The rain tapped rhythmically against the window of Zhao Lianhua's apartment, a soft drumbeat to match the frantic tapping of her fingers across the keyboard. Her workspace was chaotic—ink-stained notebooks stacked precariously beside half-finished cups of tea, a stray cat weaving between them as though curious about the story taking shape. The glow of the desk lamp highlighted the exhaustion etched on her face, but also the determination in her eyes. She was finishing something extraordinary: her historical drama about Hua Ling, the matriarchal kingdom she had imagined in painstaking detail.
Queen Rong Hua, the wise and commanding ruler, presided over her daughters like a gentle storm. Each princess had been carefully shaped on Lianhua's pages: the eldest regal and cautious, the second cunning and ambitious, the third wild-spirited and mischievous, and finally Lianhua herself—the youngest, most beloved daughter, the heartbeat of the kingdom. It was a story of power, love, betrayal, and heartbreak.
Her fingers paused for a moment as she wrote the final scene. The tragic tale of Princess Zhen Zhu and Prince Zhiyuan played across her mind one last time. He came from Jin Yue, a country ruled by men, where women were taught to stay at home. He had dared to marry Zhen Zhu, a princess of Hua Ling, seeking to claim influence over her matriarchal kingdom. But ambition and jealousy proved stronger than love. In her story, Zhen Zhu struck Zhiyuan in a moment of desperation—and he retaliated. Both died, leaving nothing but the ashes of their passion.
Lianhua read the last line aloud, the words tasting bittersweet on her tongue: "And so, the flames of ambition and desire consumed them both, leaving the palace of Hua Ling to weep silently in their absence."
She set her fingers on the keyboard, exhaling slowly. "Perfect," she whispered, though the word felt empty. It was beautiful, yes—but heartbreaking. Maybe that was the point. Stories weren't meant to comfort; they were meant to linger in the mind, to make hearts ache.
Her phone buzzed, jolting her from her reverie. A message from the drama company: "Please meet the actor for Prince Zhiyuan."
Lianhua's stomach twisted. She had worked so hard to craft this story, to layer political intrigue, romance, and tension, and now she would have to convince someone to breathe life into her tragic prince. She took a deep breath, stuffed her manuscript into her bag, and left the apartment, ignoring the cat that mewed forlornly at her departure.
The studio smelled of lacquered wood and fresh paint. Costumes hung neatly along racks, and the polished floors reflected the early morning light. At the far end of the room stood Li Zhiyuan, the actor chosen for her prince. He was tall, commanding, with dark hair pulled back elegantly, a sharp jawline, and eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her. The same man who had refused to read her earlier drafts now looked at her with faint amusement.
"I've read your story," he said, voice smooth and deliberate. "And… I won't play this role."
Lianhua blinked. "Excuse me?"
He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed. "It's too tragic. Your story… it's all heartbreak and death. Audiences won't approve. If you want me involved, we do a happy ending. Otherwise, I can't. I won't."
Her jaw dropped. "A happy ending? But that's… that's not my story! The prince and princess… their tragedy is the heart of Hua Ling!"
He raised a brow, smirk teasing his lips. "You think people want real tragedy? No. They want smiles, reunions, and hope. And honestly…" He paused, eyes glinting. "You wouldn't like playing the female lead. Too much heartbreak. Can you handle that?"
Lianhua's ears burned. Rage and disbelief tangled inside her. He wasn't just rejecting the role—he was rejecting her story, her world, her vision. She clutched her manuscript tightly as if it were armor.
"Fine," she said through gritted teeth, spinning on her heel. Her heels clicked sharply against the polished floor as she stormed out of the studio, ignoring the assistant calling after her.
Back in her apartment, the rain had stopped. She sat on the edge of her bed, manuscript in hand, and began reading her story again. Each word transported her to Hua Ling Palace: the rustle of silk in the corridors, the faint clatter of palace guards' boots, the murmur of whispers behind carved screens. The princesses moved through her mind like living shadows, Queen Rong Hua's presence a steady heartbeat behind them all.
Lianhua's eyes grew heavy. The manuscript trembled in her hands as the world around her blurred. The scent of ink and paper faded, replaced by the faint metallic tang of morning dew on stone tiles. The whispers of Hua Ling seemed to rise, curling around her like smoke.
And then, the air shifted.
She gasped as her vision cleared. The walls of her apartment were gone. In their place stretched a grand palace courtyard, golden sunlight streaming across jade banners and polished stone. Towers of ivory rose above her, adorned with curling eaves and glimmering tiles. She was no longer dressed in modern clothes. Her fingers brushed red silk, tight around her waist, embroidered with gold phoenixes. Her hair flowed down her back, glinting in the sunlight.
Lianhua's heart raced. Impossible… this can't be real.
Then came the sound of hooves on cobblestones. A black-and-gold cart approached, drawn by powerful black horses. And there, standing as if summoned from her imagination, was Li Zhiyuan, the same man who had rejected her story in the present. His eyes scanned the courtyard with authority, landing on her.
Lianhua's pulse thundered. She climbed the nearest horse, the red silk of her gown flowing like fire behind her. The crowd of guards and courtiers froze as she rode forward, stopping directly in front of him.
Her voice rang clear and commanding:
"Li Zhiyuan! I command you… marry me!"
The cart halted. Zhiyuan's smirk grew faintly amused, his dark eyes glimmering with intrigue.
"And if I refuse, Princess Zhao?" His tone was calm, teasing, yet threaded with curiosity.
Lianhua leaned forward, courage blazing in her chest.
"Then you will live under the laws of Hua Ling. No man, no matter how mighty, rules over me while I stand!"
For a moment, the courtyard held its breath. Guards shifted uneasily, and the distant palace cats twitched their whiskers. Zhiyuan's chuckle broke the silence, low and deliberate.
"So… the writer becomes the princess," he said, stepping down from the cart. "Bold… very bold indeed."
Lianhua's pulse quickened. This was no longer a story she was writing—this was her life, her palace, her rules. And in front of her, the man who had rejected her vision was about to play the role she had always imagined—but this time, she would command the story.