Chapter 55 — Minwha's Past (Before Everything Broke 3)
The moment Minhwa entered the palace, she was escorted swiftly through the side door. No fanfare, no guards bowing, no announcements—only silence.
She was taken straight to the Crown Prince's quarters and shown her chamber. Small. Bare. Functional. Nothing more.
From that day forward, her life became a cycle of routine. She was given food morning, noon, and night. And that was it.
No visitors. No recognition. No laughter or conversation. No cruelty either—she was ignored, but quietly, invisibly.
Her only companion was the guqin, the delicate strings and soft wooden body familiar under her fingers. She played day after day, her music filling the quiet room, a bridge between her thoughts and the world she had lost.
One night turned into a week. A week became a month. A month stretched into three.
She did not see the Crown Prince. She did not speak to him. She did not provoke attention, and no one dared confront her.
She understood her place in the vast palace and never crossed its invisible boundaries.
Yet she was never truly alone.
Without her knowing, whenever she played, someone stood outside her door.
A shadow. A presence. Listening.
The Crown Prince.
He never entered. He could not. Shame, pride, and the memory of what had been lost anchored him to the threshold.
But every night, as the soft music floated through the corridor, he wept quietly. Tears fell silently in the moonlight, glinting like broken stars on polished floors.
Sometimes, she would pause mid-song, sensing the weight beyond the door. Yet she never turned, never acknowledged it.
And each night, he stayed. Listened. Mourned what they had lost. And each night, he turned away, leaving the music to carry the words he could not speak.
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A few days later, the palace was decorated for the Crown Prince's birthday.
Golden lanterns glimmered, delicate silk drapes swayed, and the fragrance of incense filled the halls.
The legal wife of the Crown Prince oversaw the celebration, smiling graciously, though her eyes were sharp with authority.
She summoned her friends, the daughters of influential ministers, to attend and ensure the event reflected her status.
Minhwa, though a concubine, was required to attend.
As soon as she entered the room, she felt the tension. Whispers followed her. The daughters of ministers, dressed in lavish hanfu, smiled sweetly—but it was the smile of predators.
The moment she took a seat they came for her.
"Dance for us, Minhwa," The crown prince legal wife said, stepping forward. Her tone was teasing, mocking. "Show us the gisaeng you once were. Surely you can still entertain us."
Minhwa stiffened. Her hands tightened around her guqin case. "I… I do not wish to dance," she said calmly, but firmly.
A murmur rose among the guests. "How dare she refuse the command of the legal wife?" someone whispered. "She forgets her place."
The daughters leaned forward, laughter curling at the edges of their mouths. "Surely, a concubine owes obedience. Are you trying to insult her Highness?"
The crown prince stood nearby, his face taut with anger. His jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Yet his voice did not move. His lips did not part.
He could not.
Every guest here was a minister, their daughters poised to observe his every action.
If he admonished them, opposed his legal wife publicly, or defended Minhwa, he would be seen as weak, rebellious, or even disrespectful.
The consequences in court would be immediate and severe.
His mother had warned him: behave.
So he remained silent.
Minhwa, unaware of his internal struggle, felt only his silence—and it cut deeper than any insult from the other gisaeng. Her chest tightened. Her throat burned.
She bowed her head. "I… apologize," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "for not being able to dance, but I can surely entertain you in other ways if you allow."
They agreed, curious about what she was about to do.
She set her guqin aside and sat elegantly behind it.
She placed her fingers delicately on her guqin, and a sorrowful melody spilled into the room.
The music was haunting—soft, melancholic, filled with a longing that no one could ignore. Every note resonated like a heartbeat, every pause like a sigh of suffering.
Even the guests who had mocked her faltered. Their eyes widened as they watched her play, as though the guqin had drawn them into another world—a world where beauty and grief were inseparable.
But they reminded themselves she was only a gisaeng, a concubine.
They downplayed what they saw, muttering, "Beautiful, yes… but she is nothing more than a performer. A gisaeng. She should remember her place."
Minhwa did not lift her gaze. She played every note with precision and pain, letting the sorrow of her past, her sacrifice, and her love for the Crown Prince bleed through the strings.
And all the while, the Crown Prince watched. His hands clenched at his sides. His teeth were bared in frustration. But he could not move, could not speak, could not shield her.
And Minhwa, unaware of his restraint, played on, sorrowful, graceful, and utterly alone in the court's judgment.
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After she finished playing, the room sank into a heavy silence—no one applauded. But then, unexpectedly, the first wife rose from her seat.
With a calm, measured grace, she removed a pearl chain from around her neck and fastened it gently at Minhwa's throat. "Wear this," she said, her voice soft but commanding, "and do not take it off."
Minhwa bowed her head slightly, unsure of what to make of the gesture.
After a moment, Minhwa returned quietly to her assigned seat. The pearl chain pressed lightly against her neck, a tangible reminder that she was paid—seen, as an entertainer—nothing more.
The crown prince left soon after, his figure disappearing through the doors without a backward glance. The room buzzed with eating and drinking, yet Minhwa could only sip her tea quietly, unaware of the subtle danger hidden within.
Minutes passed. A strange warmth began spreading through her chest and limbs. Confused, she excused herself, murmuring that she needed air.
She moved swiftly through the corridors, but then a sound made her heart skip—a soft, mocking footstep behind her. She turned, catching sight of a figure, smiling cruelly, dressed in eunuch's clothes. Panic surged, and she ran, her heart pounding, the stranger in pursuit.
She darted into the nearest courtyard, gasping for breath. Relief washed over her when she saw the man run past where she was—she thought herself safe. But before she could move, a firm hand grasped hers.
She froze. Turning slowly, she saw him.
