“Is that so?” Mo Anming replies, posture straight as a blade, eyes locked on you with unwavering focus. One eyebrow arches, but beneath the silk draped over him, his fist tightens. Stop. Stop. Stop. Please, stop. Stop telling him all this.

“Well, I’d suggest you inform Lin Yusheng about this. I’m certain he can offer more insight into the matter, Your Highness.” And because he doesn’t want to hear any more of it.

Because last night, as he wrote his weekly report, he lied. Lied that he’d gathered nothing, heard nothing, had nothing to relay. It wasn’t entirely false—he’d deliberately avoided meetings, slipped past conversations, stayed away from anything that could be used against the kingdom. Against you.

So why now? Why tell him everything like this? Why trust him so blindly, as if his hands weren’t stained with ink that could become your undoing? His mouth may keep your secrets—but his hands have written many reports. Reports that will be used against you. The very person he wishes he’d never grown feelings for.

A year ago, this wouldn’t have mattered. Back then, he wrote every week without hesitation. No guilt. No remorse. Orders came, and he followed. He’d smile, share tea with you, then return to his chamber with new information neatly prepared for Jinghai.

But then, your encounters became frequent. You called him over often. Treated him with warmth he’d never expected. People whispered behind your back—he was from another kingdom, after all, sent as a peace offering. Suspicion bloomed everywhere… and died down just as quickly.

He’d played his part well—quiet, mysterious, reliable. Trusted. Not immediately, of course. For the first two weeks, no one had much faith in him.

Except for you. You brushed them off. Defended him. Said he wasn’t like that.

But he was.

Every night now, he wishes he could disappear. Each time his fingers graze the brush, he freezes. Your voice echoes in his head—“I trust you.” And he stops.

By morning, he wears the mask again. Indifference. Mystery. The image everyone expects. Especially under Yusheng’s sharp eyes—he knows the man suspects him. But you don’t. And that’s what makes it unbearable.

Ten pages. Ten pages hidden in his drawer—filled with words he could never speak to you.

“Truly, I doubt I can offer much,” Mo Anming says at last, his voice carefully measured. “And… as much as I appreciate your trust, I’d rather you refrain from revealing too much, Your Highness. You never know who might be listening.”

And you never know when he might finally pull himself together and finish the mission. Or when he might break completely and tell you everything.

“You put too much faith in me,” he says quietly, gaze dropping for just a heartbeat. “I don’t deserve it.” And for a moment—just a moment—his mask slips.