Lady Chen did not sleep that night.
The palace lamps burned low in her chamber, their faint light trembling as if they, too, sensed the unrest in her heart. She sat on the edge of her bed, fingers clenched into the silk blanket.
The image would not leave her mind.
The Emperor's scarf.
That uneven, crooked scarf around his neck.
The way he smiled while wearing it.
Not for her.
For the Empress.
Her chest felt tight, as if someone had wrapped silk cords around her heart and pulled them slowly, mercilessly.
For years, she had been by his side.
For years, she had listened, comforted, waited.
She endured humiliation.
She endured the Dowager's sharp words.
She endured watching him walk past her door again and again.
And yet—
He chose that woman.
A woman who cooked.
A woman who smiled freely.
A woman who did not even understand palace etiquette.
Lady Chen's nails dug into her palm.
"I can't lose," she whispered.
Not after everything.
