In the midst of the falling rain, where two souls had finally found each other, another pair of eyes burned with resentment.
From the shadows, hidden behind the columns of the grand hall, a woman stood with her fists clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms.
Her breath came in uneven bursts, her chest rising and falling with barely restrained fury.
The Seventh Consort.
That woman.
Hua Jing.
The woman who had stolen everything from her.
The First Consort's lips trembled as she watched the scene before her—Zhao Yan holding Hua Jing in his arms, whispering words of devotion, wiping away her tears as though she were the most precious thing in his world.
Why?
She had been at Zhao Yan's side first. She had entered the palace with dignity, bestowed upon him as his first consort, the one who should have stood at his right side forever.
Yet—
In all these years, he had never looked at her like that.
