By the time Lady Zhao returned to the banquet hall, her face had been rearranged into an expression of wounded dignity, lips tight and eyes brittle with barely contained rage. The Imperial Consort was beside her, composed as always, though anyone looking closely might have noticed the glimmer of satisfaction in her step.
The doors to the hall opened just enough for them to slip in—but behind them came the true spectacle.
Two guards entered first, dragging the disheveled figures of Zhao Meiling and Zhu Lianhua between them. Meiling's outer robe was gone, and her hair, once artfully arranged, hung in wild disarray over one shoulder. A love bite was already blooming just above her collarbone. The Third Prince didn't look much better—his belt was missing, the hem of his robes barely concealing his thighs, and his usually perfect hair looked like he'd fought a wild dog and lost.
The gasps that rippled across the hall were almost musical in their timing.
