Her footsteps were soft, even as her heart tightened with anxiety. His palace upbringing had taught him not to make a sound—even when everything inside him screamed for haste.

He could only see a glimpse of her silhouette behind the hanji paper. The soft rustle of her clothes reached his ears like a gentle taunt. He needed to see her—even if it was just shadow and light.

There was a quiet cruelty to it: even he, the crown prince, Yi Tae-hyun, had to announce his entry into his own wife’s room.

The muffled giggles and murmurs from within filled his head, echoing louder than any ceremony ever had. Anxiety made his feet feel heavy as stone—as if the floor might give way at any moment.

The hanji paper flickered in the soft light of the lamp inside the room. She raised her arms as a maid fastened her sleeves. He kept his eyes fixed on hers—not out of desire, but out of devotion. As if that moment were worth more than any tribute, audience, or decree.

Tae-hyun had already seen her on the night of the consummation, but that had become a silent addiction. He needed to see her—not with the eyes of his body, but with those of his soul.

He would see her that night, during the official dinner—but that did little to ease his longing. They were not allowed to share the table, not even a direct look. He dined with men of the court; she, with other women. The wall between them was not made of stone, but of tradition—and that hurt more.