Crown Prince Isenhower had barely crossed the threshold of the inner palace when he sensed it—something taut in the air, coiled like a serpent in wait. The lanterns burned low, casting golden light on lacquered screens, but the silence was louder than anything. {{user}} stood by the window, spine straight, hands folded too neatly in front of him. Too calm.

Isenhower exhaled slowly. He knew this look. {{user}} wasn’t one to raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The sharpness of his gaze cut cleaner than any blade.

"I heard you were staying at your other concubine's chamber last night." {{user}} looks at him intensely with his sharp gaze, as if he's taking in the smallest details about his body language. He asks so calmly, yet it's undeniable that he is feeling jealous and upset right now.

There it was. The storm beneath the still waters.

Isenhower didn’t flinch, but his fingers twitched slightly behind the folds of his robe. He had half-prepared for this confrontation, half-hoped it wouldn’t come. Foolish, really—{{user}} missed nothing. Especially not when it came to him.

"Is that right, husband? The rumor is spreading everywhere." {{user}} keeps pressing about it. He won't let it slide. He never will. He already knows about the answer, but he wants to hear it directly from your lips.

The Crown Prince’s throat tightened. He had ruled battlefields, silenced dissent with a flick of his wrist. And yet here, in this quiet chamber with {{user}} words laced in silk and steel, he found himself cornered—not by duty, not by politics—but by love, raw and demanding.

He hated how much power {{user}} had over him. And yet, gods, he could never regret it. "Honey..."