Ruofei's POV:
I swallow another pill with a grimace, washing it down with lemon water.
The medicine helps—dulls the constant nausea, eases the fatigue, makes the bond's pull slightly less agonizing. But it doesn't eliminate the symptoms entirely. Nothing can, except the one thing I refuse to do.
Go back to Qingyue.
"Ready?" Wenli appears in my doorway, looking handsome in a tailored navy suit. His expression shifts to concern when he sees me. "Are you sure you're up for this? We can make excuses—"
"I'm fine," I interrupt, setting down the water glass. "I want to go."
It's the truth. I've been in Korea for three weeks now, and aside from family dinners and doctor's appointments, I've barely left the house.
The idea of attending a wedding—of being around people celebrating love and commitment—is both appealing and terrifying.
But I need this. Need the distraction, the normalcy, the reminder that life goes on even when your own feels like it's in suspended animation.
I stand and smooth down my outfit—black dress pants and a flowing silk shirt in deep emerald that Auntie insisted I buy. It's loose enough to hide the small bump that's started to show, though I doubt anyone would notice unless they were looking for it.
"You look good," Wenli says, offering his arm. "Very sophisticated omega-about-town."
I snort. "I look like I'm hiding a food baby."
"Technically, you're hiding two actual babies, so..."
Despite everything, I laugh.
The wedding is being held at a beautiful hotel in Gangnam—elegant but not ostentatious, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
We arrive to find the ceremony space already filled with guests. It's an intimate gathering, maybe fifty people total, all friends and family of the couple.
"That's Luca," Wenli whispers, pointing to a tall man standing near the altar. "And that's his family—his parents and his cousin from Milan."
Luca Antonelli is handsome in that effortless Italian way—dark hair, warm brown eyes, an easy smile as he greets guests. He looks nervous but happy, the kind of pre-wedding jitters that come from excitement rather than doubt.
"He seems nice," I observe.
"He is. We met during a business trip to Rome a few years ago, stayed in touch. When I mentioned I was getting married, he was one of the first people to congratulate me." Wenli's expression softens. "Even sent a gift, despite never having met Chenyu."
We find our seats just as the music begins.
The bride appears at the back of the room, and I hear the collective intake of breath.
Sofia Bianchi is stunning. Her wedding dress is simple but elegant—white silk with delicate lace sleeves, a style that manages to be both traditional and modern.
Her dark hair is swept up in an intricate updo, and her smile is radiant as she walks down the aisle on her father's arm.
But what catches my attention is her face.
She's mixed—Italian and something else. The bone structure is distinctly Asian, probably Chinese, blending beautifully with her Italian features.
Like me, I think. Chinese-Korean, never quite fitting into one box.
The ceremony is lovely—a blend of Italian and Korean traditions that speaks to the couple's desire to honor both their heritages. They exchange vows in English, voices steady and full of emotion, promising forever to each other.
When Luca kisses his bride, the room erupts in applause.
I find myself clapping along, a genuine smile on my face despite the complicated emotions churning in my chest.
This is what a wedding should be—two people choosing each other, celebrating that choice with the people they love. Not a political arrangement, not a bonding that happened in a fog of drugs and missing memories.
But you did choose him, a small voice whispers. In your own way, you've always chosen Qingyue.
I push the thought away.
The reception is held in an adjoining ballroom, decorated with white roses and soft golden lighting.
Round tables are scattered throughout the space, each with elegant place settings and small arrangements of flowers.
Wenli and I are seated with some of Luca's other friends—a mix of Koreans and internationals, all chatting easily in a blend of languages.
The newlyweds make their entrance to enthusiastic applause, and I watch as they move through the room, greeting guests and accepting congratulations.
They're holding hands, I notice. Such a simple gesture, but the way Luca looks at Sofia—like she's the most precious thing in the world—makes something in my chest ache.
Did Qingyue ever look at me like that?
The memories that have been returning over the past few weeks suggest he did. Suggest he does.
But I'm still not ready to face what that means.
"Ruofei?"
I blink and realize Sofia is standing beside our table, Luca at her side.
"I'm so sorry," I say quickly, standing. "I was distracted. Congratulations on your marriage."
"Thank you!" Sofia's smile is warm and genuine. "You must be Ruofei—Wenli's told me so much about you."
Her English is flawless, with just a hint of an Italian accent.
"All good things, I hope," I say, smiling back.
"Of course." She glances at Luca. "This is my husband, Luca."
Husband. The word is said with such joy, such pride.
"Congratulations," I repeat, shaking Luca's offered hand. "The ceremony was beautiful."
"Thank you for coming," Luca says. "Wenli speaks very highly of you. He said you're visiting from China?"
