My Wife Aman: Beautiful and Coldhearted - Chapter 3

Song Wenyan loved me deeply.

I gave him a day to think.

When I returned home the next day, shadows ringed his eyes. He had not slept all night, but his gaze was astonishingly bright.

“Aman,” he said, “all I want is to marry you.”

Our wedding was simple.

There were no guests, no banquet. We took two red candles and bowed to Heaven and Earth beneath the moon.

Song Wenyan wore crimson wedding robes, making his already striking face even more dazzling—his features cool and exquisite, his eyes shimmering.

The wine had brushed his pale cheeks with pink. Every turn of his gaze was infinitely alluring, like some enchanting specter.

He leaned toward me, carrying the scent of peach blossoms and wine, and pressed a soft kiss to my lips.

“Aman, am I dreaming?”

“This isn’t a dream,” I said.

“I understand, Aman.”

His lips were soft. Tentatively, he coaxed mine apart and tangled his tongue with mine.

“Aman.”

The red candles flickered while Song Wenyan whispered my name beside my ear.

His breathing was low. Each warm breath against the rim of my ear sent a tingling shiver through me.

He sighed and kissed away the tear at the corner of my eye.

“My Aman. I love you so much.”

That night was long, lost in boundless passion.

By the time the red candles burned out, we were husband and wife in truth.

Married life was not very different from what had come before.

Song Wenyan still cooked, mended clothes, and watched the sunset with me. There were only a few more intimate gestures between us.

I never refused him.

I simply found it all rather meaningless.

All I wanted was immortality.

On a night of beautiful moonlight, I told him, “Song Wenyan, I am going to become an immortal.”

He looked at me, puzzled.

“An immortal?”

“Yes.”

I gazed at the moon, my voice distant and cold.

“A mortal life vanishes in the blink of an eye.

“A hundred years from now, nothing remains but a handful of yellow earth.

“I want to become an immortal. I want eternal life.”

Song Wenyan fell silent.

Only after a long while did he ask softly, “Is there something you need me to do?”

His voice was as warm as ever, but I could hear no emotion in it.

“You know,” I said. “You should know.”

He went still.

I continued, “I must kill my husband to prove the Way.”

Moonlight fell across him.

He quietly lowered his eyes. There was neither panic nor fear on his face.

After a very long time, Song Wenyan raised his head and smiled at me.

His eyes were gentle.

“All right,” he said.

My heart clenched violently.

Then, in a soft, pleading voice, he asked, “Will you share one more cross-cupped wedding wine with me, Aman?”

My throat tightened. “All right,” I rasped.

He fetched a jar of peach blossom wine and filled two cups, passing one to me.

It was the wine he had buried beneath the tree three years ago.

I accepted the cup. We intertwined our arms, and I tipped back my head, letting the wine slide down my throat.

It was bitter and astringent.

When the cup was empty, Song Wenyan sat there in silence, like a beautiful statue carved from white jade.

Then tears began to roll down his cheeks, one great drop after another. He sobbed as though his heart and liver were being torn apart, utterly unable to restrain himself.

I stared at him blankly.

In the three years I had known him, I had never seen him cry like this.

He had always been gentle. Always smiling. No matter how much he suffered, his eyes would curve and he would softly say, “It’s all right.”

“Don’t cry.”

I cupped his face and kissed him.

“Don’t cry,” I murmured against his mouth. “It will be quick. It won’t hurt.”

His lips were soft and tasted of salty tears.

I kissed him as the sword in my hand slid, inch by inch, into his chest.

Song Wenyan did not dodge.

He looked at me without hatred or resentment. Then he suddenly raised a hand and, as he had done so many times before, smoothed the loose hair at my temple and tucked it behind my ear.

He stopped crying. His eyes curved once more, his smile as mild and serene as it had always been.

“Aman.”

The young man called my name one last time. His hand fell.

The light in those beautiful eyes went out completely.

Song Wenyan was dead.

His body dissolved into peach blossom petals and scattered on the wind.

I sank to my knees.

Inside, I felt hollow.