Hua Jing blinked, slowly shifting her gaze from Zhao Yan's smirking face to the nobleman who was now visibly trembling before her.
His mouth opened and closed, his throat bobbing as if he wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn't come.
The once arrogant and self-assured man, who had earlier mocked and berated her without a second thought, was now reduced to a shaking mess.
Hua Jing's lips curled ever so slightly.
Zhao Yan remained silent beside her, his expression unreadable, yet the weight of his presence was suffocating. Even without speaking, he dominated the space around them, his dark gaze locking onto the nobleman with the same cold amusement as before.
And that only made the man sweat even more.
"Seventh… Seventh Consort," the nobleman stammered again, his voice weak, pitiful.
Hua Jing tilted her head, her expression serene, but her eyes held something dangerous—something that made the nobleman's stomach churn in fear.
