Divya gasped dramatically, then collapsed to her knees in one fluid motion. She grabbed the hem of her robe, clenched it in her fists, and lowered her head as if she had just been struck by divine judgment.
And then, in a voice so heartbroken it could bring rain to a desert, she whispered, "My lord… I know it is my fault. I should not have splashed hot tea on my father's wife."
Silence.
A long, heavy, awkward silence.
One thing Divya was certain of in this bizarre ancient world—whether it was real or just some twisted reincarnation trope—was that every Chinese drama and every historical setting had concubines.
Where there were lords, there were wives and concubines.
So, playing the role of a wronged daughter, punished for offending a stepmother or a favored concubine, wasn't a stretch.
After all, how could the owner of this stable not have concubines?
