It had all begun three years ago, after he awoke from the assassination attempt—when the very woman he loved had driven a blade into his chest. Soon after, news of her death reached him.
From that moment onward, the warmth he once held toward her vanished, replaced by a chilling suspicion. In time, he no longer regarded her as his consort, but as an enemy.
"Mistress, your face is so pale. Should I call the imperial physician?" Lánxīn asked, her voice heavy with worry as she studied Mei Liang's wan expression.
Mei Liang herself had not expected her body to react this way—so drained and exhausted simply from visiting the Empress's palace to watch the spectacle. Yet, in her heart, she felt it had been worth it.
If she hadn't gone, where else would she have witnessed such a fine drama? Those women must surely hate her to the bone now. They probably wished to tear her apart and drink her blood.
