"Enough."
Linglong's voice cut in, a lazy drawl that acted like a finger lightly plucking a string stretched to its breaking point.
"Liz, withdraw."
Erika heard the subtle rustle of fabric.
"I said, withdraw." Linglong repeated. The tone hadn't changed, but a heavy, abyssal weight had sunk beneath it.
"Yes, Your Highness."
Footsteps. Liz's. Her heels struck the polished floor, striking harder than before, as if channeling one final, silent protest into the marble. One. Two. Three. Then the sound was completely swallowed by the heavy doors beyond.
The air in the room grew viscous again.
"Cole." Linglong's tone shifted. It was still lazy, but underneath it lay a sound like a blade being slowly, deliberately whetted against a stone. "This isn't our first dealing. But I have to admit, this posture of absolute control you're displaying today makes me feel very insecure."
A pause. Erika felt Cole's fingers twitch infinitesimally against his eyelid.
"You need to prove to me that the leverage in your hand is absolutely under your control, not some stray dog that might bite its master at any moment." Linglong applied the pressure unhurriedly, the weight of a royal decree pressing down on the table.
Cole said nothing.
One hand quietly covered Erika's eyes, perfectly motionless. Warm. Dry. Like an insurmountable wall, completely severing him from the piercing gaze across the table.
Immediately after, a piece of bread was forcibly pressed against his lips. Erika instinctively opened his mouth, and the bread was shoved in. He didn't dare swallow. He just held it there, the rich aroma of wheat and butter slowly dissolving on his tongue, turning into a tasteless, suffocating mass.
"You've never seen real flowers in a greenhouse, have you, Linglong?" Cole finally spoke. His voice was a languid purr, the deep vibration of his chest transmitting directly through Erika's back. "They are extremely fragile things."
Another piece of bread was pressed against his lips. It was pushed in with a force that brooked no refusal, cramming together with the unswallowed piece, stretching his cheeks taut. Erika was forced to start chewing. Two pieces together. Soft. Fragrant. Yet it felt exactly like chewing and swallowing his own shattered dignity.
"You need to control the temperature, regulate the humidity, even calculate the precise angle of every single ray of light," Cole stated casually.
The air hung silent for a few agonizing seconds.
Then—Erika felt something press against his neck.
Ice-cold.
It slowly traced across the side of his neck. Once. Twice. Like some fork-tongued, venomous creature slithering over his most vulnerable skin.
His entire body stiffened into iron. What was that?
"You can't give it too much water, or the roots will rot; you can't let it get too dry, either." Cole's voice remained perfectly placid, but that icy touch suddenly stopped dead against Erika's carotid artery. A terrifying, microscopic pressure was applied.
His heartbeat suddenly became deafening, so violently loud Erika suspected the prince sitting across could hear it thudding against his ribs. With just a fractional twitch of Cole's finger, a fountain of hot blood would spray across the exquisite dishes on the table.
Cole's hand remained clamped over his eyes.
"You have to keep it in a state of constant craving. Even fear," Cole chuckled softly, a sound devoid of warmth. "Only then will it bloom the most brilliant, thornless petals, purely out of the desperate instinct to survive."
—Gulp.
A very soft sound. From across the table.
The sound of Linglong swallowing hard.
Erika didn't know what it meant. He only felt that icy edge suddenly vanish from his artery—as if it had never existed. Cole's hand lifted from his eyes simultaneously.
Light rushed back in, blindingly sharp, forcing him to squint.
Linglong sat across from them. There was something on the silver plate before him, but Erika's blurred vision couldn't make it out. He only saw Linglong's face—the lazy, aristocratic smile had been entirely wiped away, leaving an expression Erika couldn't quite read. Complex, grim, and deeply wary.
"Say it," Linglong's voice was distinctly hoarse now. "What is your price."
Cole laughed once. It was a short, breathy sound, but Erika heard the absolute, crushing victory within it.
The dry mass of bread was finally forced down Erika's throat. He remained trapped against Cole, completely enveloped by that dangerous physique and terrifying aura. Across from them sat the man known as the Second Prince, while the phantom chill of death still lingered on Erika's neck.
Cole's fingers tapped twice lightly on the mahogany table.
Then—
He casually flicked the dining knife forward.
The movement was absurdly nonchalant. As careless as tossing a chewed fruit pit into the dirt, not hurling a razor-sharp blade across a table. He didn't even look. He didn't aim. Just a lazy flick of the wrist—
Clatter—!
The knife tumbled through the air, tracing a dull silver arc before smashing precisely onto Linglong's plate. The heavy blade shattered a crust of bread, bounced up with a sharp metallic ring, and finally landed, stabbing at a sharp angle into the pile of crumbs. The silver handle was still vibrating with a faint, deadly hum.
The dining room fell into a dead silence.
Only the microscopic buzzing of that trembling knife handle remained.