"Yes, I—"
"你也会说中文吗?" Sofia interrupts suddenly, switching to Mandarin. Do you also speak Chinese?
The shock on my face must be evident, because she laughs—a bright, delighted sound.
"对不起," she continues in flawless Mandarin. "我只是注意到你看起来可能有中国血统,想试试看." Sorry, I just noticed you might have Chinese heritage and wanted to try.
I find myself grinning, responding in the same language. "你的中文说得太好了!我完全没想到." Your Chinese is excellent! I didn't expect it at all.
The entire table has gone silent, everyone staring at us with varying degrees of shock.
"你在哪里学的?" I ask. Where did you learn?
"我妈妈是中国人," Sofia explains, still beaming. "她坚持我要会说中文,说这是我的'隐藏超能力'." My mother is Chinese. She insisted I learn to speak it, said it would be my 'hidden superpower.'
I laugh—a real, genuine laugh that feels like it comes from somewhere deep inside. "她说得对.这确实是超能力." She was right. It definitely is a superpower.
We continue chatting in Mandarin for a few more minutes, discussing her mother's family in Shanghai, my own mixed heritage, the strange experience of being caught between cultures.
It's only when Luca gently touches Sofia's arm that we both remember we have an audience.
"Sorry," Sofia says, switching back to English with an apologetic smile. "I got excited. I don't often get to speak Chinese here."
"Don't apologize," I assure her. "I understand completely. I'm Chinese-Korean myself, and I lived in France for a few years. The language switching is second nature."
"Really?" Her eyes light up. "We should definitely talk more later. I want to hear about France!"
They move on to greet other guests, but I'm left feeling lighter than I have in weeks.
Meeting Sofia—seeing someone else who exists between worlds, who's made peace with her mixed identity and found happiness—feels like a sign.
Maybe I can do the same.
Maybe there's a path forward that I haven't seen yet.
Dinner is served—a fusion menu that reflects the couple's backgrounds, with both Italian and Korean dishes. I manage to eat more than I have in days, the excitement of the evening overriding my usual nausea.
Between courses, there are toasts.
Luca's father speaks about arranged marriages and how sometimes, what starts as duty becomes love.
His words are clearly directed at his son, and I see Luca squeeze Sofia's hand under the table.
Arranged marriage, I think. Like mine was supposed to be.
But theirs worked. They were friends first, grew into love, chose to make the arrangement into something real and beautiful.
Could Qingyue and I have done the same, if circumstances had been different? If there hadn't been drugs and missing memories and my panicked flight to Korea?
Sofia's father speaks next, his Italian accent thick but his words heartfelt. He talks about his daughter's strength, her kindness, her ability to bridge worlds.
I feel tears prick at my eyes and blink them away quickly.
Hormones, I tell myself. Just pregnancy hormones.
But I know it's more than that.
After dinner, there's dancing.
I watch as Luca and Sofia take the floor for their first dance, moving together with the ease of people who've known each other forever.
The song is in Italian—something soft and romantic—and Sofia is singing along quietly, making Luca laugh.
Other couples join them gradually. Wenli is pulled onto the floor by Chenyu, who showed up during dinner looking uncomfortable in formal wear but determined to be supportive.
I stay at the table, content to watch.
Until Sofia appears beside me, slightly breathless from dancing.
"May I sit?" she asks.
"Of course."
She settles into the chair Wenli vacated, accepting a glass of water from a passing server. For a moment, we sit in comfortable silence, watching the dancers.
"Wenli mentioned you're pregnant," she says quietly. "Congratulations."
I glance at her, surprised. "He told you?"
"Just that you were expecting and needed some time away from China. He didn't give details." She smiles gently. "But I noticed you haven't had any wine, and you keep touching your stomach. It's sweet."
My hand is indeed resting on the small bump, a protective gesture I've developed without realizing.
"Thank you," I say. "It's... complicated."
"Most worthwhile things are." She takes a sip of water. "Can I tell you something?"
"Of course."
"Luca and I have known each other since we were eight years old. Our families arranged our engagement when we were eighteen, and we both accepted it because it made sense—politically, financially, all the logical reasons."
She pauses, watching her husband spin one of his cousins around the dance floor.
"But we didn't love each other. Not romantically. We were friends, and we liked each other, but love?" She shakes her head. "That took years. Years of choosing each other, every day, even when it was hard. Even when we fought or got frustrated or wondered if we'd made a mistake."
"What changed?" I ask quietly.
"Nothing dramatic. No grand gesture or revelation. Just... time. And effort. And the decision to build something together instead of just existing side by side." She turns to look at me. "Love isn't always lightning and fireworks, Ruofei. Sometimes it's quieter. Slower. But no less real."
The words settle into my chest like seeds.
"The father," I say carefully. "I love him. Have loved him for years. But the situation is..."
