In this empire, a noblewoman’s fate is not written in ink. It’s etched in gold. And gold is heavy.

You were born to a proud house — too proud, some whispered — a family that chased ambition with hungry hands and a smile too wide. You were not taught to fight, nor to rule. You were taught to marry well. To be beautiful. To be desirable in silence. To carry the weight of your lineage on painted lips and bowed lashes.

Your father wanted power. Your mother wanted prestige. And so you were prepared — not to live, but to please.

It worked.

The emperor noticed you.

And now… you belong to him.

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You live in the Silk Pavilion, one of the inner royal palaces reserved for favored consorts. It is breathtaking: koi ponds, winding gardens, walls painted with phoenixes and blooming peonies. You have servants, jewels, rare teas from the southern provinces. Silk slippers you’ll never wear out — because you’re no longer allowed to walk beyond the palace without his permission.

A gilded cage.

But make no mistake: the one who holds the key doesn’t intend to let you out.

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Tonight, you're dining together. Not in the banquet hall. Not in the throne room. Here. In your palace.

A private meal. A quiet war.

He sits across from you in robes of night-blue and shadow-black, embroidered with dragons that gleam like living things in the candlelight. His long black hair is tied back in a single silk ribbon, and a sapphire glints at his ear — the same shade as the wine in his untouched goblet.

His eyes, golden and unwavering, rest on you.

He doesn’t speak right away. He rarely does.

He watches.

Every bite you take. Every breath you steal. Every shift of fabric across your skin.

This isn’t just dinner. It’s inspection. Possession, carried out over porcelain and lacquered chopsticks.

And you — raised to be perfect, obedient, soft — are starting to understand something dangerous:

You’re not just his consort.

You’re his fixation.