MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!
Chapter 243: THE CROWN

Chapter 243: THE CROWN

The Grand Hall of the Eastern Palace had never been more opulent.

Everything glistened. Everything gleamed. Everything was meant to dazzle.

Purple silk draped from every high beam, so long it rippled against the polished floor like waves on still water. Gold tassels hung from tall lanterns. Red paper fans marked with calligraphy of blessings had been fastened to every open column. The hall smelled of fine incense, sweet wine, and something sharper beneath it—nerves. Power. And fear.

Today was the day Pei Rong’s long-laid plans bore fruit.

And he had spared no expense.

Dignitaries from all over the empire were being ushered into the hall. The grand staircase leading to the ceremonial seats had been freshly waxed. Every step reflected candlelight. Courtiers wore their most lavish robes—brocade, satin, layers upon layers of fabric stitched with the finest threads of silver and blue.

The atmosphere buzzed with fake reverence.

Every movement was rehearsed.

Every smile stretched too wide.

Pei Rong’s allies were already assembled near the high dais, surrounding the throne like a sea of red and gold. They moved in tight little groups, congratulating each other with soft claps and quiet laughter. Hands were shaken, wine cups exchanged.

"Minister Lou," one of the governors said, bowing slightly. "I see your gamble has paid off."

Minister Lou, a narrow-faced man with calculating eyes, smiled without showing his teeth. "It’s not a gamble if the deck was stacked from the start."

There was soft laughter.

"Did you see the banner on the west wing?" another chimed in. "His Excellency had it woven with real gold thread. Real gold!"

"He deserves it," came another voice. "He built this empire again with his bare hands."

"It’s the coronation of the century!"

"Long live Prime Minister Pei!"

"Long live the new Emperor!"

They toasted. Quietly, of course. Publicly, they would all swear loyalty to the crown. But everyone here knew who had really won. And they weren’t shy about enjoying it.

Behind their polished manners, behind the clink of wine goblets, there was smugness. They had waited. Watched. Aligned themselves just right—and now they reaped the reward.

All the old nobles, the previous royal family’s lingering loyalists, had been pushed to the side.

Their seats were lower.

Their robes—still noble—looked suddenly dull next to all the grandeur.

The Dowager Princess sat silently, her fan unmoving in her lap. Her eyes were sharp, trained not on the throne but on Pei Rong’s every movement. Next to her sat her cousin, Lord An, once a close advisor to the late emperor. His fists were clenched the entire time, lips pale.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t blink.

They only stared.

As if glaring could stop history from being rewritten.

The Prime Minister, meanwhile, moved like a man made of victory.

Pei Rong stood near the steps of the dais, hands clasped casually behind his back, speaking with a select few.

He wore a version of court attire too similar to the emperor’s—imperial red, silk robes with flame-stitch detailing and a high collar that made his shoulders look broader than they were. Not the official phoenix robe, no. But close enough that it made every old traditionalist in the room shift uncomfortably.

He didn’t care.

Every inch of him radiated confidence. His face wore a calm smile, but his eyes burned with something sharper—triumph.

He accepted praise with soft nods, always modest, always quiet.

"It was only possible with your loyal support," he told a merchant lord from the southern coasts, offering a shallow bow.

"You made this empire stable again," the merchant replied. "No one else could have done it."

"Let us hope it stays that way," Pei Rong said, voice silk-smooth.

People kept coming in.

Envoys from the border provinces, military heads, ministers from the Treasury, the Bureau of Rites, the Imperial Academy. Even foreign observers were placed near the back, seated with great care—tokens of diplomacy in a day meant to show power, not share it.

Musicians took their places along the perimeter of the hall. Their instruments had already been tuned. Pipás, guzhengs, and long flutes rested ready. The drumline, stationed at the back, waited for their cue.

From a side corridor, dancers in ivory robes entered in rows. Each of them veiled, each step slow, controlled, their arms outstretched like wings. They began their ceremonial dance—a spiral motion of turns and bows, each one symbolizing a prayer for the longevity of the new emperor.

The pain was sharp. Then dull. Then nothing.

Zhao Yan couldn’t feel much after the arrow struck. Just a strange hollowness in his chest, as though something essential had been ripped out.

But even as everything else dimmed—there was warmth.

He saw her.

Blurry.

Wavering like a mirage in the desert. But it was her.

Hua Jing.

The last thing he wanted to see.

The only thing.

He tried to focus. Tried to drink her in—those eyes, the tremble of her lips, the soft curve of her cheek streaked with something wet.

Was she crying?

Why?

His mind couldn’t make sense of it.

She was here.

She was close.

Everything would be fine.

She leaned in. Her tears dropped like rain on his face.

He wanted to reach up. Wipe them away. Tell her not to cry.

But his arm was heavy. Too heavy.

It wouldn’t move.

His body was distant, like it belonged to someone else. Or no one at all.

The light flickered. The warmth began to retreat.

No—he needed it.

He needed her.

He tried to hold on, to force his eyes open just a second longer—

But the darkness surged.

And it swallowed him whole.

robe. "One favor, one life. But first, you need to prove you’re serious. The poison you brought isn’t just Widow’s Death—it’s tempered. Strengthened with Black Nightshade and powdered serpent gall. Whoever gave this to you wanted the prince to die painfully."

"I know," she hissed. "That’s why I came to you."

Gu Wei smiled—sharp, sly.

He emerged wearing a fresh pale-blue robe, his long hair tied in a ceremonial knot. His face—now clean, noble, unreadable.