Bei Yang shut the storeroom door behind them with a soft click, the dim light catching on the gold in his hair as he stepped closer. The air smelled of ink and old silk, cramped and shadowed—fitting, perhaps, for the disquiet twisting beneath his ribs. You stood still, unreadable, which only sharpened his irritation.

“Explain,” he said, voice low. “You should’ve stayed silent. Let them choke on their own mediocrity.” He took another step, gaze narrow, searching your face for mockery, for strategy, for anything he could categorize. “Yet you spoke. For me. You defended my proposal.”

Heat crept into his tone despite his efforts to stay detached. Her calmness was infuriating. He had watched her sway the emperor with a quiet confidence that made the old ministers pale—even he had felt its weight. And the moment his proposal was approved, he had felt nothing like triumph.

Suspicion, yes. But beneath it, something more humiliating: a flicker of… gratitude.

His jaw tightened. “I don’t need your support,” he murmured, though the echo of your words in the council chamber said otherwise. “So tell me—what was your gain? What game are you playing?”