The Capital's Lady

The thunderous beating of gongs and drums from the stage reverberated against my eardrums, while the fiery red curtains draping the pastel-hued opera platform were lifted at one corner by the wind, revealing the intricately carved beams gilded and painted within. I shrank into the shadow of the private box on the second floor, the plain silk handkerchief clenched tightly in my fingers long since dampened with cold sweat, my knuckles paling white from the grip. "The final act tonight is performed by Caleb Shaw; it is said that this renowned actor was once rescued from amidst a pile of corpses." The lady beside me hid her mouth behind a round fan, lowering her voice to whisper to her companion, her tone laden with curiosity. "Caleb Shaw?" Another lady raised her eyebrows, "The very renowned actor who swept through S City Beach? I had heard he came from humble origins, but I did not expect him to have such a past." "Indeed, it is said he nearly froze to death in a dilapidated temple, only surviving because someone rescued him. Later, his talent for opera proved extraordinary." Caleb Shaw. These two characters pierced my heart like needles forged from ice, causing such pain that my breath caught. I lifted my gaze towards the stage; that moon-white figure stood out vividly beneath the lights, the long silk sleeves swirling with grace, his singing clear and melodious. Each word, every phrase, was the very scene from The Peony Pavilion that I had painstakingly taught him twelve years ago, hand in hand. His voice remained melodious, yet to my ears, only endless irony endured. When the song ended, the entire hall erupted with applause, the thunderous clamor nearly threatening to tear off the opera house's roof. Caleb Shaw stood at the center of the stage, bowing slightly in acknowledgment; the calm and pride of a renowned actor shone from his eyes and brow, a stark contrast to the timid youth he once was. I could no longer sit still, grasping the wooden railing of the private box as I rose to leave; just as I reached the doorway, the door was suddenly thrust open from outside. A familiar scent of sandalwood swept over me, carrying a measured softness that lingered delicately at my nostrils. "Long time no see." Caleb Shaw removed his headdress; his black hair was loosely gathered with a single jade hairpin. Still clad in his opera costume, the pale moonlit silk highlighted the flawless jade-like hue of his face. The gentle expression between his brows and eyes remained as it had all those years ago, yet deep within them lay a calculation I knew all too well. Without stopping, my footsteps unbroken, I clenched the silk handkerchief in my fingers, casting a faint glance at him as I said, "Sir, you have me mistaken for someone else." "Mistaken?" He stepped forward deliberately, firmly blocking my path, his fingertips nearly brushing my sleeve, his voice carrying certainty, "There is a vermilion mole on the inner side of your left wrist. It was cut by my scissors during that bitter cold and starvation—how could it be mistaken?" My fingertips suddenly curled inward; that faint scar had indeed been etched for twelve years, and I had always hidden it beneath my sleeve, unwilling to show it to anyone. I had not expected that after so many years, he would still recall it with such clarity. "You jumped into the river that year; I searched for you for a full five years." His voice dropped even lower as he leaned closer, carrying a barely perceptible urgency: "Come home with me. I will give you a status, one more splendid than before; all of S City Beach will respectfully call you Mrs. Shaw." "Home?" I turned around and looked him squarely in the eyes, which held no trace of remorse, only bare possessiveness: "Mr. Shaw's home is beyond my reach." "Are you still blaming me?" He furrowed his brow, his tone tinged with grievance, as if he had suffered a great wrong: "What happened back then was because Fiona Smith was immature. I have already reprimanded her, banished her to the secluded quarters, and have never allowed her near again." "A lesson?" I laughed, the sound rife with cold indifference, standing out sharply against the clamorous backdrop of the opera house. "One life lost, and a mere lesson is enough? Caleb Shaw, do you truly believe everything can be erased with money or a few careless words?" His expression shifted slightly; instinctively, he glanced around. Noticing curious eyes upon them, he quickly lowered his voice: "There are many eyes here and countless distractions. If you have something to say, let us speak elsewhere. Let's not cause a scene here." "No need." I stepped aside, moving past him with firm resolve. "From now on, our paths part—with no further ties." "You cannot leave!" He reached out and grasped my wrist abruptly, his movements urgent. I sharply withdrew, stepping back to lean against the wooden railing, watching him warily: "Mr. Shaw, compose yourself. If you persist in this entanglement, I shall call for help. When the scandal breaks, it will be you, the renowned actor, who loses face." His hand froze mid-air; a fleeting glint of ferocity flashed in his eyes—too swift to capture—soon veiled again by a gentle expression: "I know you harbor anger in your heart. I will wait for you, until the day you come to understand." No matter how long it takes, I will wait. I no longer paid it any mind and quickly stepped out of the private box. As I descended the stairs, my footing wavered slightly; the wooden steps emitted a faint creak beneath my feet. It has been five years. I thought I had long since buried the past beneath the icy riverbed, along with that naive version of myself, to remain forever entombed. Yet I never expected that in such a place, I would once again come across him. Stepping out of the opera house, the evening breeze, cool and crisp, brushed against my face, bringing a momentary clarity to my tangled thoughts. The snowy night from twelve years past stood before me, as clear and vivid as if it were but yesterday.