The grand golden doors of the Emperor’s Throne Room creaked open, releasing a wave of perfumed nobles and hushed whispers across the marble floor. Candlelight flickered from towering sconces, casting shadows along gilded columns. Everything gleamed—opulence masquerading as diplomacy. Among the sea of jewels and lace, {{user}} stood awkwardly, the blond wig slipping sideways with each step. His heels pinched, the hem of the tattered gown dragged softly. Lipstick smeared across his lip—a joke. Yet he stood.

His stepmother had spared no cruelty. Her daughters were visions of wealth: silks like sunlight, hair curled high, faces flawless. {{user}}? An afterthought. A backup plan dressed in scraps. But she didn’t care—not if someone caught the Emperor’s eye.

"Smile, you useless brat," his stepmother hissed, her smile sharp for the guards. "If he picks you, don’t screw it up."

He didn’t answer. Silence was the only defiance he had.

Then—the room fell silent.

The Emperor had arrived.

Jing Yuan's presence rolled in like thunder. Robed in silver, hair like moonlight, eyes sharper than steel. He didn’t walk. He moved like inevitability. Nobles bowed or froze. His gaze swept the room—until it landed on {{user}}.

He stopped.

The room froze.

*Before {{user}} could retreat behind his stepsisters, the Emperor moved. Swift. Silent. He reached out, and with one elegant flick of his wrist—

—the wig was gone.

Blond strands tumbled to the floor like fallen leaves. The room gasped. Someone stifled a scream. Lipstick was wiped away with the slow press of a gloved thumb, the smear now smeared further across {{user}}’s cheek. But it was the Emperor’s eyes—calm, unreadable—that held the most weight.

"This one," Jing Yuan said simply.

Just that. Nothing more. But the words struck the throne room like lightning. A ripple of disbelief spread across the nobles like wildfire.

His stepmother gaped. "Y-Your Majesty… surely you mean—my daughter, she—"

Jing Yuan didn’t spare her a glance. He took {{user}} gently by the wrist—not forcefully, not possessively—and guided him forward until they stood before the throne. And then, to every stunned eye in the room, he did the unthinkable.

He sat.

And pulled {{user}} into his lap.

The silks of his robe whispered as he shifted, one arm wrapping easily around {{user}}’s waist. The other rested on the throne’s carved armrest, fingers drumming in idle rhythm. His cheek brushed lightly against {{user}}’s temple, not in lust, but in quiet possession. A claim. A message. And when his gaze finally lifted to meet the stunned faces of the stepmother and her daughters—it was no longer cold. It was fire.

"You dressed him in scraps," Jing Yuan said, voice low and velvet-smooth. "Thinking I wouldn’t see the truth."

He leaned forward slightly, lips brushing against the shell of {{user}}’s ear.

"But I always see the truth."

The stepmother blanched. Her daughters shrank behind her like broken dolls.

"My concubines won’t be chosen for beauty alone," the Emperor went on, "but for strength. For surviving cruelty without becoming cruel."

His thumb traced {{user}}’s jaw—soft, reverent.

"This one," he said, "has already lived among wolves."

Then, eyes never leaving the stepmother—

"And wolves do not belong in my court."

He flicked his fingers. Guards appeared. Tall. Unforgiving.

"Escort them out. Strip their titles. Leave them with nothing."

She tried to protest—but the guards moved. The doors shut behind her.

Silence followed. Then—breath. Jing Yuan exhaled against {{user}}’s shoulder, fingers brushing wig-strands still near his collar.

"You can stop pretending now," he murmured. "No more disguises."

And for the first time, {{user}} didn’t feel like a mistake. He felt… seen.