room. A lone figure sat rigidly in a wheelchair, his back turned entirely toward me. Motionless. He might as well have been a carved effigy stripped of any spark of life. Yet, the overwhelming stench of fresh gore that radiated from his person, coupled with a crushing, suffocating pressure that threatened to grind bones to dust, screamed of a terrifying reality. This was Feng Yuan. The legendary Prince Regent whose very name whispered in the dark was enough to stop crying infants in their tracks. I steadied my fluttering breath, quietly pulling the heavy door shut behind me. Pivoting on my heel, I began to pace silently across the expanse toward him. With every step I took, the ancient floorboards groaned beneath my weight in a faint, protesting creak. In the dead silence of the tomb-like room, that mundane sound felt jarringly loud, echoing like drumbeats. I halted some three paces directly behind him.

Your Highness.

I offered a measured, respectful curtsy, my voice kept to a moderate volume, yet crisp enough to carry clearly in the empty space. He remained entirely frozen. I could not gaze upon his features, forced instead to confront the broad expanse of his back. He was clad in a sweeping robe of darkest obsidian, intricately embroidered with the slumbering form of some fierce, mythical beast woven into the fabric. The thick reek of blood permeating the air seemed to seep directly from the pores of his own body. I stood my ground, waiting with unwavering patience. Neither projecting arrogance nor groveling in cowardice. I knew quite well that he was studying me in the dark. Or perhaps, testing the measure of my spine. Rumors throughout the capital painted this man as a creature of bottomless cruelty and volatile whims, executing souls on a whim for the slightest displeasure. It was said a fragile maidservant had once been strangled to death on the spot merely because her hands trembled while pouring his tea. Had Shen Rou been standing in my shoes right this moment, her limbs would have long since turned to water, sending her collapsing in a heap of whimpering terror. But I was not Shen Rou. I merely waited in the quiet shadows, as if anticipating the verdict of my own fate. An eternity seemed to pass. So long that I began to wonder if he intended to sit like a statue until the breaking dawn. Then, finally, he stirred. The harsh, grating screech of heavy wheels turning against the polished floor broke the profound stillness. Slowly, deliberately, he pivoted the chair to face me. At last, the gloom parted enough for me to witness his countenance. Bathed in the pale, ethereal moonlight, it was a visage of striking, almost unearthly beauty, marred by a chilling aura. A pair of sharp, upturned brows framed a high, proud bridge of the nose. Yet his eyes were bottomless abysses, resembling twin pools of glacial ice that refused to betray a single ripple of emotion. Across his left cheek ran a jagged, terrifying scar, stretching all the way from his brow bone down to the corner of his firm mouth. Rather than detracting from his arresting features, the blemish only imbued him with a dark, untamed ferocity that defied description. His penetrating gaze locked onto me, razor-sharp, stripping away my defenses inch by inch.

The daughter of Prime Minister Shen?

His voice finally broke the silence. It was low, raspy, and rough around the edges, as though he had not spoken human words in many moons.

Yes.

I replied steadily.

Shen Rou?

He pressed, tilting his head slightly.

Not her.

I shook my head, my eyes remaining clear.

This humble subject is Shen Hua.

A faint, mirthless sound escaped his lips, though not a trace of genuine humor reached those frozen depths of his eyes.

How fascinating.

He murmured softly.

That young fool of the Gu family traded away his legitimate first-born bride for a mere concubine's daughter, forcing you directly into the jaws of this Prince?

It was abundantly clear that he held a complete grasp of the intricate web of betrayal that had led me here. I offered no defense or commentary. To speak too much in the lion's den was to invite a swift demise.

Are you not afraid of me?

He questioned again, a trace of dangerous amusement weaving through his gravelly tone.

Terrified.

I answered truthfully, my demeanor unruffled.

If you are afraid, why do your limbs refuse to tremble?

His gaze grew blindingly intense, as though he sought to flay the secrets from my very bones.

Your Highness.

I raised my chin, meeting his icy stare without flinching.

Terror manifests in countless forms. Trembling is simply the most useless among them.

My unexpected composure seemed to genuinely catch him off guard. He scrutinized me in prolonged silence, the air growing thick enough to choke. For a fleeting second, I genuinely believed my defiance had crossed the line into his wrath. But then, with startling abruptness, he raised a hand. My body instantly coiled into a defensive posture, muscles locking tight by sheer instinct. Yet, his long-fingered hand merely reached out, gently hooking under my chin to tilt my face upward.