"He… Yvonne… give me a child…"

Under the brocade quilt, between the soft embroidered pillows, every trace spoke of intimacy. Her fingertips brushed against the warm rise and fall of his back.

Roland Sherwood kept gliding his hand over Yvonne Whitmore’s lower belly, his voice hoarse, thick with a barely held‑back urgency.

Half-drifting, she let out a soft, lazy murmur, the end of it swallowed between their lips.

She tipped her head back to meet his kiss, her pale arms instinctively circling his sweat-damp neck. Her dark hair fanned across the pillow, strands tangling together as a slow, strange heat climbed through her. The lingering waves coursed through her limbs, warm as though, at the height of that moment, something had quietly taken root—his blood, his seed.

Just then, a bright childish voice rang by her ear.

"Mother, look! I made this brush holder for Father!"

The clear, crisp words yanked Yvonne out of her memory. Right after, a gentle woman’s voice drifted from beyond the wall.

"Yi’er is clever. Your father will surely like it."

Hearing that voice, Yvonne lowered her gaze to her own fingertips. The hands before her were thin, almost brittle, blue veins standing stark beneath the skin.

While she stared in a daze, that familiar calm male voice sounded—so familiar it twisted her heart.

"My son is thoughtful. Father likes it very much."

Yvonne drew her withered hand back, fingers trembling. Gwendolyn entered carrying a bowl of medicine, her eyes rimmed with red.

"Madam, the medicine is ready."

"That child… is Yi’er?" Yvonne didn’t even glance at the bowl; her eyes stayed fixed on the wall outside.

"Yes, Madam. He is the Young Master’s and the main wife’s youngest boy."

Gwendolyn set the medicine on the table, a knot tightening in her chest.

A man’s heart can be colder than iron. Once, the Young Master had eyes only for her Lady… now…

Yvonne lifted the bowl and downed it in one harsh swallow. Bitterness scorched her throat.

"Go."

Gwendolyn looked at the frail silhouette before her but dared not say more.

When the door clicked shut, Yvonne leaned her arm against the window frame. In the sunlight, her skin seemed almost translucent. She knew her time was nearly gone. There was nothing in this broken life worth holding onto.

At her final threshold, her past flickered before her eyes like quick flashes of light.

She was the eldest daughter of William Whitmore of Pinggu. Though the Whitmore family were merchants, their wealth dominated the entire region. Her engagement to Roland Sherwood had come about solely because of her aunt, Rowena Whitmore.

Years ago, Rowena had insisted on marrying the poor scholar Mr. Sherwood. Every step of his exams and early career had been paid for by William Whitmore, all in hopes that one day the Sherwoods could help elevate the Whitmore family’s standing.

Later, when Mr. Sherwood became a seventh‑rank official in Alden, Yvonne Whitmore and Roland Sherwood were bound together in a childhood betrothal.

At sixteen, their marriage was supposed to be discussed, but Yvonne’s mother suddenly passed away. She observed three years of mourning, and the wedding was pushed to her nineteenth year.

The moment her mourning period ended, the Sherwood family immediately sent people to escort her to Alden.

When she first entered the Sherwood residence, her aunt treated her warmly, Josephine Sherwood called her “Cousin” with such intimacy, and Roland Sherwood was gentle as ever, teasing her just like when they were children.

But at some unknown point… everything shifted.

“Brother Roland, have you grown close to Miss Ashford, the daughter of the Minister of War?” She had once quietly asked him that.

“Don’t overthink. Just foolish gossip from the servants.” That was his reply at the time.

If he had told her the truth then, she could have walked away. She wasn’t bound to him.

But later he used “the hardships of my official path, I must rely on the Ashford family’s influence” as an excuse. He married Winifred Ashford in full glory, then turned back and coerced Yvonne—softly, harshly—until she agreed to become his concubine.

“Yvonne, apart from me, you have no other path. And I won’t allow you to look for one.”

It had all been arranged—planned from the moment she stepped through the Sherwood gates.

She became his concubine. The lamps in her courtyard were lit for him alone. Behind the warm red curtains, affection lingered, and soon she carried his child.

Until one day, Winifred Ashford stormed in with her servants. Two older women pinned Yvonne down, and a bowl of thick, black abortifacient was forced down her throat.

It had been a fully formed baby boy—lost—and her body was ruined with it.

After that, Roland Sherwood never entered her courtyard again. She tried to stop him once, and all she got was his cold, shut‑off expression.

Later, Winifred had children one after another, while Yvonne was left in that desolate courtyard for ten whole years… ten years of emptiness.

“Yvonne… Yvonne…”

In her fading consciousness, she heard Roland Sherwood’s voice, trembling.

She opened her eyes to find herself crushed against his chest. His arms locked around her so tightly it was as if he feared she would slip away. His breath shook; his whole body trembled. His eyes, always so calm in her memory, were bloodshot now—raw, shaken, utterly unlike him.

Brother… why?

She wanted to ask, to force an answer out of him, but her strength had already drained away.

Sunlight filtered through drifting dust, falling over her—warm for a moment, then cooling… fading…

…

“Madam! Look what I found on the streets of Alden! Stuff we’d never see back in Pinggu!” Gwendolyn burst in with a tray of tea, chattering nonstop.

