Two ledgers sat open in front of me. One detailed the official stipend granted by the Ministry of Internal Affairs to the Crown Prince's household. The other outlined the real expenses.
They didn't match.
Not even close.
Too many courtyards. Too many servants. Too many women who thought a dozen pairs of embroidered slippers each season was a human right. The numbers bled like a gut wound.
The Crown Prince wasn't poor—but he certainly wasn't as rich as his women pretended.
I dipped the brush into the ink and began to write.
By the next morning, scrolls were hand-delivered to each registered concubine.
Each one contained her new monthly budget.
Each one was stamped with the seal of the Crown Princess.
And each one was, by noble standards, insultingly practical.
Food allowances were slashed. Cosmetic imports curtailed. Servant wages capped. Entertaining guests? Forbidden without written permission.
