I was Aman, the scarred cook in the imperial kitchen. Ever since I took a blade meant for the Emperor and was left disfigured, he had refused to eat anything unless it came from my hands, claiming I was the only person he trusted with his life.
Yet at a grand banquet, when his favored Noble Consort complained that my dish was too rich, he turned on me without hesitation. Scathing and cruel, he insulted my looks and my cooking alike, ordering fifty strikes across my palms as punishment. Foolishly, I asked him what I truly meant to him. His answer was cold and direct: how could an emperor ever marry a woman with a ruined face? All he ever wanted was for me to be his cook for the rest of my life.
When I brought lotus pastries to the Imperial Garden, he joined his consort in humiliating me once more—hurling the pastries to the ground, striking me hard across the cheek, and standing idly by as she tormented me.
At twenty-five, having reached the official age of release from palace service, my heart has finally turned to ash. In just three days, I will walk out of these palace gates for good, never again clinging to the hollow illusion of his affection.
