CHAPTER 92 — WHEN THE PRINCE'S JEALOUSY OVERFLOWED… AGAIN
Tang Ke Xin, meanwhile, was fighting for her life—or so it felt.
"Let's… let's sit over there," she whispered, pointing to the nearest seat, which happened to be the furthest from Ye Lan Jue.
Ye Lan Chen nodded immediately and guided her to the side.
Her head was lowered, her face half‑hidden behind Ye Lan Chen's shoulder. From the outside, it looked as though she were shyly leaning into him.
The onlookers murmured.
"The Fourth Prince is truly attentive."
"They look rather well‑matched, don't they?"
"No wonder Miss Tang no longer favours Young Master Mu. Compared to the Fourth Prince's gentleness, who could blame her?"
Their voices were not hushed.
The entire barge heard them.
Tang Ke Xin heard them too—but she was far too seasick to care.
The further the boat drifted from the shore, the worse she felt.
Her body leaned more heavily against Ye Lan Chen, her face pale, her breath shallow.
Ye Lan Chen wanted to explain, but seeing her cling to him—and seeing Feng Qingyan seated beside the Third Prince—he swallowed his words.
The murmurs grew louder.
"It seems the good news between the Fourth Prince and Miss Tang is not far off."
"Yes, indeed."
A suffocating coldness spread from the centre of the boat.
Ye Lan Jue's eyes were like shards of ice.
The temperature seemed to drop with every passing second.
One by one, the voices fell silent.
---
Tang Ke Xin finally reached the nearest seat.
Just as she was about to sit, the boat lurched again.
She stumbled—and fell straight into Ye Lan Chen's arms.
"Careful," he murmured, catching her instinctively.
Ye Lan Jue's fingers tightened around his wine cup until the veins on the back of his hand stood out sharply.
She had been on the boat for mere moments, yet she had clung to Ye Lan Chen the entire time.
Even if she needed support—why him?
Ye Lan Chen helped her sit, but she still looked miserable.
Her face was pale, her lips colourless.
She lowered her head and sipped tea in tiny, trembling sips, trying to steady herself. She did not look at Ye Lan Jue. She did not speak to him.
Ye Lan Chen leaned closer.
"Are you feeling unwell?" he asked softly.
Tang Ke Xin barely heard him.
Her head was spinning.
Her stomach churned.
But Ye Lan Chen's gaze drifted toward the centre of the boat—toward the Third Prince and Feng Qingyan, who looked like a perfect pair.
A thought struck him.
Is she sad?
Sad to see the Third Prince with another woman?
Tang Ke Xin, hearing his question, blinked in confusion.
"What?" she croaked, lifting her head.
Her eyes were half‑lidded, her expression dazed and languid from seasickness.
To the onlookers, she looked soft, delicate, almost… alluring.
Ye Lan Jue's eyes flared.
This woman—
Did she have any idea what she looked like right now?
Her slightly parted lips, her hazy eyes, her helpless posture—
It was enough to drive a man mad.
Was she trying to seduce Ye Lan Chen in public?
Ye Lan Chen himself froze, stunned by the sudden closeness.
He swallowed hard.
Then the boat rocked again.
Tang Ke Xin toppled forward—straight into his chest.
Ye Lan Chen caught her, breath hitching.
"But heart…"
Ye Lan Jue shifted, as though preparing to rise.
---
"You—give me one of those fruits," Tang Ke Xin whispered weakly, pointing to a bowl of sour fruits beside Ye Lan Chen.
Sourness helped her seasickness.
She would have eaten a lemon whole if it meant relief.
Her voice was soft, breathy, almost pleading—like a child seeking comfort.
Ye Lan Jue heard every word.
His body went rigid.
His grip on his wine cup tightened until the porcelain creaked.
"Alright, wait a moment. I'll get it for you," Ye Lan Chen said gently, reaching for the fruit.
Tang Ke Xin leaned forward with him, her body limp and powerless.
Ye Lan Jue lifted his cup and drained it in one swallow.
Feng Qingyan quietly refilled it.
He drank again.
And again.
Her smile stiffened.
Ye Lan Jue was not a man who drank without restraint.
This was not indulgence.
This was fury.
Ming Xun, standing behind him, felt his eyelid twitch violently.
Miss Tang was practically curled in another man's arms.
In front of the Third Prince.
If His Highness did not kill someone today, it would be a miracle.
- - -
But Tang Ke Xin felt none of it.
Her head throbbed.
Her stomach twisted.
Her chest tightened painfully.
She wanted to vomit but could not.
She wanted to faint but remained painfully conscious.
She felt as though her soul were trying to escape her body.
At that moment, she truly believed she might die.
Tang Ke Xin felt as though even her gallbladder had shattered. A sour ache filled her mouth, her throat, her very bones. Every breath tasted of nausea.
"Peel…"
Her voice was barely more than a whisper—soft, breathy, utterly devoid of strength. She stared at the fruit in Ye Lan Chen's hand with desperate longing.
The skin was thick and tough. In her current state, she could not even hold it properly, let alone peel it. But she needed it—needed the sharp sourness to anchor her, to keep her from collapsing entirely. It would not cure her seasickness, but it might dull the agony.
She had no idea how her voice sounded—fragile, pleading, and so soft it could melt a man's bones.
Ye Lan Chen froze for a heartbeat, startled by the tone.
Then he nodded quickly. "Alright."
He shifted to peel the fruit, but Tang Ke Xin's grip on him tightened. She could not let go—not even for a moment. If she released him, she was certain she would topple straight onto the deck.
Seeing this, Ye Lan Chen hesitated only briefly. His eyes flickered, then softened. He lifted one of the peeled segments and brought it directly to her lips.
"Here," he murmured.
Tang Ke Xin leaned forward instinctively, too sick to feel embarrassment, too desperate to refuse.
And at that precise moment—
The Third Prince rose to his feet.
The movement was sharp, sudden, and filled with a cold, explosive tension that rippled across the entire deck.
Several people flinched.
Feng Qingyan's hand paused mid‑pour.
Ming Xun stiffened behind him.
Ye Lan Jue's gaze was fixed on one thing alone:
Tang Ke Xin, leaning helplessly against Ye Lan Chen, accepting fruit from his hand like a cherished lover.
The vat of vinegar did not merely tip.
It overturned entirely.