This review may contain spoilers
Plot holes and constant scheming mended by the leads good look
The thing about Zhang Wanyi is, even before you consciously register what he’s saying, you’re already paying attention. His voice just has that kind of gravitas — deep, textured, almost like velvet stretched over steel. When he’s serious, it drops into this low, grave tone that feels heavier than the words themselves. You feel the tension just listening.
And when he’s teasing Jiang Si or getting sly? He flips it — suddenly his voice turns light, sardonic, amused, but he never loses that elegant control. Even back in ‘Are You the One?’, that voice had the same presence — delivering dry humor or emotional restraint with just the right tone. His voice alone can layer irony, tenderness, or quiet menace into a scene. That’s why even when he plays "quiet" characters, he never feels passive or bland.
And let’s not lie: the man’s face isn’t exactly struggling either. Striking good looks — sharp, clean bone structure that the camera absolutely loves. Expressive eyes — the kind that can stay cool and unreadable one second, and then hit you with tenderness the next.
But Si Jin was never just about the pretty faces. It digs deeper into the uglier, heartbreaking parts of human nature. Take Second Sister, Jiang Yu. She’s not a villain in the traditional sense. She's a case study in how prolonged victimhood can twist someone’s survival instincts until right and wrong blur beyond recognition. Jiang Yu was trapped in a marriage that was pure misery — humiliated, degraded, constantly reminded that "looking respectable" mattered more than her safety. Living like that long enough does something to you. You start surviving however you can.
And Jiang Yu did the unthinkable, luring her sister into her residence, enabling her husband so that he could abuse Jiang Si as well. When someone has suffered so much, self-justification becomes a lifeline. She had to convince herself Jiang Si was to blame, because if not, she would have to admit to herself that what she was doing — and what she had endured — was wrong, that maybe she should have fought back earlier, that maybe there were choices she didn’t take. And that's a terrifying thing for someone broken down by years of powerlessness to confront.
In societies like the one portrayed in Si Jin, where appearances, chastity, and family honor outweighed a woman’s personal dignity, the idea of "escaping" was often more shameful than staying and suffering. So even victims could become perpetrators of the same cruelty, trying to uphold the illusion at any cost.
Speaking of devils, the Marquis of Changxing’s family isn’t simply rich — they have power and the ability to rewrite the world to suit their sins. Murders? Silenced. Abuse? Brushed aside. Victims? Which ones? It’s not just corruption — it’s morality bending to protect power.
The Marquis and his wife defending their son, despite knowing exactly what he did, shows that when reputation and status are your lifelines, you will protect them at any cost — even if it means shielding a monster and sacrificing innocent girls. The same applies to Second Uncle too. He knew what his daughter had suffered; he knew how monstrous the Marquis’ son was. But in the face of entrenched power, he was paralyzed — not because he didn’t love his family, but because, in that world, challenging someone like the Marquis could cost you everything. Does power really corrupt that badly? Si Jin seems to answer: no — it doesn’t corrupt, it reveals the rot that was always there, giving permission for cruelties that otherwise would have remained hidden.
The Marchioness begging for leniency was a masterclass in shamelessness. Her whole argument boiled down to, "We raised a monster, but please forgive us because, oops, parenting is hard." No acknowledgment of the destroyed lives. No guilt. Just self-pity because their "good name" was at risk. And back then, that was all that mattered — noble family reputation over actual justice. A ruined heir was a tragedy. Dead girls? Barely a footnote, unless it stained the family crest.
Circling back to the leads’ actual love story, Jiang Si came back to this life having flashes of how her love story with Yu Qi had ended in a different timeline, which made her so apprehensive about getting close to him. You could see the reservation and the longing battling in her eyes — and yet, her feelings inevitably got the best of her. It wasn’t something she could stop herself from.
Both her and Yu Qi had been marked from birth as "inauspicious," "unwanted," burdens in their families’ eyes, cast aside because of a prophecy that claimed they would bring misfortune. They didn’t just suffer neglect — they endured the kind of loneliness that comes when even those meant to love you most look at you like you’re a curse. And somehow, despite it all, they found each other.
And honestly? Er Niu — the furry little matchmaking agent — deserves his own medal. In the novel, he’s even better: "General Xiaotian," running secret errands and demanding food in exchange. The emotional heavy lifting he does just by existing cannot be overstated.
At the store opening, Yu Qi — usually Mr. Cool— completely lost his composure, all because he wanted to impress Jiang Si. Smoothing his sleeves, trying (and failing) to look casual, throwing little dagger glares at Lord Zhen every time he dared speak to her — he was a mess. And Lord Zhen? Equally stressed, equally desperate for her attention, playing the polite, charming gentleman while Yu Qi stood there fuming silently, like, “Why is he even breathing the same air as her?” These two men were having a whole invisible rivalry war while Jiang Si was just out there trying to sell fragrances. She 100% knew they were both acting weird and competing like lovesick puppies, but she pretended not to see it because it was too deliciously awkward to interrupt. Honestly, I need more love rivals acting like children over the calmest, most oblivious queen in the room. Jiang Si wins without lifting a finger.
