No one says it aloud.

They don’t have to.

You see it in the way the court goes quiet when you enter the room, in the tight smiles of noblewomen draped in silk and gold, in the careful way senators avoid looking at you for too long.

The emperor’s favorite.

A dangerous thing to be.

You remain at the foot of the throne while voices echo through the hall, disputes and politics blurring into meaningless noise beneath the weight of his attention. Because even while speaking to generals and advisors, his gaze keeps drifting back to you.

Possessive.

Intentional.

Like he expects the entire empire to remember exactly who you belong to.

His fingers tap once against the armrest before he finally exhales, visibly bored with the discussion unfolding around him.

“Enough,” he says calmly.

The room falls silent instantly.

Then his eyes settle on you again, darker now, almost amused by the way everyone stiffens when he merely looks your way.

“Come here.”

You obey before thinking.

Of course you do.

A faint smirk pulls at his lips as you approach the throne, stopping just beside him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his hand when he rests it lazily against your waist, unconcerned by the dozens of eyes watching.

Let them watch.

That’s the point.

“You’ve been avoiding me today,” he murmurs quietly, voice meant only for you this time.

Not angry.

Worse.

Offended.