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

The darkness stretched on far too long. At first, people thought it was a planned effect, but soon uneasy whispers spread across the stadium. Fans shifted in their seats, craning their necks as if straining could reveal what was happening on stage.

Backstage, the staff was in complete disarray. Technicians darted from one panel to another, voices overlapping in panic. This blackout was not in the schedule. It was not supposed to happen. Every second that ticked by only worsened the chaos.

At the center of it all, Mao Li’s face had grown cold and tight. The head of Blue Entertainment had expected tonight to be perfect, flawless, unforgettable. Instead, millions of people watching from home were staring at nothing but black screens. His voice was sharp as he barked into his phone. "Fix this! I don’t care how—bring the lights back now!"

For Blue Entertainment, this was supposed to be flawless.

A legacy night.

Instead, millions of viewers at home saw nothing but a black screen.

Comments exploded online.

"What is this?"

"Is the stream broken?"

"I can’t believe Blue Entertainment would let this happen."

In the stadium, fans clutched their phones, their voices nervous.

"Why is it so dark?"

"Is it safe?"

The panic swelled higher, a wave threatening to drown the atmosphere completely.

Meanwhile, in the stadium, fans exchanged nervous glances, clutching their phones. The atmosphere teetered on the edge of panic.

And then, as if the world itself held its breath, a sound drifted through the dark. A single piano note. Soft, clear, and strangely fragile. Another note followed, then another, until a delicate melody spread across the silent stadium.

The sound was mesmerizing. Every note echoed as if it had been born in the heart of still water, rippling outward. No one recognized the tune, but it was beautiful in a way that made throats tighten and hearts quiet. The audience froze, listening.

Someone pointed with trembling hands.

"Look! On the stage!"

All eyes turned forward. A single spotlight flickered to life, illuminating a grand piano. White, gleaming, as if it had emerged from mist. Seated before it was a man dressed in equally pure white.

His back was straight, his posture elegant, his every movement composed. The light deliberately avoided his face, shrouding it in mystery. But his hands—his hands were revealed. Long, pale fingers danced gracefully across the keys, smooth and precise, creating magic from sound alone.

A gasp cut through the silence. Then another. Then an eruption.

"Fu Jingrong!"

The name exploded like fire in the stadium, multiplying until thousands were screaming it all at once. The ground seemed to tremble with the force of it.

On the live stream, the chat box was pure chaos.

"It’s him!" — "He came back!" — "Prince Jingrong is on stage!"

Comments moved so fast that screens became unreadable. Viewers who had been complaining seconds ago were now shouting in disbelief and joy.

But Fu Jingrong himself did not look up. His gaze remained lowered, his expression calm, his hands gliding over the piano keys without pause. He ignored the screaming fans, the chaos, the flashing lights of countless phones. To him, there was nothing but the music.

The melody shifted, growing fuller, grander. Notes rose and fell like ocean waves, swelling with emotion before receding into something delicate and aching. It was not just music—it was storytelling. And it held the stadium in its grip.

The spotlight widened, revealing more of him. His features emerged slowly, like a painting brought to life. A sharp jawline, high nose bridge, and dark phoenix eyes that glimmered faintly under the glow. His pale skin shone against the brilliance of his white suit, which had been tailored to absolute perfection.

The suit itself was embroidered subtly with silver threads that caught the light with every movement, regal and understated. He looked less like a performer and more like royalty—an untouchable prince seated upon his throne.

Fans screamed themselves hoarse. Some cried openly, shaking their heads as if unable to believe this was real.

"He’s too handsome!"

"Unreal—he’s like a god!"

"He’s really here—Fu Jingrong is really here!"

Backstage, the frenzy had stopped entirely. Technicians and staff who had been panicking only minutes ago were now glued to the monitors, mouths open. Even Mao Li, who had been raging moments before, stood frozen with his phone in hand, his eyes locked on the stage.

Fu Jingrong’s fingers moved faster, effortlessly weaving notes that struck directly into the soul. His entire being seemed fused with the piano. Each note was not simply played—it was breathed, lived. This was not performance. This was transcendence.