Cole leaned back in his chair, one hand still draped over Erika's waist, his posture as relaxed as a man lounging on his own sofa. He looked across the table, wearing that same infuriating smile—not ingratiating, not threatening. Just a smile. It was the look of a man watching an opponent who had finally realized he was checkmated.
"Your Highness," his voice rang out, neither loud nor soft, yet carrying the weight of a decree in the quiet room. "You haven't accepted my gift yet."
A calculated pause.
"It's basic etiquette." The corner of his mouth curved higher. "Unless my memory fails me."
—
Linglong stared at the knife embedded in his plate.
He looked at it for a long, long time.
Then, he shook his head.
That shake wasn't a refusal, nor was it born of anger. It was something entirely different—the hollow, self-deprecating, utterly resigned shake of a man who had finally seen the bottom of the abyss and realized he had to jump.
The corner of his mouth twisted into a harsh line.
It wasn't a smile. It was a grimace of defeat.
"Cole…" he spoke, his voice sounding like cracked stone. "…you bastard."
There were no more words.
Just those three.
But Erika heard it clearly—it wasn't a curse. It was an absolute surrender.
—
"Let's not delay then, Your Highness," Cole's reply followed instantly, snapping like a trap springing shut. He had been waiting for exactly this moment.
He didn't stand up. He didn't shift his position. He remained slouched in his chair, one hand on Erika's waist, the other casually resting on the table's edge.
That posture—it wasn't mere arrogance.
It was absolute, terrifying control.
Like a fully gorged lion basking in the sun, knowing with absolute certainty that its prey was already dead.
—
Linglong stood up.
The heavy chair legs scraped a muffled protest against the carpet.
He stood there, looking down at Cole. The flickering candlelight stretched his shadow into a long, distorted shape against the back wall.
"Then my life—"
He paused, the political weight of his next words heavy enough to crush a man.
"—is yours to wager."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked toward the inner chambers.
He didn't look back. His footsteps, heavy and rhythmic, grew fainter and fainter until they vanished.
—
Erika stared at the disappearing back of the prince, his mind still struggling to process the sheer scale of the transaction that had just occurred.
Something tickled his ear.
Warm breath.
"Eat."
Cole's voice was right against his ear, so close he could feel the man's lips almost brushing his earlobe.
"Everything on the table. It's yours."
—
The next second, his body lost all weight.
Cole lifted him by the fabric of his robe and casually deposited him onto an adjacent chair. The seat was cold, the unyielding hard wood pressing against his legs through the soft fabric.
Cole didn't even spare him another glance.
He simply gave Erika's shoulder a careless pat, adjusted his cuffs, and then—
Walked off in the direction Linglong had taken.
His measured footsteps quickly faded into the depths of the corridor, leaving to collect his massive winnings.
—
Only Erika remained in the cavernous dining room.
Before him stretched the enormous table. Gleaming silver cutlery, sparkling crystal glasses, dishes still billowing with fragrant steam, and that dining knife, still jutting at an angle from the silver plate.
He stared at that knife.
He suddenly remembered the sensation of that icy steel sliding across his fragile skin.
He remembered the sound of Linglong swallowing his pride.
He remembered the tone in Cole's voice when he said "Eat"—
Exactly the tone used to reward an obedient, broken dog.
Erika's left hand tightened into a fist, his knuckles turning white, while his empty right sleeve hung limp.
He looked at the feast spread before him.
For a long, dead minute.
Then, he reached out and grabbed a hunk of bread.
He stuffed it into his mouth.
And chewed.
His eyes remained deadlocked on the dark corridor where Cole had disappeared.
—
Erika listened with the acute focus of a hunted animal. Cole's steps. Linglong's steps. Both were gone. Faded completely into some unseen corner of this gilded prison.
He looked around.
The dining room was vast and oppressive. Candlesticks cast flickering, wavering light across the feast. The silver gleamed mockingly. The crystal stood silent. The food still radiated heat—roasted meats, thick stews, fried delicacies, sweet pastries, savory sauces, rich and cloying.
There was no one else.
There was no time for etiquette. No time to be picky.
He reached out—his left hand already stained with grease and crumbs—and violently dragged the closest plates toward him.
One. Two. Three.
He began to devour it all.
There were no forks or knives. No polite nibbling. Only his hand, his mouth, and a starved, desperate stomach. This wasn't dining; this was refueling a broken machine.
The roasted meat was still scalding hot, dripping with thick, savory sauce, but he didn't care. He shoved it into his mouth, his jaw working mechanically, chewing twice before swallowing it almost whole. He scooped up a handful of thick stew, the rich broth running down his chin and staining the collar of his soft robe. He wiped it away with the back of a greasy hand and kept eating.
He grabbed a sickly sweet pastry—he didn't know what it was called, only that it was soft and melted into pure, high-calorie sugar on his tongue. He forced three of them down his throat in quick succession.
