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

Her chest rose and fell violently, her breath short and ragged as if every inhale dragged shards of glass into her lungs. She wanted to tear them apart with her bare hands, claw their pretty little faces until they were unrecognizable. Her fingers twitched at the thought, her rage bubbling so violently it could not be contained.

The air itself seemed to change around Hua Ling. The bitterness and wrath she exuded made it heavy, suffocating, as if the hallway had been plunged into some kind of invisible storm. Even the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above seemed to crackle differently, warped by her fury.

Lin Qian glanced at her once, her face serene, utterly unbothered. Zhang Ruo’s grip tightened slightly around Lin Qian’s hand, but her eyes were steady, as if Hua Ling’s outburst wasn’t even worth a second thought.

And that... that only fanned Hua Ling’s rage further.

Her chest heaved. Her hands trembled. The anger was almost visible—like heat waves simmering off her body, twisting the air around her. She wanted to scream, to curse, to throw everything in her heart out into the world, but something in the cold indifference of the two women before her forced her lips shut.

They weren’t afraid of her.

Not one bit.

And that was to be expected.

Lin Qian and Zhang Ruo stood in that hallway with their gazes steady, not flinching, not even trembling in the face of Hua Ling’s venomous glare. Their expressions carried the certainty of people who knew the tide had already shifted, who knew that no matter how much this woman screamed, clawed, or struggled, her downfall was inevitable.

Hua Ling, on the other hand, looked like a cornered beast. The hatred in her eyes was so thick it could choke the air itself. If looks could kill, the two women before her would have dropped lifeless on the marble floor. But Lin Qian only lifted her chin, her baby-blue dress glimmering faintly under the hallway lights, mocking Hua Ling with its effortless brilliance.

It was ironic. Hua Ling had stolen this design. She had schemed, manipulated, and used every dirty trick to ensure she shone brightest tonight. Yet here she was—her rival radiant, her publicist standing firmly against her, her pride shredded.

Zhang Ruo’s lips curved in a sneer. She had endured a year of silent torment under Hua Ling’s tyrannical demands, a year where every day had been hell simply because she once belonged to Hua Jing’s team. Hua Ling had forced her into servitude, paraded her around as if owning her meant she had defeated Hua Jing. But now? Now Hua Jing was back. Alive. Brilliant. Unstoppable.

The years of bitterness in Zhang Ruo’s chest flared into pure defiance. "Hua Ling," she said coldly, her voice low but cutting, "you’ve always mistaken fear for respect. Tonight, you’ll finally learn the difference."

Hua Ling’s fingers curled into fists, her manicured nails digging deep into her palms until they almost drew blood. Her teeth ground audibly as she hissed through them, "You will definitely pay for this."

Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned sharply, her heels striking the floor like whiplashes. The sound of her footsteps reverberated in the hallway until she disappeared around the corner, her body trembling with restrained fury.

Lin Qian and Zhang Ruo exchanged a glance, both of them filled with the same disdain. Her threats? Empty. Her words? Worthless. They had seen her at her peak, but with Hua Jing’s return, she was nothing more than a shadow trembling at the edges of the light.

"Let her bark," Lin Qian muttered, clicking her tongue. "The queen is back. Servants should know their place."

Zhang Ruo chuckled bitterly, leaning slightly on Lin Qian’s support as the two made their way toward the artists’ lounge. They walked calmly, almost leisurely, as though they had just left behind a defeated enemy with no significance. Entering the lounge, they poured themselves glasses of juice, sitting back with an air of ease, as if none of Hua Ling’s theatrics had ever mattered.

But elsewhere, the woman who had stormed away was losing the last threads of control she had.

Inside her dressing room, Hua Ling erupted like a volcano. The first thing she grabbed was a perfume bottle. It shattered against the wall, the expensive fragrance spilling into the air in a suffocating haze. She grabbed the vase of fresh roses her manager had placed there for good luck and flung it to the floor. The water seeped into the carpet, the petals crushed beneath her heels as she stomped again and again, her face twisted with hatred.

"This was supposed to be my night!" she shrieked, her voice raw. "Mine! Everything was supposed to change tonight! And yet—her! Always her!"

Her reflection in the full-length mirror mocked her. The woman staring back looked nothing like the superstar she had tried so hard to become. Her makeup, once flawless, now looked ghostly under the harsh lights, her eyes red and swollen with rage. The sequined dress she had chosen to outshine every other artist seemed dull, cheap even, when compared to Lin Qian’s effortless glow.