The audience could feel it. Hua Ling’s earlier extravagance of lights and dancers suddenly felt cheap in comparison. No tricks, no gimmicks, no pre-recorded tracks. Just a man, his piano, and his music. And it was enough to eclipse everything else.

The cheers rose higher, deafening, drowning the stadium in sound. Fans raised their phones, their flashlights sparkling across the arena like a galaxy. His name was screamed again and again, until it blended with the very melody itself.

Downstage, the artists sat frozen. Many of them had wide eyes, unable to hide their astonishment at the twist that had just unfolded before them. Fu Jingrong had not only appeared but was performing with such mastery that the very air felt enchanted.

They had all known the kind of wave he could bring if he were to show up tonight. For weeks, there had been speculation. Some artists who had refused to attend past ceremonies had actually sought out invitations the moment they heard rumors of his presence.

When he failed to appear on the red carpet, the disappointment had been sharp. Whispers had spread that perhaps the rumors were false, that the "prince" would not descend tonight after all. Yet here he was, sitting under a single spotlight, playing a piece so foreign and yet so breathtaking that time itself seemed to pause.

The female stars were the first to move. Many subtly adjusted their gowns, smoothing fabric or checking their hair. If by some chance Fu Jingrong’s gaze swept across the audience, none wanted to be caught looking sloppy.

Some could not help the silent prayers in their hearts. If only I had one chance to stand beside him. They knew the truth—just one photo with Fu Jingrong could shift the entire trajectory of a career. That was the power he held in the industry. He was not just an artist. He was a force.

Slowly, almost reverently, some of them began to clap. It was quiet at first, hesitant, but it spread like wildfire until the sound of applause mingled with the melody of the piano. Their faces glowed with admiration as his pale fingers continued to fly across the keys.

But not everyone was in awe. Hua Ling sat stiff, her body rigid as her nails dug into her palms. The veins on her hand stood out against her skin. Her chest rose and fell with barely controlled fury.

She had crossed the one-million vote mark only minutes ago. Her fans had screamed, her performance had trended, and she had felt the thrill of victory already within her grasp. Yet ever since Fu Jingrong appeared, the numbers had begun to shift at frightening speed.

Her name, once firmly on top, was slipping. His votes surged upward, climbing, climbing—like a storm tide that would soon drown her entirely.

This award was hers. It had to be hers. Popularity was everything in their world. Without it, all her schemes and carefully crafted illusions would crumble. And now this man—this untouchable figure—had come to take it from her.

Her lips twitched as she tried to maintain her smile, but it faltered. Her face stayed rigid, her eyes sharp with unwillingness.

Across from her, Lin Qian had been silent throughout the performance. But the moment her gaze caught Hua Ling’s expression, a slow, knowing smile curved her lips. It was a smile that dripped with satisfaction, a smile meant only for Hua Ling to see.

The sight of her rival losing control, even slightly, filled Lin Qian with a happiness she had not anticipated. She leaned back in her seat, her eyes sparkling as the piano continued to play. So this is what it feels like, she thought. To finally see the cracks forming in her perfect mask.

She turned her gaze back to the stage, her smile widening. Let the games begin, baby!

....

Back on stage, Fu Jingrong’s fingers never faltered. The melody poured out like rain, each note falling lightly, rippling into the hushed silence of the stadium. The audience hung on every sound, every pause, as though afraid even their breathing might disturb him.

But backstage, chaos reigned. This was not in the program. Fu Jingrong’s name was nowhere on the lineup, and the stage managers were whispering furiously into their headsets. The artist who was meant to perform next sat in the waiting area, her fists clenched on her lap. Anger darkened her expression, yet she dared not complain aloud. No one could afford to openly defy him.

On stage, Fu Jingrong remained serene. His eyes were lowered, lashes shadowing his pale features as his long, elegant fingers drifted over the keys. Every movement was controlled, refined—like a noble prince gracing mortals with a glimpse of his true self.

Then, without warning, his head lifted. His gaze, sharp and burning, cut through the darkness of the stadium. The crowd gasped. For a moment, it felt as though the music itself bent to his will, rising with the intensity of his stare.

Screams erupted instantly.

"He’s looking at me!"