Fang Yuan didn't turn.
His voice, dry as ancient parchment and twice as brittle, sliced through her syrupy theatrics like a dull blade through silk.
"Moonflowers? Really?"
He shifted at last, just enough for his gaze to catch hers, flat, unreadable, and utterly unimpressed.
The weight of his deadpan stare landed like a silent slap. If his expression were a sword, it would be sheathed but the threat was unmistakable.
Lin Zhaoyue's radiant smile held firm, but something behind her eyes flickered.
A tiny crack in the porcelain. Irritation?Embarrassment? Hurt? Whatever it was, it vanished behind renewed sugar.
She drifted a step closer, the scent of jasmine trailing in her wake like a noose of perfume.
"Husband," she purred, voice low, sultry, dangerously close. "I'm also a Mid-Stage Nascent Soul cultivator, you know."
Her chin tilted upward in a flawless show of pride, lashes fluttering with infuriating grace. "You have such a strong wife…"