And then came the final blow.

She pulled up the live voting poll on her phone—the one that was supposed to cement her place as the nation’s top star after tonight. Her name sat in fourth place. Fourth! Below people she had never considered her equals. Her fingers trembled as she scrolled, seeing Hua Jing’s name soar to the top spot, the votes climbing higher and higher every second.

"No..." she whispered, the phone slipping from her grip and clattering onto the floor. Her knees buckled, and she sank down, clutching her head. Tears streaked through her makeup, staining the glitter on her cheeks. "No, this can’t be happening. This night was supposed to be mine! Why did she come back? Why did she have to come back?"

Her scream tore through the walls, shrill and guttural, shaking the air like glass about to splinter. She thrashed, knocked over the rack of gowns prepared for her, and stomped on them in fury. Papers, scripts, and schedules flew through the air as she ripped them apart with her hands.

And yet no matter how much she destroyed, no matter how loud she screamed, the truth did not change.

Hua Jing was back.

That woman was actually back!

That woman was actually back, she was truly back!

No matter how many times Hua Ling tried to think, this was the reality!

The thought hammered through Hua Ling’s mind again and again, so loud it almost drowned out her own ragged breathing. Bitterness and hatred flowed through her veins like an endless spring, scorching, burning, refusing to leave. Her pupils trembled, her eyes flashing with something so dangerous it looked as if the last fragile thread of sanity had finally snapped.

She sat hunched over on the vanity chair, the glassy shards of the broken perfume bottle glittering across the carpet like tiny knives. For a moment, she simply stared at her reflection — ruined makeup, hair clinging to her damp temples, her lipstick smeared like blood. The superstar she had tried so hard to create was gone. In her place sat a woman trembling with venom.

Her hand moved before her mind caught up. She snatched her phone, scrolled rapidly, and after a sharp inhale, pressed a number she had not dialed in months.

The line clicked.

"I need you to do something for me," Hua Ling said, her voice low, dangerous, stripped of the fake sweetness she usually paraded around. Then, without another word, she hung up.

Her chest rose and fell like a storm was raging inside her. Whatever came next — she would make sure Hua Jing regretted ever waking up!

...

Meanwhile, back at the stadium, the atmosphere was completely different.

The Blue Awards stage still gleamed under the bright lights, the curtains drawn halfway, the MCs on stage desperately trying to hold onto the audience’s attention. But the truth was undeniable — the ceremony had lost its soul the very moment Fu Jingrong, Hua Jing, and Lin Qian disappeared backstage.

Their joint performance had been nothing short of breathtaking. It had been the kind of performance that stopped time, that froze hearts, that gave goosebumps to even the harshest critics. The fans had screamed themselves hoarse, cried, and recorded every second. But the cruel part of brilliance was this: once it ended, it left an aching hunger behind.

Now, the fans were restless.

"Encore! Encore!" roared one section of the crowd, stamping their feet so hard that the ground trembled.

"Where did they go?! Don’t tell me that was it!" someone else cried, waving a glowing lightstick as if it could summon the stars back to the stage.

Another girl, tears streaming down her cheeks, clutched her phone with trembling hands as she tweeted, "I waited ONE YEAR for this. I’m not leaving until I see them again. Even if it means sleeping outside this stadium. #BringThemBack"

In the front rows, a group of college boys had banded together, chanting Fu Jingrong’s name as though they were at a football match, their deep voices rolling like thunder:

"FU JINGRONG! FU JINGRONG! FU JINGRONG!"

Not far away, a middle-aged woman who had been Hua Jing’s fan since her debut sobbed into a handkerchief. "My baby is alive, she’s shining, she’s back..." she wailed, shaking the stranger next to her who awkwardly patted her shoulder but was secretly recording the scene for social media.

Comments online were exploding at lightning speed:

"Please, I’ll sell my kidney if it means seeing them again tonight!"

"Did the MCs think we came here for their recycled jokes?? I ONLY came for Hua Jing!"

"Fu Jingrong’s suit... Lin Qian’s dress... Hua Jing’s red... I can’t breathe. Someone marry me to all three, please."

"I’m literally outside the venue already, waiting at the back gates. If I faint when they come out, someone catch me."

"BRO my mom is crying harder than me. She just said Hua Jing is her daughter-in-law from now on!"