Jian Si’s father daughter relationship was such a warm little pocket of safety in a show filled with scheming. Jiang An Cheng wasn’t just loving — he was unconditionally supportive, even when the world around them kept telling him she was “bad luck”. He never bought into that nonsense. He never wavered in his belief that his daughter was smart, capable, and deserved happiness. He was her quiet shield against a world that wanted to crush her spirit. And you could see how much Jiang Si cherished him too.
During Jiang Si’s emotional conversation with her father about her Second Sister, she says, “She married the wrong man. It's unfortunate,” expressing a very compassionate instinct — seeing her sister’s tragedy as bad luck rather than a character flaw. It was Jiang Si’s way of being gentle, merciful, framing her sister’s fall as fate being cruel rather than weakness on her part. But when her father replied, “We can't control our luck, but when misfortune befalls us, we can at least make the right choices,” he introduced the idea of personal responsibility even in suffering. Jiang Yu was a victim — abused, trapped, powerless — and yet, the father's words draw an important line: being unlucky is not your fault, but how you respond to your suffering still matters. It’s an acknowledgment that victimhood does not erase agency; even when fate is cruel, you still face choices about who you become in response. Bad things happen. But righteousness is a choice, not a privilege of the lucky.
On another note, what is it with Jiang Si’s sisters and abusive husbands? It’s like the Jiang family took out a Platinum Membership at the "Abusive and Deranged Husbands for Daughters Club™" and renewed it annually. Honestly, it’s both depressing and absurd: the eldest sister endured emotional abuse and manipulation, plus a mother-in-law who basically ran a labor camp, while the second sister straight-up married into hell itself — physical violence, humiliation, complete loss of dignity. And the worst part isn’t even just that they’re trapped; it’s that they cherish their chains. Like, “Oh no, I’m suffering horribly... but at least I have a husband...” Hello??? Is the bar in hell? It’s tragic, but it also brutally highlights how deeply women back then were conditioned: staying in a marriage — no matter how degrading — was seen as more honorable than leaving. A broken spirit was easier to bear than the shame of divorce or abandonment. Even the people who loved them, like their own family, sometimes reinforced that mindset. The whole culture was sick — and Si Jin absolutely does not sugarcoat it. Meanwhile, Jiang Si is out here like, “I’d rather live free and poor than die slow in someone else’s prison.” Queen behavior. Breaking generational trauma one defiant stare at a time.
And when he’s teasing Jiang Si or getting sly? He flips it — suddenly his voice turns light, sardonic, amused, but he never loses that elegant control. Even back in ‘Are You the One?’, that voice had the same presence — delivering dry humor or emotional restraint with just the right tone. His voice alone can layer irony, tenderness, or quiet menace into a scene. That’s why even when he plays "quiet" characters, he never feels passive or bland.
And let’s not lie: the man’s face isn’t exactly struggling either. Striking good looks — sharp, clean bone structure that the camera absolutely loves. Expressive eyes — the kind that can stay cool and unreadable one second, and then hit you with tenderness the next.
But Si Jin was never just about the pretty faces. It digs deeper into the uglier, heartbreaking parts of human nature. Take Second Sister, Jiang Yu. She’s not a villain in the traditional sense. She's a case study in how prolonged victimhood can twist someone’s survival instincts until right and wrong blur beyond recognition. Jiang Yu was trapped in a marriage that was pure misery — humiliated, degraded, constantly reminded that "looking respectable" mattered more than her safety. Living like that long enough does something to you. You start surviving however you can.
And Jiang Yu did the unthinkable, luring her sister into her residence, enabling her husband so that he could abuse Jiang Si as well. When someone has suffered so much, self-justification becomes a lifeline. She had to convince herself Jiang Si was to blame, because if not, she would have to admit to herself that what she was doing — and what she had endured — was wrong, that maybe she should have fought back earlier, that maybe there were choices she didn’t take. And that's a terrifying thing for someone broken down by years of powerlessness to confront.
In societies like the one portrayed in Si Jin, where appearances, chastity, and family honor outweighed a woman’s personal dignity, the idea of "escaping" was often more shameful than staying and suffering. So even victims could become perpetrators of the same cruelty, trying to uphold the illusion at any cost.
Speaking of devils, the Marquis of Changxing’s family isn’t simply rich — they have power and the ability to rewrite the world to suit their sins. Murders? Silenced. Abuse? Brushed aside. Victims? Which ones? It’s not just corruption — it’s morality bending to protect power.
