Chapter 62: A Moment of Honesty

Shen Ti stepped out from the cleansing room just as Yin Zhi had finished washing her face and rinsing her mouth.

She shot him a sharp glance. Shen Ti suppressed a smile, walked into the inner room, sat on the couch, and accepted the cup of tea a maid handed him.

Yin Zhi followed, seated herself, and asked, “Why are you back so early today? Where are my brothers?”

Shen Ti sipped his tea. “My cousins had their own plans for the afternoon and said I didn’t need to worry about them.”

Her older brother had lived in the capital before, but this was the first time her two cousins had visited. How could they have plans that didn’t require Shen Ti’s company? Or rather... plans they didn’t want their brother-in-law tagging along for?

Yin Zhi considered this for a moment and smirked knowingly.

When she looked up again, she found Shen Ti watching her over the rim of his teacup.

She raised her brows.

Shen Ti gently stirred the tea leaves with the lid, still gazing at her.
“Elder sister,” he said, “you’re quite perceptive.”

Though his voice was soft and slow, there was pressure in his tone.

He was still young, but he’d been born into nobility, raised as a master, always meant to lead. The environment had shaped him—he’d learned from childhood how to exert pressure on others.

Yin Zhi chuckled lightly.

“Everything is there to be seen or heard. If one listens, observes, and thinks, it’s natural to understand,” she said. “Of course, as women, we can’t move as freely as you men. You hear and see more, so naturally it seems you understand more.”

“But really, even as women, if we’re attentive, we can understand just the same.”

“My brothers have always been like that. At my age, how could I still be as naïve as the little girls in the family who haven’t even come of age?”

“They wanted you gone because you’re their brother-in-law—and a newlywed one at that. No matter what, it wouldn’t be proper to bring you along to those kinds of places.”

“But you,” she sighed, “I praised you for nothing the other night. I thought you were clean, inexperienced with such things. Judging by your expression, have you been to those places too?”

Shen Ti lifted his eyelids slightly.

“You’re only a few months older than I am,” he said. “Strictly speaking, we’re the same age. But you always look down on me. You should consider this: even at my age, I’m already an official. The social obligations I deal with, the circles I enter—likely far more than your brothers have seen.”

Yin Zhi was struck by this.

She realized she'd been seeing Shen Ti’s position in the Hanlin Academy as something akin to going off to college—likely due to the time difference between her old life and this world.

Though she understood it rationally, she subconsciously treated him like a student.

But the truth was: Shen Ti was already an official.

He might wear the robe of a lower rank now, but the track he was on—comparable to an elite recruit on a fast political track in her previous world—was solid and enviable.

And being an official meant he was already in the political sphere. And what was the political sphere like? Across time and space, it was always the same.

“I never looked down on you in terms of knowledge or career,” she said sincerely.

Shen Ti stared at her.

Then what did she look down on him for?

…Their roles as man and woman?

It stung—enough to itch in his teeth.

“No, Ji Yun,” Yin Zhi knelt upright, leaning on the small table, leaning closer to him, “why are you so hostile toward me?”

Shen Ti froze.

She leaned in even more, enunciating each word clearly: “Have you forgotten—we’re not truly husband and wife?”

They locked eyes.

Was she trying to pressure him by getting so close?

Shen Ti turned away to drink his tea and avoided her gaze. “What hostility? Don’t overthink it, sister…”

Yin Zhi interrupted: “Fool. I’m on your side.”

Shen Ti turned back to look at her.

She sat back down, her smile a mix of mischief and frustration. “I told you at Donglin Temple—I would fully cooperate with you. I’ll help you and Feng become lovers. I took the title of your wife, and I’ll fulfill its duties.”

“If I’ve done anything poorly these days, just tell me directly. Don’t treat me like this.” Her eyes were full of wounded feeling. “Before I came from Huaixi, I imagined us working together in harmony. I had such high hopes.”

Shen Ti gazed at her silently for a while. Then, setting down the cup, he rubbed his forehead. “Just talk to me normally.”

So she’d figured him out. That trick wouldn’t work anymore.

Yin Zhi feigned innocence. “Well, if you treat me like that, I can only respond in kind.”

“What did I do to you?” Shen Ti asked. “I’ve never been disrespectful.”

He admitted—yes, he’d been in a bit of a mood earlier. But was it really so bad as to say he’d treated her poorly?

“You can’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like this—”
Yin Zhi tilted her face down slightly, then lifted her eyes to stare directly at him.

“Like that. See?”

That look, in movies, would be called a Kubrick stare.

In novels, it’s often described as lifting the eyelids slightly.

A way of looking that exerts subtle psychological pressure.

“…” Shen Ti asked, “Did I really do that?”

“Now you’re denying it?”

“Alright,” Shen Ti admitted.

He didn’t know what a Kubrick stare was, but he knew full well how much pressure such a gaze could put on someone.

He had used it on Yin Zhi—perhaps unfairly.

“If I stop doing that, you stop your games too,” he said.

Seeing her pretend just now… made him strangely uncomfortable.

Yin Zhi found it intriguing. “But didn’t you look at me that way because you wanted me to behave like this?”

Exerting pressure—wasn’t that a way to make someone yield?

“I came all this way to your home in the capital. If you mistreat me or give me a cold face,” she said, “who’s going to back me up after my brothers leave?”

“No one. Even while they’re here, they wouldn’t side with me.”

“Only because this is your wedding. They couldn’t bring themselves to take you along. But in the future, I bet they’ll be happy to go drinking with you.”

“You know how much the Yin family wanted this marriage.”

