The Prince Poisoned Me - So I married the Duke's Heir

The medicine tasted like ashes, bitter herbs, and something burned. Within moments my mouth dried and my chest tightened until every breath became difficult. Sweat gathered along my neck while numbness crept through my fingers. I had taken medicine many times before, especially after Jing’er was born, but never anything like this.

“They said you were poisoned.”

I looked at Xiao Chengyu, waiting for some sign of alarm. Instead, he stood several steps from my bed with the same controlled expression he wore at court. He did not ask who had prepared the medicine or demand that the servants be questioned. His calmness frightened me more than the pain.

For seven years I had wanted to believe him. I married Chengyu at nineteen, when I barely knew him and understood marriage mostly as duty. I was the eldest legitimate daughter of Hua Zhengting, Duke of Zhen, and Chengyu was the Third Prince. Our marriage joined an imperial prince to one of the most powerful military families in the empire, and I entered his residence determined to become the wife expected of me. I managed his household, supported his position, stood beside him at formal gatherings, and eventually gave him Jing’er, his legitimate heir.

Then Lin Wanrou entered our lives.

She was the daughter of a Second-Class Baron, beautiful in a softer way than the women usually chosen for powerful political marriages. I had tried not to resent her, but Chengyu treated her differently. He noticed when she entered a room, listened when she spoke, and watched her when he thought no one was paying attention. I had spent years telling myself that affection might eventually grow between Chengyu and me if I remained patient enough.

Now, struggling to breathe, I began to understand how foolish that hope had been.

My thoughts went first to Jing’er. He was still young enough to come searching for me whenever he was frightened or tired, and fear tightened inside me at the thought of leaving him behind.

“Where is Jing’er?”

“In his rooms.”

Chengyu answered without hesitation.

The physician arrived soon afterward and examined me. His expression changed almost immediately, but when I asked him what was wrong, he lowered his eyes instead of answering. Qinghe stood beside the bed, pale and frightened, while servants hurried through the room.

Then Chengyu spoke.

“Everyone leave.”

Qinghe turned toward him. “Your Highness, Wangfei has been poisoned.”

“I know.”

The room fell silent.

I stared at him, and suddenly everything became clear.

He already knew.

“Go,” I told Qinghe quietly. “Stay with Jing’er.”

She hesitated, but the moment I mentioned my son, she understood. She followed the physician and servants from the room, leaving Chengyu and me alone.

My hands had grown cold.

“Was it you?”

He did not answer.

He did not need to.

I thought of my father, the Hua family, and the influence Chengyu had gained through marrying me. My family had supported him, and I had given him the legitimate son his household needed. Once Jing’er was born and Chengyu’s position had strengthened, there was very little left that he required from me.

Except my absence.

“Did you love Wanrou before you married me?”

Something shifted in his expression.

That was answer enough too.

Wanrou had not come after me. She had been there first.

For years I had wondered what she possessed that I lacked, never realizing that Chengyu had never chosen between us. He wanted Wanrou, but he needed the daughter of the Duke of Zhen. I had given him the marriage, the political connection, and the heir. She had received the part of him I had spent years hoping to earn.

“What happens to Jing’er?”

“He is my son.”

“He is mine too.”

My voice was growing weaker.

“Will Wanrou raise him?”

Chengyu hesitated.

“Do not hurt him,” I whispered.

“I will not.”

I wanted to believe that promise, if nothing else.

He looked at me for a long moment before saying, “You were a good wife.”

Once, those words would have made me happy. Now I understood what they really meant. I had fulfilled every duty expected of me, and none of it had mattered because Chengyu had never married me for myself.

The room began to blur. I thought of my father, Qinghe, and the home I had left at nineteen, but most of all I thought of Jing’er. I wanted to hold my son one more time. I wanted to return to the girl I had been before this marriage and make a different choice.

As the darkness closed around me, only one thought remained clear.

If Heaven ever returned me to the beginning, I would never marry Xiao Chengyu again.