Yvonne Whitmore wrapped her fingers around the warm cup. The heat seeped into her skin, and only then did she truly feel it—this wasn’t a dream. Two days ago, when she woke, she had somehow returned to the age of nineteen, barely a month after entering the Sherwood estate.

She lowered her gaze to her hands. Every line from knuckle to fingertip was smooth and youthful; her nails had a healthy pink sheen. At the dressing table, the bronze mirror reflected a face she had nearly forgotten—bright eyes, clear as morning light, cheeks flushed with life. Not a trace of the weakness that had haunted her in the end.

Once she accepted the truth, the next steps became painfully clear. She had to break the engagement. She had to get out of the Sherwood household.

She would never again be entangled with Roland Sherwood.

But she knew the path wouldn’t be easy. Roland wouldn’t let her go, and Rowena Whitmore even less so. Rowena despised her merchant background yet coveted her generous dowry.

Her father, William Whitmore, was no support either. All he cared about was how much profit her marriage could bring the family. In her past life, when she was falling apart, he never lifted a hand.

“Pack the hairpins and earrings we bought today. Take them to Aunt and Cousin Josephine,” Yvonne said. “We’re still guests here. Can’t ignore appearances.”

Gwendolyn nodded and packed the jewelry and powders. As she turned, her eyes landed on Yvonne’s neck.

“Madam, you’re wearing that today?”

Yvonne’s fingertips brushed the gold filigree and green-jade collar. She rarely wore it; it was far too precious.

“It’s bait…” she murmured.

If she remembered correctly, tomorrow was Winifred Ashford’s birthday.

The Ashford estate—every brick soaked in cold authority—towered like a silent threat. One wrong breath inside those walls could crush a rootless girl like her to dust.

In the main room, Rowena Whitmore sat with a cup of tea, while Josephine Sherwood toyed idly with a handkerchief.

When Yvonne entered, Rowena lifted her eyelids just enough to acknowledge her. “You said you were unwell a few days ago. Yet today, you seem quite recovered.”

“Thank you for your concern, Aunt. I’m already much better.” Yvonne bent in a graceful curtsy as Gwendolyn stepped forward to present the lacquered jewelry box.

Josephine Sherwood’s eyes were sharp. She flipped open the little box in one swift motion, and the moment the jewels inside caught the light, her whole face lit up. “Cousin, this hairpin is gorgeous!”

Rowena Whitmore gave the box a faint glance, her tone mild and measured. “You’ve just arrived in Alden. No need for such extravagance.”

But she made no move to refuse.

Yvonne Whitmore lowered her gaze, hiding the chill that flashed beneath her lashes. “As long as Aunt and Cousin Josephine like them.”

Josephine was dazzled by the hairpins, the gems almost blinding her. She blurted out, “I was just worrying about tomorrow. With these, I won’t lose face at the Ashford estate…”

The words had barely left her mouth before she slapped a hand over her lips.

Tomorrow was Winifred Ashford’s birthday banquet. She had kept it from Yvonne on purpose—didn’t want Yvonne tagging along. First, she looked down on Yvonne’s merchant background; second, she feared being dragged down and mocked by the other noble girls.

How could Yvonne not see through Josephine’s petty calculations?

Just as Josephine was scrambling to patch her words, Rowena spoke from the seat of honor, “Before you arrived, this girl was fretting. She got only one invitation, said she couldn’t take both of you, so she planned to give it up and let you go in her place. Such thoughtful intent on her part.”

Her daughter was truly hopeless—one box of trinkets was enough to make her lose composure. Nothing like a proper official’s daughter.

Rowena sighed inwardly. Mr. Sherwood had been in office for years but still held only minor rank. His monthly salary was meager, and as the mistress of the household, everything required money. All these years, she’d been propping the family up with her dowry. Outwardly polished, inwardly scraping by.

Yvonne smiled lightly. “Miss Ashford must be on good terms with Cousin Josephine, that’s why she sent her the invitation. Even if my cousin wishes to give up her spot for me, I wouldn’t dare take it.”

The guests invited to Winifred Ashford’s banquet were all of the highest rank. Without sufficient status, one couldn’t even step through the Ashford gates. Why send an invitation to the daughter of a minor official? For Roland Sherwood, naturally.

“Exactly. A place like that—Cousin, if you went, they probably wouldn’t treat you well…”

Josephine trailed off, her gaze suddenly fixed on Yvonne’s neck.

There hung a rare piece of jewelry—so unique that even without touching it, one could see how extraordinary it was.

“How come I’ve never seen Cousin wear that necklace before?”

Yvonne lowered her head slightly, looking at the jade loop resting against her chest. “It’s heavy. I don’t wear it often.”

Josephine’s eyes flickered with desire. She pushed the box of jewels aside without a second thought. “Cousin… may I borrow it for a day?”

Yvonne paused to think, then nodded gently. “If you like it so much, borrowing it for a day is fine. Just remember—under no circumstances take it outside the manor.”

Josephine nodded eagerly, hardly listening, completely missing the glint of cold amusement at Yvonne’s eye.

Whether she could break the engagement or not—everything hinged on this.