MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!

The winds tonight were not just winds—they howled like the cries of forgotten ghosts, slicing through the skies as if the heavens themselves were protesting. Every gust carried an ominous weight, as though the entire empire was holding its breath in fearful anticipation.

The death of the emperor still hung in the air like some bad luck charm and the scent permeated every single mile of this empire.

The news of the death of the prince had made it even worse and it seemed a safe the wind was crying instead of howling.

Everything was not right nothing was as it seemed and even the air knew that something was wrong.

Nature had a peculiar way of telling people what was wrong and right now at this very moment was the perfect example of everything that was going on.

Within those slicing gusts of wind, a figure darted from shadow to shadow. Cloaked in the blackest of blacks, with her face wrapped tight beneath a hood, the woman moved like smoke in the dark. Not even the most well-trained of the Prime Minister’s soldiers could detect her. Not a breath was wasted. Not a footstep was misplaced. She moved with the grace of a phantom and the precision of a blade.

Her eyes was set on the place that she was going and her body was lit and it sliced around the wind like a blade.

She had one destination: the East Courtyard.

The First Consort’s domain.

This part of the palace was untouched by the weight of death and tension that hung over the empire like a funeral veil. While outside the people mourned the loss of the emperor and whispered feverishly about the death of the crown prince, the East Courtyard basked in a twisted calm. Too calm.

Too unnatural.

Inside the First Consort’s chamber, there was no mourning. There was no grief. There were only fabrics—hundreds of them.

Silks, satins, velvets, chiffons—all laid out like offerings to a goddess. Robes of every shade shimmered under the golden lantern light: deep imperial reds, radiant purples, phoenix golds.

"Congratulations, my lady," a maid whispered as she laid down another folded garment. "You shall soon be our Empress."

"The new Emperor has sent his blessings," another added with a smile.

The First Consort said nothing.

The sevens were a bit confused as they looked at everything that was in display in front of the First consort.

This was every girl’s dream and it was displayed right here so why was she not interested in these things?

Why did she look so gloomy?

She merely raised a hand, dismissive, and continued to dab her lips with her rose-scented balm in front of the polished mirror.

But her reflection didn’t lie.

Her brows were creased.

Her eyes—empty.

Even as gowns poured into her room and words of praise floated like incense in the air, there was no light in her gaze. None of this mattered.

Not really.

Not since she had heard those words from Pei Rong.

"I dealt with Zhaoyan."

Her heart had stopped then.

She had stood frozen in that dim prison corridor, her fingers trembling, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a cry. She had wanted the crown. Yes. She had dreamed of that throne. She had fantasized about it. Fought for it.

But not like this.

Not like this.

Zhao Yan... He was the only man who had ever looked at her with dignity. With warmth. He had never returned her love, but he had respected her. And for her... that had been never been enough.

She had loved him for so long yet he had never even thought to look at her in the same way, at least not in the way that she wanted him to.

When he chose Hua Jing in front of everyone, she had been too heartbroken to do anything and so she did the only thing that was right in front of her...

She betrayed him...

She betrayed the man she loved all for the title she would be getting in two days.

So why, then, did her heart scream in agony now?

Just hearing those words that hubby lovered was no more was so much agonizing that she did not know she could feel this much pain.

She had not thought that this plan would end up with the prince gone. Had only thought that he would be overthrown and that was that but the way the plans had panned out now was completely out of her control and thoughts.

The First Consort’s hands were shaking as she pressed the balm to her lips again. Once. Twice. She tried to force her expression into one of calm composure.

But then—

Silence.

Too much silence.

The air in her room shifted. Heavy. Oppressive.

Her hand froze.

She turned slowly. Her eyes scanned the room.

Every single one of her maids lay sprawled across the floor—unmoving.

She had not heard a sound.

Not a single cry.

Not a single thud.

Not even the rustle of a sleeve.

"Wha—"

Her voice caught in her throat.

Standing not three feet away, cloaked in black, was a figure. Silent. Still. Watching.

Those eyes—!

They glowed like embers in the darkness.

They burned with something deep. Something unforgiving.

The First Consort stepped back instinctively, her breath now ragged.

"Who are you?" she asked, but her voice trembled. That wasn’t how she had meant to say it. She had wanted to be commanding. Demanding.

Instead, she sounded like a lost girl in the woods.

The figure didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

But oh, the tension in the air was thunderous.

It pulsed like a second heartbeat.

The First Consort tried to think.

Where were the guards?

Why hadn’t she heard anything?

This... this figure didn’t feel like an assassin. No. Assassins killed swiftly.

This person—whoever they were—was here for something else.

Something darker.

Something far, far more terrifying.

A whisper echoed in her mind: retribution.