The First Consort sat in silence.
Her back was straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but her entire body was stiff—as if she were a soldier awaiting execution.
The morning air was cool, yet inside her chambers, it felt suffocating. A single candle flickered beside her, its glow casting shadows across her beautiful yet exhausted face.
She had barely slept the night before. The weight of yesterday's events sat heavy on her shoulders. She had miscalculated.
It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
Hua Jing was supposed to be gone—removed from the equation, erased from existence.
And yet, not only was she still alive, but the Prince himself had carried her out of the lower prison as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robes, nails pressing deep into her skin.
That moment.
That moment when Zhao Yan had stepped into the prison, his eyes burning with fury, his entire body radiating an overwhelming rage…
She shivered.
