There once was a time when I hoped—desperately, foolishly—that my husband would love me. I wasn't naive. I knew the world I lived in did not allow daughters like me to hope for much. Born as the illegitimate child of Marquess Jung, I was never seen as anything more than a tool for his ambitions. To my father, I was not his flesh and blood, but a bargaining chip—a means of solidifying alliances, a product to trade and discard once its usefulness ran dry.
When I was offered in marriage to the crown prince of Goryeo, I should have felt honored, but all I felt was dread. And yet, I held on to a sliver of hope, whispering to myself: "This is my chance to escape the suffocating hell of my father's house." Little did I know, I was merely moving from one gilded cage to another.
At first, I tried. I carried out my duties as the crown princess, walking on eggshells in a palace where every mistake could mean disgrace—or worse. And when the emperor passed, and I was crowned empress beside my husband, I thought that perhaps I had earned some stability. But nothing changed. If anything, my life became heavier, as though the weight of the crown pressed all the air from my lungs.
My husband—my emperor—never touched me, save for the ceremonial hand he extended during public appearances. He made no secret of his disgust toward me. To him, I was not a wife, not even a human being, but the daughter of a family plotting his downfall. And who could blame him? My father and brother, manipulative and ruthless, were relentless in their schemes. They did not care that I bore the brunt of their cruelty or that my husband's distrust was carved into my very soul.
His distance was, in a way, a relief. At least he was not my father or brother, who delighted in punishing me for existing. He did not strike me or scream. But his silence, his cold indifference, was its own kind of violence. His role mirrored that of my stepmother, who ignored my suffering with the calm assurance that it was none of her concern. Once or twice a month, my family would find a way to remind me of my place—whether through veiled threats or orchestrated "accidents" that left me bruised and shaken. They called it discipline. I called it despair.
Over time, the hope I clung to began to rot. I stopped dreaming of love or salvation. I performed my duties with robotic precision, moving through the days as though I were a puppet on strings. When my husband took concubines, I did not cry. Why would I? By then, I had long since accepted that I was unwanted. His concubines bore him no children, and neither did I, though whispers in the court attributed our childlessness to his infertility. Even this small act of fate failed to bring me solace.
The years blurred together. By the time our 20th anniversary arrived, I had ceased to feel anything at all. I was tired—so very tired—and the only thing I wished for was an early death.
The anniversary banquet was a grand affair, with the nobles insisting we reenact our wedding day. For reasons I couldn't fathom, my husband agreed. Perhaps it was to maintain appearances. I donned the same red ceremonial robes I had worn twenty years ago, their vibrant color mocking the emptiness inside me.
The palace courtyard was transformed into a spectacle of opulence. Silk banners fluttered in the breeze, lanterns cast a golden glow over the polished stone, and musicians played melodies that felt both familiar and foreign. As we recited our vows and performed the ancient rites, I couldn't help but think, It all began with this wedding. If my father hadn't needed a bride to barter with, he would never have remembered I existed. This marriage was the seed of my misery, the chain that bound me to a life of suffering.
The banquet stretched on, with nobles raising their glasses in hollow toasts. I excused myself to the balcony, desperate for air. The night was quiet, save for the distant hum of conversation. I leaned against the railing, my thoughts spiraling.
"It all started here," I whispered to myself. "If there had been no wedding, none of this would have happened. If only…"
"Empress," a voice interrupted, startling me. I turned to find my husband standing there, his expression unreadable. His presence felt out of place, almost intrusive, after two decades of near silence between us.
"Is there something on your mind?" he asked, his tone unusually gentle. "You look pale. I am… worried."
I blinked, sure I had misheard him. "Worried?" I echoed, scoffing bitterly. "There was a time when I needed you to worry about me." The words slipped out before I could stop them.
His brows furrowed. "Have I done something to offend you?"
"Ooo, my emperor," I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Nothing at all. And even if you had, you're twenty years too late for an apology."
I didn't wait for his response. Spinning on my heel, I left the balcony, my pulse pounding in my ears. I didn't know where I was going—only that I needed to get away. Away from the banquet, the palace, the life that had crushed me under its weight.
My legs carried me to the back of the palace, to a secluded area where the towering gates loomed against the night sky. My ceremonial robes billowed behind me as I climbed the narrow staircase leading to the bell tower. The emperor's voice echoed in the distance, calling after me, but I didn't stop.
I reached the top, the cool wind biting against my skin. Below me, the palace stretched out like a painted canvas, beautiful and suffocating all at once. My husband's voice grew louder, desperate.
"Empress! Stop! Turn around!"
But I couldn't stop. I wouldn't. As I stepped off the edge, the world seemed to slow. The air rushed past me, carrying with it the weight of two decades of pain. For the first time in years, I felt… free.
When I hit the ground, the pain was fleeting, a warm numbness spreading through me. Blood pooled beneath me, staining my robes. I must have looked like a broken doll, discarded and forgotten.
I heard him screaming, my name tearing from his throat in a way I had never heard before. There was anguish in his voice—anguish I didn't understand. For a moment, I felt sad. And then, as my vision blurred and darkness crept in, I forgot his face. I knew who he was, but his expression slipped from my memory.
---
When I woke again, I screamed. My cries were raw, desperate, filled with a pain I couldn't explain. Hands lifted me, cradling me gently, and I was passed into the arms of a woman. Her warmth reminded me of my mother—the mother who had once held me before my life became a nightmare.
My vision was hazy, my thoughts fragmented. I couldn't control my body, couldn't even distinguish between wakefulness and dreams. My existence felt disjointed, as though my soul had not yet settled.
Weeks passed in a blur. Slowly, my senses sharpened, and I realized the truth: I was a baby.
The realization was both shocking and surreal. The woman who held me was my mother—my real mother. And the world around me was nothing like the one I had known. The palace, the schemes, the suffering… it was all gone.
I had been given a new life.
And this time, I vowed, I would live it for myself.