The Marquis and his wife defending their son, despite knowing exactly what he did, shows that when reputation and status are your lifelines, you will protect them at any cost — even if it means shielding a monster and sacrificing innocent girls. The same applies to Second Uncle too. He knew what his daughter had suffered; he knew how monstrous the Marquis’ son was. But in the face of entrenched power, he was paralyzed — not because he didn’t love his family, but because, in that world, challenging someone like the Marquis could cost you everything. Does power really corrupt that badly? Si Jin seems to answer: no — it doesn’t corrupt, it reveals the rot that was always there, giving permission for cruelties that otherwise would have remained hidden.
The Marchioness begging for leniency was a masterclass in shamelessness. Her whole argument boiled down to, "We raised a monster, but please forgive us because, oops, parenting is hard." No acknowledgment of the destroyed lives. No guilt. Just self-pity because their "good name" was at risk. And back then, that was all that mattered — noble family reputation over actual justice. A ruined heir was a tragedy. Dead girls? Barely a footnote, unless it stained the family crest.
Circling back to the leads’ actual love story, Jiang Si came back to this life having flashes of how her love story with Yu Qi had ended in a different timeline, which made her so apprehensive about getting close to him. You could see the reservation and the longing battling in her eyes — and yet, her feelings inevitably got the best of her. It wasn’t something she could stop herself from.
Both her and Yu Qi had been marked from birth as "inauspicious," "unwanted," burdens in their families’ eyes, cast aside because of a prophecy that claimed they would bring misfortune. They didn’t just suffer neglect — they endured the kind of loneliness that comes when even those meant to love you most look at you like you’re a curse. And somehow, despite it all, they found each other.
And honestly? Er Niu — the furry little matchmaking agent — deserves his own medal. In the novel, he’s even better: "General Xiaotian," running secret errands and demanding food in exchange. The emotional heavy lifting he does just by existing cannot be overstated.
At the store opening, Yu Qi — usually Mr. Cool— completely lost his composure, all because he wanted to impress Jiang Si. Smoothing his sleeves, trying (and failing) to look casual, throwing little dagger glares at Lord Zhen every time he dared speak to her — he was a mess. And Lord Zhen? Equally stressed, equally desperate for her attention, playing the polite, charming gentleman while Yu Qi stood there fuming silently, like, “Why is he even breathing the same air as her?” These two men were having a whole invisible rivalry war while Jiang Si was just out there trying to sell fragrances. She 100% knew they were both acting weird and competing like lovesick puppies, but she pretended not to see it because it was too deliciously awkward to interrupt. Honestly, I need more love rivals acting like children over the calmest, most oblivious queen in the room. Jiang Si wins without lifting a finger.
Jian Si’s father daughter relationship was such a warm little pocket of safety in a show filled with scheming. Jiang An Cheng wasn’t just loving — he was unconditionally supportive, even when the world around them kept telling him she was “bad luck”. He never bought into that nonsense. He never wavered in his belief that his daughter was smart, capable, and deserved happiness. He was her quiet shield against a world that wanted to crush her spirit. And you could see how much Jiang Si cherished him too.
During Jiang Si’s emotional conversation with her father about her Second Sister, she says, “She married the wrong man. It's unfortunate,” expressing a very compassionate instinct — seeing her sister’s tragedy as bad luck rather than a character flaw. It was Jiang Si’s way of being gentle, merciful, framing her sister’s fall as fate being cruel rather than weakness on her part. But when her father replied, “We can't control our luck, but when misfortune befalls us, we can at least make the right choices,” he introduced the idea of personal responsibility even in suffering. Jiang Yu was a victim — abused, trapped, powerless — and yet, the father's words draw an important line: being unlucky is not your fault, but how you respond to your suffering still matters. It’s an acknowledgment that victimhood does not erase agency; even when fate is cruel, you still face choices about who you become in response. Bad things happen. But righteousness is a choice, not a privilege of the lucky.
On another note, what is it with Jiang Si’s sisters and abusive husbands? It’s like the Jiang family took out a Platinum Membership at the "Abusive and Deranged Husbands for Daughters Club™" and renewed it annually. Honestly, it’s both depressing and absurd: the eldest sister endured emotional abuse and manipulation, plus a mother-in-law who basically ran a labor camp, while the second sister straight-up married into hell itself — physical violence, humiliation, complete loss of dignity. And the worst part isn’t even just that they’re trapped; it’s that they cherish their chains. Like, “Oh no, I’m suffering horribly... but at least I have a husband...” Hello??? Is the bar in hell? It’s tragic, but it also brutally highlights how deeply women back then were conditioned: staying in a marriage — no matter how degrading — was seen as more honorable than leaving. A broken spirit was easier to bear than the shame of divorce or abandonment. Even the people who loved them, like their own family, sometimes reinforced that mindset. The whole culture was sick — and Si Jin absolutely does not sugarcoat it. Meanwhile, Jiang Si is out here like, “I’d rather live free and poor than die slow in someone else’s prison.” Queen behavior. Breaking generational trauma one defiant stare at a time.
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