I was dazzling that evening, wasn't I? My jade earrings swayed with every step, catching the candlelight like tiny stars. The silk of my gown whispered as I moved, trailing behind me like water down a golden mountain. It was Lü Buwei's favourite—deep crimson with gold embroidery, phoenixes soaring across the hem. He always said red suited me best. "It commands attention," he told me once. "And attention, my dear, is your greatest weapon."
The banquet hall was alive, steeped in roasted duck and sweet rice wine, voices murmuring beneath bursts of laughter. Men—powerful, wealthy men—filled every corner, eyes following me as I glided past. Their gazes clung like perfume, an intoxicating cloud of desire and reverence. I've always known how to handle such attention. It's an art, really—balancing charm and distance. Too cold, and you lose their interest. Too warm, and you lose control.
I was speaking with one of Lü's associates—a portly merchant whose breath reeked of fermented grain—when I first noticed him. Yiren. He sat stiffly at the edge of the room, a wine cup in his hands, his gaze fixed on me. Not a glance—no, this was something else. His eyes widened ever so slightly, as if I were a deity descending from the heavens, radiant and untouchable. Men often looked at me like that. But there was something different in him. Something... raw.
And then I felt it—Lü's gaze, sharp as a blade through the haze of wine and incense. He'd seen it too. That moment between Yiren and me. For a breath, the air froze. The sounds of the banquet dulled. Lü raised his cup, his face unreadable, but I knew that look. He was calculating.
"Why don't you dance for us, my dear?" Lü's voice, smooth and commanding, cut through the room. The noise fell away. All eyes turned to me. My heart skipped—just once, quick and light. He hadn't asked. Lü never really asked. He commanded, wrapped in velvet.
"I couldn't possibly," I said, feigning modesty. But my pulse was quickening. I lived for these moments—the hush, the eyes, the sense that for a breath in time, the whole room turned just for me.
"Oh, come now," Lü coaxed, smiling like jade. "It would be such a treat for our guests."
And so, I let myself be drawn in. To the centre of the room, the silk of my gown pooling at my feet. The musicians struck a tune. I moved. Each step deliberate. Each gesture honed. My hands traced lines in the air. My body swayed like river willows. Their eyes were on me—hungry, adoring, envious. Especially his. Yiren.
He didn't look away. Not once. His gaze burned into me, hot with something between reverence and hunger. Did he know I danced for all of them, yet none of them? That this performance belonged to me and me alone?
Still, somewhere beyond the music, I could feel Lü's eyes—colder than any winter. This wasn't just a dance. Not to him. I was bait. A trap in motion.
What kind of trap, I couldn't say. A flicker of fear brushed my spine, soft as the hem of my gown. But curiosity slipped in behind it. What game was he playing? What part did I play?
My heart wavered—half dread, half thrill. But why dwell? My world was here, now—music, silk, and admiration. I felt their eyes on me and I didn't want to escape. I wanted to drown in it.
The dance swallowed everything. I spun, the room spun with me. In that moment, I belonged—to the music, to the night, to the endless cycle of being seen. Let them gaze. Let them wonder. Let them want.
The world could wait.
For now, I danced.
And danced.
And danced.
—————————
That night, long after the banquet ended and the last of the guests had been escorted out, I sat alone in my chamber. The lamps cast soft golden halos on the lacquered walls, the faint aroma of lotus lingering in the air. My body still hummed with the thrill of the evening—the music, the dance, the stares that clung to me like silk. But beneath it all, a faint unease lingered, like the final low note of a zither that refuses to fade.
The sound of the door sliding open broke my reverie.
Lü entered, his footsteps deliberate, his presence filling the room as it always did. I didn't rise. He hated false pleasantries between us.
He poured himself a cup of wine, the liquid clouded and pale in the lamplight, and turned to face me. His expression was calm, but his eyes—oh, his eyes burned with purpose.
"Lady Zhao," he began, his tone smooth, practiced, almost gentle. "I trust you enjoyed the evening?"
I nodded, my lips curling into a faint smile. "Your guests were most… appreciative."
He chuckled, setting the cup down with a soft clink. "Appreciative, indeed. Especially one."
My heart stilled, just for a moment. I knew who he meant.
"Yiren," he said, the name falling from his lips like a stone into a still pond. "You noticed, of course."
I lowered my gaze, letting modesty brush my voice. "It was hard not to."
He sat across from me, his hands steepled, his gaze sharp as a blade. "He is Qin's prince, you know. Royal blood. A hostage now, yes, but one with a future. A future I intend to shape."
The weight of his words pressed against me. Lü never spoke without intention. Every syllable was a piece of a puzzle only he could see.
"And what does that have to do with me?" I asked, though I already sensed the answer.
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Everything. Yiren is drawn to you. Anyone with eyes could see it tonight. His gaze never left you, not for a moment. And that, my dear, is an opportunity we cannot waste."
"Opportunity?" I echoed, the word delicate on my tongue.
"Yes," he said, his tone softening, almost coaxing. "Think beyond tonight, beyond Handan, beyond me. Yiren is not just a prince—he is a gateway. One day, if all goes according to plan, he will ascend to Qin's throne. And you, Lady Zhao, could be at his side. A queen. Do you understand what that means?"
I stared at him, the word queen echoing in my mind, gilded and impossibly large. "You want me to…?"
"To be his," Lü said simply.
"To guide him, support him, bear his heirs if fate allows. To help him secure his position. And in doing so, secure yours."
The room seemed to shrink around me. "But what of us?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "What of…?"