The Crown Prince.
Her hand recoiled instinctively. She bowed quickly, creating space between them. "Your Highness," she whispered.
He studied her, eyes dark with concern, hurt, and an intensity that made her chest ache.
He said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch, knowing he deserved it.
"Why are you running?" he asked softly, voice low, almost a growl beneath the calm.
She hesitated, then explained breathlessly: the sudden heat, the need for air, the strange sensation, and the figure that had followed her. Her words tumbled out in fragmented bursts as the effects grew stronger.
While talking, the drug took it's full effect, she collapsed into his arms.
He caught her effortlessly, holding her close, shielding her from the world.
His heart ached at the sight of her fragile form, delicate and trembling. He guided her gently inside his personal quarters, laying her down on soft cushions, but she did not stay still. She moved back into his arms, seeking his touch.
That night, the palace was silent. The moon rose high, casting silver light through the lattice windows.
The air between them was heavy with unspoken words, longing, and restrained desire.
Minhwa leaned against him, trusting, yielding—not out of weakness, but out of love and shared history.
He held her with tenderness and reverence, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, lips pressed to her temple, forehead, and cheek, then to her lips in silent devotion.
Time passed differently in that room. The world outside—the palace, the court, the hierarchy—did not exist. Only the rhythm of her breath, his steady heartbeat, and the quiet brush of hands across skin remained.
They moved together in perfect synchronization—not for lust, but for intimacy, for connection, for solace after months of pain and separation.
Every sigh, every shiver, every lingering touch spoke of longing, fear, and a love that had been denied for too long.
As the night grew long and the moon traced its path across the sky, they remained entwined. Words became unnecessary.
Every glance, every heartbeat, every brush of fingertips conveyed what they could not speak aloud: that they belonged to one another, even in a world that denied them openly.
By the time dawn approached, the world outside had not changed—but in that quiet room, hearts had shifted, uniting in a moment that neither would forget.
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The first light of dawn filtered through the lattice windows, painting the prince's chamber in pale gold. Minhwa stirred, still nestled against him, tears damp on her cheeks.
He held her tightly, head bowed over hers. "I'm… sorry," he murmured, voice low and rough. "I was scared, ashamed, ashamed of what you had to let go, to save me. Ashamed that I never came to see you. That I had to marry someone else to have you. That I never spoke to you... after the celebration. I should have been there, every night. I failed you."
Minhwa's fingers clutched at his robe. "I thought… I thought you hated me," she whispered between sobs. "I thought… you were disgusted with me. I thought… I was nothing to you."
His breath hitched, guilt and longing tightening in his chest. "Never," he said firmly. "Never. How could you even think that? I wanted… I wanted to protect you, but I… I was scared. Scared of what you thought of me. I am so sorry that I could not—"
She pressed her face into his chest, the weight of months of fear, longing, and heartbreak spilling through her body. Tears fell freely, soaking the fabric of his robe. "I… I missed you so much," she sobbed. "Every night I… I thought I was alone."
"I should have been there," he repeated, voice breaking. "I should have told you… told you everything. I am sorry, Minhwa. I… I am so sorry."
The hours passed in quiet solace. She cried into his chest, he held her tightly, and for a few precious moments, the world outside—the palace, the court, the hierarchy, the scheming—did not exist.
Only the two of them, finally allowed to be together, even if only in the secrecy of the prince's private chambers.
Meanwhile, not far away, chaos erupted in the legal wife's courtyard. A glass tray shattered against the floor, scattering delicate goblets across polished stone.
"How dare you fail!" the Crown Prince's wife screamed, her face twisted in fury. She slapped the eunuch sharply, the sound echoing across the courtyard. "I brought you into this palace to do one simple thing for one night—and you fail me!"
The eunuch stumbled, quickly raising his hands in defense. "Your Highness! I did not fail! She was… she was drugged. It was impossible for her to do anything herself. If anything, she must have done it with… someone!"
The first wife's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Impossible or not, you will make sure she does what I ordered! Before she comes to her senses!"
The eunuch swallowed hard, nodding. He knew the morning's mission had now become urgent: locate Minhwa before she regained full control, or risk the wrath of the first wife—a wrath he had no desire to endure.
.
.
.
.
.
The first wife's fury did not fade with the morning's failure. The eunuch had returned empty-handed, and she ground her teeth, furious that her plan to humiliate and control Minhwa had been thwarted.
If she could not reach Minhwa directly, perhaps she could strike indirectly. A thought formed, cold and precise.
Minhwa would pay—through the very person who could protect her: the Crown Prince.
Summoning her most trusted maid from Minhwa's assigned courtyard, she allowed the servant to kneel before her, trembling. "Bring proof," she said, voice sharp. "Minhwa has disappeared from her quarters since last night. The Crown Prince must know."
The maid swallowed hard, terrified, and nodded. Together, they prepared their report, rehearsing every word carefully. The first wife's plan was simple: make it appear that Minhwa had vanished, absent without permission, leaving only the maid as witness.
When they arrived at the Crown Prince's quarters, the first wife's expression was carefully neutral, a mask of concern over the storm of anger beneath. "Your Highness, Minhwa," she said softly, yet pointedly, "has not returned to her courtyard since last night. The maid assigned to her confirms it. I thought you should be informed immediately."
The Crown Prince, still recovering from the night's private reconciliation, froze. His heart lurched. He knew immediately what the implication was.
The first wife's eyes gleamed faintly, barely concealing satisfaction. She knew her words were enough to sow doubt, even in him. She did not need to explain further; the accusation alone was a weapon.
Minhwa, safe in his chambers, remained unaware of the first wife's plot. But the seeds of tension were already planted.