Utensils? Pointless.
The chaotic clatter of porcelain and silver echoed loudly in the empty, silent room. The only other sounds were his own wet chewing, the heavy gulps of his swallowing, and the occasional violent cough when he forced the food down too fast.
No one was watching. No one cared.
So he ate.
He ate until his stomach physically ached. He ate until a heavy, nauseating lethargy began to seep into his limbs. He ate until every plate within reach was scraped clean, packing every possible ounce of energy into his battered body.
—
Eventually, Erika slumped back into the chair.
The hard, wooden backrest dug uncomfortably into his spine, but he couldn't muster the energy to shift. Every ounce of his body's resources was now desperately trying to process the massive influx of heavy, greasy fuel. He could barely keep his eyelids open.
He stared blankly at the devastation on the table.
Plates were overturned. Dark, oily stains had spread like bruises across the pristine white tablecloth. Stripped bones, scattered crumbs, and half-mutilated food lay in a chaotic wasteland.
He wiped his mouth with his hands.
His fingers gleamed in the candlelight, slick with oil and fat, debris packed under his nails. He stared at his hands for a moment, then wiped them ruthlessly against his clothes—the luxurious, dark blue velvet robe now bearing several dark, greasy handprints across the chest.
He placed a hand over his stomach.
It was painfully distended. The form-fitting fabric was stretched taut, revealing a highly visible, unnatural curve. It was a physical burden, a heavy weight that made breathing slightly labored. He stared at that bulge, dazed, for several seconds.
Then, the corner of his mouth twitched.
It wasn't a smile. It was the grim, ugly grimace of a survivor checking his ammunition.
—
Click. Clack.
The familiar, sharp sound of high heels echoed from the shadows.
A one-second pause.
Erika's lethargic body instantly went rigid.
He knew that sound. Liz's footsteps. Striking the marble with that same sharp, impatient, and inherently mocking rhythm.
He froze in the hard chair. His hands were slick with grease, the table a disgusting mess, his stomach painfully bloated, and the remnants of some rich sauce still smeared across his cheek.
A sudden draft, carrying the faint, cold scent of an expensive perfume, brushed past Erika's ear.
It was incredibly light. Almost like an illusion brought on by his food coma.
But immediately after—
A whisper, as soft as silk but striking his mind like a thunderbolt:
"That eyesore of a white robe is hanging on the hook outside the back door."
A deliberate, cruel pause.
"Assuming you haven't completely turned into his obedient little dog."
—
The clicking of the heels resumed.
This time, they were retreating.
One. Two. Three. Growing fainter and fainter, until they were swallowed entirely by the shadows at the end of the hall.
The perfumed breeze dissipated.
Erika was left alone again in the ruined dining room. Alone with the mess, the grease, and those venomous words echoing endlessly in his skull.
...completely turned into his obedient little dog.
—
Erika slowly raised his head.
He stared into the darkness where Liz had vanished. On his greasy, pale face, a profound shift was occurring.
It wasn't a flare of anger. It wasn't the panic of fear. It was something entirely different—something ancient, cold, and primal, rising up from the darkest corner of his soul where he had kept it chained.
He didn't hesitate for another second.
Like a cornered, wounded wolf—despite the painful bloat of his stomach, despite the heavy lethargy in his limbs, despite being covered in the filth of his own humiliation—he slid out of the chair.
His bare feet hit the cold floor. The foot Cole had brutally squeezed earlier shot a spike of agony up his leg, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it.
He moved through the corridor.
It was a long, oppressive stretch of space. Closed doors lined both sides, silent portraits judged from the walls, and the smooth stone offered no traction. But his footsteps were incredibly light, almost entirely silent.
He reached the heavy wooden door at the back.
He shoved it open.
The icy night wind slammed into him like a physical blow!
It was agonizingly cold, slicing like a razor through the warm, greasy, suffocating illusion of the dining room. It hit his face like ice water, instantly shocking him awake from the nightmare of his captivity.
Beyond the threshold lay the night.
Thick, oppressive, pitch-black darkness that promised nothing and concealed everything.
But he saw it—
Hanging on a rusty hook just outside the door.
The white robe.
It was filthy, crinkled, stained with mud and blood. It carried the weight of all his recent memories, his struggles, and his shame.
He snatched it off the hook.
He shoved his arm through the sleeve, pulling it over himself.
The fabric was so familiar. It was rough, stiff, and freezing cold—the absolute antithesis of the luxurious, yielding velvet he was wearing. He pulled it tight, using it to conceal the dark blue silk, to cover his heavy, distended stomach, and to hide his empty right sleeve.
Without casting a single glance backward, he plunged headfirst into the suffocating darkness.
—
Behind him, the heavy wooden door swayed gently in the wind.
It creaked softly on its hinges. Squeak—creak—
A sound that hovered somewhere between a desperate plea to stay, and a cold, final farewell.