In the thirty-second year of Yongkang, Jiang Xingzhou pinned Feng Yi against the window of a high tower, forcing her to watch as he set fire to everything she had built.
Leaning close to her ear, his domineering breath brushed against her skin.
“Come back with me, or stay here. Your choice.”
A choice? Did she really have one? This madman was even crazier than he had been three years ago.
Feng Yi wrapped her arms around his neck, her almond-shaped eyes curving into a smile, dimples blooming like sweet wine.
“I’ll go back with you. From now on… Cousin, please take good care of me.”
She offered him her lips, while hidden currents churned in her eyes.
Jiang Xingzhou… why did you have to force me?
If that’s the case… then let me consume you instead, shall I?
Five years earlier, Feng Yi transmigrated into her own novel.
The reason?
The readers’ resentment was so overwhelming that they literally kicked the author—who had mercilessly abused the second male lead—into her own story.
The system that dragged her there coldly declared:
“Save the obsessive second male lead, Jiang Xingzhou, and give him a happy ending. Otherwise, your consciousness as the author will be erased.”
Then it disappeared completely, leaving behind not even the slightest cheat ability.
Fortunately, she had become Jiang Xingzhou’s nominal cousin, giving her the perfect opportunity to get close to him.
To complete her mission and return home, she spared no effort trying to match Jiang Xingzhou with the original heroine.
But being a matchmaker costs money.
So she rolled up her sleeves and returned to her old profession.
Whatever made money, she wrote—including the kind of stories that would never pass censorship.
One day, while happily working on a manuscript in a pavilion, Feng Yi chuckled to herself…
A voice drifted up behind her.
“‘Soft as peach pastries and willow branches, entwined with my lover; flowers bloom, dewdrops glisten, spring breezes moisten the blossoms.'”
Jiang Xingzhou toyed with a strand of her hair, smiling elegantly.
“Cousin, what exactly does this poem mean? Perhaps tonight… you could explain it to your cousin in detail. Hmm?”
She was doomed.
Her identity had been exposed.
And of all things—it was *this* pen name.
Wasn’t she supposed to be helping him end up with his destined love?
The way this lunatic was looking at her…
Everyone believed that Jiang Xingzhou, heir to the Marquis of Jing’an, was a gentleman as pure as the moon, elegant as an orchid, gentle as jade, refined as bamboo—a flawless immortal among men.
What nonsense.
Feng Yi wished she could rip off his perfect mask.
He was clearly a shameless rogue!
A lecher! A scoundrel! A beast liable to go mad at any moment!
Behind the bed curtains, this wretched man coaxed her into reenacting all one hundred and eight romantic scenarios she’d written as inspiration, making her recite the steamy verses she’d penned over and over again.
Later, someone asked Jiang Xingzhou:
“What is Feng Yi to you?”
He smiled.
“She’s my retribution.”
Coincidentally, Feng Yi answered the same way.
“He’s my retribution.”
Jiang Xingzhou’s Perspective
He knew exactly why his stepmother had brought Feng Yi into the household.
She was simply another woman meant to be pushed into his arms—not worth a second thought.
One day, while he was playing the qin, his so-called cousin stood nearby staring at him in a daze.
He scoffed.
Just like every other woman.
Then, unexpectedly, she smacked the back of her own hand, hugged herself, and squatted into a tiny ball.
She reminded him of the cat he’d once raised years ago.
Or perhaps a soft, fluffy snow-skin mochi.
For some inexplicable reason…
His hands itched to pet her.
His teeth itched to bite her.
Who would have guessed that this little mochi would have the audacity to write erotic stories…
And then dare to run away?
Yet in the end, he was the one pleading in a low voice:
“Yiyi… love me one more time. Please.”