“When I married into your family, I knew I had no one to rely on.”

“Just you.”

“I trust you. I had expectations. So I didn’t put on a mask in front of you. Maybe that annoyed you.”

“So Ji Yun, if you want to act like a commanding husband, I can play along.”

“I can be gentle, modest, and obedient. Be your perfect wife.”

“I’ve lived like that for eighteen years—another lifetime would be nothing.”

She smiled. “Shall I start the act now?”

Shen Ti’s gaze lingered on the small table before them.

When she finished speaking, he finally looked up. “I was wrong earlier. I won’t do that again. And you don’t need to either.”

He truly didn’t want her to pretend or belittle herself in front of him.

He preferred her bold and headstrong.

And everything she said was true—she married in without any backing. She had come for him.

Their three palm strikes at Donglin Temple… how could he have forgotten that shared intent?

How could he betray her trust?

Yin Zhi looked at him. “Then no more sulking at me?”

“No,” Shen Ti’s neck flushed red in shame.

Seeing him blush, Yin Zhi believed his sincerity. She beamed. “Ji Yun, I like how honest you are. You take responsibility, and you consider others.”

“Sounds simple, but it’s hard. Just owning up—that alone is beyond many people. Thinking for others? Even harder.”

How could she so easily say “like” to a man’s face?

Shen Ti began to feel the heat rise in his neck again.

He’d grown to eighteen—there were few people who could make him blush anymore.

But the last two times—it was her.

“Ahem…” He turned his face away to respond—but before he could, a voice called from outside.

“Hanlin, we’ve found it,” Lüyan announced.

Perfect timing.

Shen Ti seized the chance. “Bring it in.”

Yin Zhi looked toward the door. The screen opened, and Lüyan came in holding a qin (zither), handing it to Shen Ti.

He sat cross-legged, placed the qin on his lap, plucked a few strings, and adjusted the tuning as he asked, “You’ve learned the qin too, haven’t you? I saw one on your dowry list. Why haven’t you brought it out? Haven’t finished unpacking?”

Now it was Yin Zhi’s turn to cough.

She had come across the qin two days ago while unpacking. Her maid, Kui’er, had asked bluntly, “Do we really need to display this thing?”

What if a female elder came over and asked her to play? Embarrassing either way—refuse and look uneducated; play poorly and disgrace the family. So Yin Zhi decisively said, “Put it in storage.”

It was likely hanging on the storeroom wall now.

“It’s just for show. I don’t play. No need to display it,” she said unabashedly. “If a relative sees it and makes me play—I can’t refuse, but if I play… it might embarrass you more.”

Shen Ti turned his face away.

This time, his neck had returned to its usual fair tone.

Yin Zhi was speechless. “Go ahead, laugh. Not everyone’s musically gifted.”

In moments like this, composure was unnecessary. Everyone needed a space where they could fully relax, where they didn’t have to put on a front.

For Shen Ti, that person used to be Madam Shen.

But as he grew older, studied away for years, and developed conflicts with his parents—that intimacy was long gone.

In recent days, Yin Zhi had cracked his calm more than once. And now, he no longer felt the need to keep up appearances around her.

Turning back to look—sure enough, the corners of his mouth were curled.

Yin Zhi looked sweet and demure, but she was mentally sharp and tough—a hard person to deal with. Shen Ti had felt dominated by her, which triggered his recent emotional backlash.

Who would’ve thought this same woman—who self-studied The Harmonious Union of Heaven and Earth—would be so bad at playing the qin?

It was genuinely funny.

“What happened?” Shen Ti asked. “Was the teacher bad? The qin bad? Or… hmm…”

Or was it you who was bad?

Yin Zhi sighed. “Don’t be smug.”

If not now, then when?

Shen Ti laughed heartily.

“Alright,” Yin Zhi admitted. “It was all pretty bad.”

She had no real musical talent, and the teacher’s methods were dry. It bored her.

And the women’s school at the Yin household was quite lax—more a social club than a serious academy.

The girls liked going mainly because it was where they could all hang out.

“How far did you get?” Shen Ti asked.

“I learned the basic fingering and could play Lady Xiang’s Lament, though I’ve forgotten most of it now. That’s all. I just wasn’t interested.”

She enjoyed listening to music, but playing it herself didn’t bring joy. Without external pressure, she simply let it go.

In this era, listening to music wasn’t so easy. One needed hired musicians—and those were reserved for the men of the house, used during banquets and to entertain guests. Girls weren’t allowed to mingle with them.

Because musicians and courtesans, though different, often blurred together.

In fact, Yin Zhi hadn’t heard music in a long time.

In small towns, ancient times were marked by one thing—silence.

“I’ll teach you,” Shen Ti offered.

“No need,” Yin Zhi tried to decline.

“The qin and flowers, poetry and painting, books and tea—they’re never truly separate. You love tending to flowers—I don’t believe you don’t have the heart to play.”

“My mother had never even touched a qin when she came to the capital. My father taught her. Now, her skill rivals anyone’s.”

Indeed, Yin Zhi had noticed a qin table in Madam Shen’s rooms. It seemed part of her daily life now.

But she hadn’t known that Shen Ti’s mother had started from nothing.

Come to think of it, that was twenty years ago. The Yin family back then were mere merchants. A girl who could read was already rare—things like music were a luxury.

After twenty years of wealth and growth, girls of Yin Zhi’s generation had the privilege of learning the qin.

“If Mother could learn, so can you. You’re both from the Yin family,” Shen Ti said. “Sister, why not trust me this once—let me be your teacher.”

“What do you say?”