MY PRINCE HUSBAND HAS SEVEN WIVES AND I AM HIS FAVOURITE!
Chapter 88: slow, inevitable suffering

Chapter 88: slow, inevitable suffering

The door creaked shut behind her.

And Hua Jing, for the first time since she had been thrown into this place, felt something cold wrap around her heart.

If he ever wakes up.

That statement alone brought shivers to her body and her skin started having goosebumps rising from it.

It was quite hard to believe that the prince would die just like that or that he might never wake up.

But, when he had collapsed earlier Hua Jing had seen the state he was in.

He did not look good at all!

The first consort was quite smug and she looked like she knew that the prince would not wake up at all.

It was both strange and fear inducing.

Just the thought of it alone brought Hua Jing a deep fear she had not known she could feel!

Her fingers curled around the bars, her knuckles turning white.

No.

She refused to accept that possibility.

Zhao Yan would wake up.

He had to.

If he did not wake up then she would go to everyone to find him and then she would kill him herself!

How dare he die?

How dare he even think of leaving her alone?

But until then—

...

The heavy doors of the secluded chamber swung open, and the Emperor stepped out, his expression grave. The dim lanterns lining the hall flickered, casting long shadows as he strode forward, his golden robes billowing behind him.

Outside, a line of high-ranking officials stood at attention, their foreheads nearly touching the polished marble floor as they bowed in unison.

"His Majesty has arrived!"

The voice of the Imperial Steward rang out, carrying across the vast corridor. The officials remained motionless, their postures rigid, their expressions carefully schooled.

The tension in the air was thick, suffocating.

The Emperor did not speak immediately. He stopped in front of his throne, the grand chair positioned at the center of the vast hall, and slowly lowered himself into it.

His movements were measured, controlled—but the weight of exhaustion sat heavily on his shoulders.

His son—the Crown Prince—still had not woken up.

Still motionless.

Still deathly pale.

A sharp pang struck deep within the Emperor’s chest, but he buried it beneath his iron composure. He could not afford weakness now.

He exhaled slowly, his eyes sweeping across the room, taking in the silent, waiting officials.

Then, one of them stepped forward.

"Your Majesty," the man said, bowing low, his voice filled with urgency. "Forgive our intrusion, but we must ask—what has happened to the Crown Prince?"

Another official spoke immediately after, his voice slightly hesitant.

"Your Majesty, there are rumors circulating throughout the palace—rumors that the Crown Prince was poisoned. Is this true?"

The moment the word poisoned left his lips, the hall filled with murmurs.

The Emperor’s sharp gaze snapped toward the speaker, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Poisoned?"

His voice was low, yet it carried the weight of a brewing storm.

"Where did this insolent lie come from?"

The official immediately bowed even lower, sweat forming on his brow.

"Your Majesty," he said quickly, his tone cautious, "it is not something I say lightly, but this is the talk among the nobles and servants. Everyone saw the Crown Prince collapse with no warning. The speculation has spread like wildfire."

Another minister stepped forward, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Preposterous! Who would dare poison the Crown Prince?"

"The truth must be uncovered," another interjected. "If he was poisoned, we must find the culprit immediately!"

The voices rose, overlapping one another, the discussions growing more frantic.

The Emperor clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists on the armrests of his throne.

The noise—this useless chatter—was unbearable.

Then, he slammed his palm down on the chair.

"SILENCE!"

The hall fell into absolute stillness.

The only sound that remained was the sharp, echoing click of approaching footsteps.

A lone figure entered—one of his trusted aides. The man dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the floor in deep obeisance.

"Your Majesty," he said, his voice urgent yet restrained, "I bring troubling news."

The Emperor’s gaze darkened.

"Speak."

The official raised his head slightly, his expression grave.

"A suspicious cloth, soaked in poison, has been found in the Seventh Consort’s chambers."

Silence.

The words hung heavily in the air, suffocating.

The Emperor did not move.

Then, slowly, his expression shifted—his eyes narrowing, his lips pressing into a thin line, his entire body going rigid.

"What... did you just say?"

Before the official could repeat himself, another voice rang through the hall.

"Your Majesty, forgive my insolence!"

The First Consort had entered, her rich purple robes flowing elegantly as she knelt before the Emperor. Her face, so carefully composed, carried just the right amount of sorrow and urgency.

"I could not stand idly by after finding this in the Seventh Consort’s chambers," she said, her voice filled with conviction. "This concerns my royal husband’s life. I believe the Seventh Consort had something to do with his sudden collapse!"

The Emperor’s eyes flashed dangerously.

"How dare you bring such accusations?" he growled.

But the First Consort did not falter.

"I would never speak such things without proof, Your Majesty."

At her signal, the same official stepped forward, this time carrying a neatly wrapped cloth, sealed carefully in protective covering.

"This," the official announced, "was discovered in the Seventh Consort’s chamber."

The tension reached its breaking point.

The Emperor’s expression twisted into something dark and unreadable.

And then—

"HOW DARE SHE?!"

The roar of his voice shook the entire hall.

His rage was uncontained, unfiltered.

The officials flinched. The First Consort bowed even lower.

"Where is she?" the Emperor demanded, his voice like ice.

The First Consort’s lips curled slightly in victory before she quickly masked it with a look of concern.

"Your Majesty," she said softly, "she has been taken to the Lower Prison."

A gasp rippled through the hall.

The Lower Prison.

A place reserved for the worst of criminals. A place of darkness, suffocation, and slow, inevitable suffering.

The officials exchanged glances, some filled with shock, others with grim satisfaction.

The Emperor’s hands trembled—whether with fury or something else, no one could tell.

"TAKE ME TO HER!"