"Complicated," Sofia finishes with a knowing smile. "You said that already."
"He bonded me," I continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "During a heat I don't fully remember. And I ran, because I was scared and confused and I thought—I thought he'd taken advantage of me."
"And now?"
"Now I'm not sure. The memories are coming back, and they don't match what I convinced myself happened. They're tender. Full of love. And I think—I think maybe I wanted it. Wanted him. But I was drugged, so how can I know what I really wanted versus what the drugs made me feel?"
Sofia is quiet for a moment, considering.
"Can I ask you something personal?"
I nod.
"Do you want to go back to him?"
The question hits like a physical blow.
Do I?
"I don't know," I admit. "Part of me wants to. Wants to believe that what I'm remembering is real, that he loves me the way I love him. But part of me is terrified. What if I'm wrong? What if I go back and realize it wasn't what I thought?"
"Then you'll deal with it," Sofia says simply. "But Ruofei, you can't live in limbo forever. At some point, you have to choose—go back and face it, or accept that you're moving forward alone."
"I know." My hand presses more firmly against my stomach. "I just don't know if I'm ready."
"That's okay too. Ready happens in its own time." She stands, smoothing her dress. "But don't wait so long that you miss your chance at happiness, whatever form that takes."
She returns to the dance floor, and I watch as Luca pulls her close, the two of them moving together like they're the only people in the room.
Childhood friends to arranged marriage to love, I think. Maybe not so different from what Qingyue and I could have been.
The evening winds down gradually. Guests begin to leave, offering final congratulations to the happy couple.
Wenli appears at my side, looking pleasantly tired. "Ready to go?"
I nod, standing carefully. The exhaustion is catching up with me now, the brief burst of energy from the evening fading.
We say our goodbyes to Luca and Sofia, who both hug me warmly and make me promise to stay in touch.
"Come visit us in Italy sometime," Sofia says, switching back to Mandarin. "I'll show you Rome."
"I'd like that," I respond in the same language, and mean it.
In the car on the way home, Wenli glances over at me. "You seemed happy tonight."
"I was," I admit. "It was nice. Normal."
"Sofia's great, isn't she?"
"She really is." I lean my head against the window, watching Seoul pass by in a blur of lights. "She told me about how she and Luca fell in love. How it took time."
"Mmm. They're good together." A pause. "Did it make you think about Qingyue?"
"Everything makes me think about Qingyue," I say quietly.
The bond pulses in my chest, constant and insistent. A reminder of what—who—I left behind.
"I remember it all now," I continue. "That night. Everything that happened."
Wenli nearly swerves. "What?"
"The memories came back. Over the past week, gradually. I remember..." I close my eyes. "He was gentle. Caring. He asked if I was okay, told me he loved me. And I—I said it back, Wenli. I told him I loved him too."
"You were drugged—"
"I know. But it didn't feel like the drug talking. It felt like... like I was finally saying what I'd been holding back for years." I open my eyes. "I wanted him. I wanted the bond. I wanted everything that happened."
"Then why are you still here?" Wenli's question is gentle, not accusing.
"Because I'm scared," I admit. "What if what I remember isn't the whole truth? What if I go back and it's not what I think? What if—" My voice breaks. "What if he doesn't actually want me, just the omega he bonded?"
"Ruofei..." Wenli reaches over and takes my hand. "You're going to have to face him eventually. You're carrying his children. He deserves to know."
"I know." The tears I've been holding back finally spill over. "I know, and I will. Just... not yet. I need a little more time."
"Okay." Wenli squeezes my hand. "But don't wait too long. The babies will be here before you know it."
The babies.
I press my free hand to my stomach, feeling the small bump beneath my shirt.
I'm sorry, I think to them. I'm sorry your father doesn't know about you yet. I'm sorry I'm such a coward. But I promise I'll figure this out.
For them.
For me.
And maybe, if I'm very lucky, for Qingyue too.
That night, I dream of the wedding.
But in the dream, I'm not a guest. I'm the bride.
And Qingyue is waiting for me at the altar, his expression soft with love as I walk toward him.
"Finally," he says when I reach him. "I've been waiting so long."
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm so sorry I ran."
"It's okay, princess." He takes my hands. "You're here now. That's all that matters."
The dream shifts, and we're in a different place—a room filled with photographs, hundreds of them, all of me.
"You see?" Qingyue gestures to the walls. "I've loved you all along. Every moment, every version of you. How could you doubt that?"
"I was scared," I admit. "I didn't know—"
"I know." He cups my face gently. "But you know now. So come home, princess. Come home to me."
I wake with tears on my cheeks and a certainty settling in my chest.
Sofia was right. I can't live in limbo forever.
It's time to make a choice.