"Us?" he interrupted, a faint smile playing on his lips. "My dear, this was never about love. You know that. What I offer you is far greater than fleeting affection. I offer you a place in history, a future so bright it could blind lesser minds."
I couldn't speak. The enormity of it all loomed before me, dazzling and terrifying.
"Yiren," he continued, "is mild by nature. Thoughtful. He will not trouble you. And he is already captivated by you. It's a match that benefits us all. Surely, you see that?"
I wanted to protest, to say no, but the words wouldn't come.
He leaned closer, his voice soft but firm. "Think of it, Lady Zhao. Power, influence, immortality in the annals of history. A life beyond the walls of this house. Is that not worth considering?"
He stood, leaving the cup untouched, and walked toward the door. Pausing at the threshold, he glanced back, his eyes piercing.
"The choice is yours. But remember, opportunities like this are as rare as phoenixes. And they never wait for long."
The door slid shut behind him.
—————————
I leaned against the doorframe, my chest rising and falling. My heart raced—not from the dance, not from the eyes that followed me—but from his words. His offer.
Queen.
Yiren. A prince of Qin. A royal bloodline. A future king. And me—his queen?
A smile curled at the corners of my mouth.
The dream shimmered—golden, weightless. I walked to the mirror, where the lamplight softened my reflection. Big, round eyes with just the right glint of helplessness. A smile brushed in innocence, edged in allure. My hair cascaded in dark waves, framing a face shaped to be wanted. Men saw what they longed to see: innocence, fragility, a prize.
And I always let them.
Beauty was never something I learned or planned. It was instinct. My inheritance. My tool. Since girlhood, I'd known how to tilt my head just so, when to widen my eyes, how to laugh like bells on silk.
The girl in the mirror had been preparing for this her whole life—without even realizing it.
I was born in Zhao, to a house whose name still shimmered faintly from older wealth. My father and brothers adored me. But it was the women who taught me what mattered. My mother, my aunt, my cousins—all with the same painted lips and watchful smiles.
"Men want to feel important," my aunt used to say, her voice smooth as warmed wine. "Make them feel that, and they'll give you the world."
And it was true. I watched how the wives flattered, how the widows whispered behind their fans, how beauty could turn stubbornness to sweetness. I learned to lower my gaze at the right moment, to let my lips part in surprise, to let my laughter linger just a touch too long so a man might feel clever.
But something in me always stirred against it. Not in rebellion—just in restlessness. The women in my family seemed content—bearing sons, managing servants, keeping the household soft and beautiful. It wasn't wrong. But it felt small. Too small.
I didn't have words for it then. I only knew I wanted more.
I turned again to my reflection. I touched the phoenix on my gown, its golden wings stitched in thread that caught the lamp's glow. My smile curved—not clever, not sharp, just… pleased.
If this was my moment, I would not let it pass.
Not for power. Not for politics.
For the feeling. The possibility. The glow of a future larger than my room.
For now, that was enough.
I slipped beneath the covers. But sleep came late—swept away by dreams painted in red silk, golden crowns, and the soft, velvet voice of Lü Buwei.
—————————
I remember the first time I saw him. It was at a banquet, much like tonight's. The hall shimmered with the usual spectacle—lords draped in silks, merchants boasting of their fortunes, and women like me, dancing between admiration and intrigue. But amidst the clamor of wealth and wine, there he was.
Lü Buwei.
He didn't look like the others. His robe was fine, yes—but understated. Charcoal silk, embroidered so subtly it caught the light only when he moved. He stood apart—not because he tried to, but because he didn't need to. While the lords preened and the merchants gestured wildly, Lü moved with quiet ease. Calm. Watchful. Assured.
I watched him, curious, as he spoke to a cluster of nobles. His words came slow and deliberate, measured and unhurried, each one casting ripples through the room without ever needing to raise his voice. He wasn't trying to impress them. He was showing them possibilities. Power shifting. Maps redrawn. Futures reordered.
The men leaned closer, uncertain whether to admire him or be afraid. Here was a merchant who spoke like a monarch—without apology, without needing to raise his voice. And yet, they didn't turn away. They couldn't. He had them in the palm of his hand, and they seemed to know it.
And then—his eyes met mine.
Not a glance. Not the usual flicker of interest I'd grown so used to from other men. But something still. Something steady. Not with hunger. Not with admiration. But as if he already knew who I was—and how I might be useful.
I wasn't offended.
If anything… I was intrigued.
I had spent my life surrounded by men who thought they were powerful. Lü Buwei was different. His power wasn't inherited. It wasn't loud. It was built, stone by stone, voice by voice, gaze by gaze. He was not born above others—but somehow, he already was.
And I—I had always been drawn to men who offered more. More luxury. More excitement. More future. Lü wasn't a man who loved women. He was a man who loved vision. And I... I knew I could be part of that.
He didn't see a prize. He saw a piece of the plan. And strangely, I admired him for it. From that first moment, I knew: we would be tied together. He spotted me as clearly as I spotted him. He saw the charm, the beauty, the quiet power I carried. And I saw the path he might open, a world I could step into—not as someone's ornament, but as someone seen.
Now, lying in my bed, eyes half-closed beneath the soft hush of silk, I smiled faintly. His words tonight—his vision for me and Yiren—they didn't frighten me.
They thrilled me.
I had followed Lü not because he promised love, but because he created something out of nothing. He turned whispers into roads. He built ladders where others saw walls. And if this plan was one of those ladders, then I would climb.
Not because I understood all of it. But because my instincts told me: follow him, and I would never be small again.
With that thought, I let my eyes close, the memory of that first banquet dissolving into the quiet shimmer of dreams.