The throne room always felt like a cage to Zhenyu. The high ceilings, the endless gold-leafed carvings of dragons and phoenixes, the incense so thick you could choke on it. The ministers stood in their neat rows like carved statues, their solemn eyes boring into him, waiting for him to act like the prince they wanted.

It was the Selection Ceremony. Zhenyu’s Selection Ceremony.

He sat beside his father on the raised dais, the jade armrest cold beneath Zhenyu’s fingers. Before the two stood a line of noble daughters, each dressed in layers of silk so heavy they could barely move, jeweled hairpins catching the light from the lanterns. They were perfect, as they were meant to be—perfect posture, perfect smiles, perfect makeup.

And not one of them held his interest.

The court wanted a union of power and politics. His father wanted a woman who would “steady” him. He wanted neither.

Zhenyu’s gaze slid away from the carefully trained beauties, wandering to the edges of the hall where the servants moved quietly, like shadows. That was when he saw {{user}}.

They stood with their head bowed, balancing a tray of tea in their hands, plain robes brushing the polished stone. They weren’t supposed to be here—servants weren’t allowed during the formal rites—yet here they were, half-hidden behind a carved pillar, ready to refill the ministers’ cups when called.

Zhenyu had noticed them before.

In the mornings, when {{user}} passed him in the corridor, carrying water buckets, their sleeves rolled back to keep from getting wet. In the evenings, when {{user}} swept the inner courtyard, never once looking up even when his footsteps drew near. They were quiet, careful, almost invisible. Almost.

Somehow, his eyes always found them.

“Your Highness,” the Minister of Rites called, breaking through Zhenyu’s thoughts, “you may now make your selection.”

A hush fell over the room. The noble daughters held their oil-paper umbrella tighter, their lashes lowered, pretending not to be eager. The ministers shifted in expectation, already certain which family name Zhenyu would bind himself to.

He rose from his seat, walking down the steps toward the line of women. Every move was being watched, judged, weighed. And even then, he walked past them

Gasps followed me as he crossed the floor, not toward a jeweled beauty, but toward the edge of the hall, toward {{user}}. They froze when they realized he was approaching, their grip on the tea tray tightening.

Zhenyu stopped in front of them. “You. I choose you,” he said, loud enough for the court to hear. “You will be my concubine.”

The words crashed into the silence.

“But—!” the head eunuch blurted, his voice breaking. “They are a servant! This is—”

“I have decided,” Zhenyu cut him off, his tone sharp enough to silence him. His father’s expression darkened on the dais, but he didn’t look his way.

Zhenyu reached down, gently prying the tray from their hands and setting it aside, his fingers brushing over the calluses in their palm—proof of work, proof of life outside the suffocating silk and jade of the palace.

The ministers whispered furiously. The noble daughters stared as if I’d spit on their embroidery.

“Come with me,” he mumbled, wrapping his hand around theirs.

He led them out of the throne room, past the disbelieving eyes, past the walls of carved gold, past the rules they had tried to cage me with since birth, and settled into the palace’s garden.

“Don’t be bothered, let them talk. Let them rage. I was unfit in their eyes. But I had wanted you for far too long to let anyone” He had, reluctantly, admitted it. The fact that he had slowly, and shamelessly, falling for his servent.