Prince Jiyin seems amused by the chaos he's walked in on, a small chuckle escaping him as the royal maids fan him. He looks at Wang Lee, his amusement fading.

  Prince Jiyin: "Stand, stand."

  The order is casual, yet it holds the authority of royalty. The staff and the other aristocrats quickly rise from their bows, though Lord Xiāo Háorán hesitates for a moment, his expression still resentful.

  As everyone rises to their feet, the room seems to hold its breath, waiting for the prince's next move. Wang Lee's gaze darts from Jiyin to Lord Xiāo Háorán, noticing the lingering tension between the two.

  Staff: "Your Highness, forgive us for this disturbance."

  Lord Xiāo: grumbling "If only I'd known the prince was here, I never would have... er..."

  Lord Xiāo suddenly becomes surprisingly humble, realizing the risk of angering the royal highness.

  Prince Jiyin strides quickly toward Wang Lee, the casual grace of his actions belying the concern in his tone.

  Prince Jiyin: "Why are you here like this? What happened?"

  His gaze moves over Wang Lee as if checking for injuries, before landing on the still-reddened spot on his hand where Lord Xiāo had stepped on it.

  Wang Lee hesitates, his hand still stinging from Lord Xiāo's brutal grip.

  Wang Lee: "Lord Xiāo..."

  His voice is cool, betraying nothing. Prince Jiyin's gaze darkens almost imperceptibly, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the reddened flesh of Wang Lee's palm.

  Prince Jiyin whirls towards Lord Xiāo Háorán, his voice deceptively gentle.

  Prince Jiyin: "Pray tell, Haohao~ , in this enlightened era of discernment, why do you engage in conflict with my delicate dancer?"

  A shiver seems to run down Lord Xiāo's spine—the prince's soft tone somehow far more menacing than any threat. With a gulp, he stammers out a response.

  Lord Xiāo: "I... it was an accident, Your Highness! He was in my way!"

  As Lord Xiāo Háorán tries to defend himself with the weak excuse of an 'accident', the tension in the room only grows. Prince Jiyin's jaw tightens ever so slightly, his eyes flitting to the redness on Wang Lee's hand before returning to the guilty aristocrat.

  Prince Jiyin: "Accident, you say? An accident that leaves marks like a brand on my dancer's hand?"

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  His voice is still soft, but the implied threat behind the words is crystal clear.

  Lord Xiāo's face pales at the prince's icy tone. He opens his mouth to protest, but Jiyin cuts him off with a single raised finger—silencing him mid-breath.

  "You forget your place." Jiyin's voice drops dangerously low, "My dancer isn't some commoner you can shove aside like trash."

  The room chills further as even the staff stop breathing, sensing this is no longer just about an apology—it's about power.

  Lord Xiāo seems at a loss for words, his arrogance wilting under the prince's stern gaze. He casts glances back and forth between Jiyin and Wang Lee, clearly realizing he's in over his head. But before he can try to salvage the situation, the prince speaks again.

  Prince Jiyin: "You will apologize. Now."

  The order is simple, yet unmistakeable. Lord Xiāo swallows, casting a last defiant glance at Wang Lee before reluctantly bowing towards Jiyin in a low, stiff apology.

  The room holds its breath as Lord Xiāo is forced into a deep bow—a position that clearly rankles him. Every line of his body seems to exude anger and shame as he mutters a begrudging "Apologies" in the direction of Prince Jiyin

  The prince's gaze remains on him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Wang Lee can practically feel the heat of their silent battle of wills across the room, neither man wanting to be the first to yield.

  Prince Jiyin's gaze flicks back to Wang Lee, his voice softening just a fraction—though the edge beneath it remains.

  "We should take our leave, right?" He extends an arm toward him in silent command, "Unless you'd prefer to stay and enjoy Lord Xiāo's... hospitality."

  The sarcasm drips like poison. The message is clear: they're leaving together whether Wang Lee agrees or not.

  Wang Lee catches the subtle command in Jiyin's gesture—the silent challenge in his words. He glances over at Lord Xiāo, still bowing with barely-disguised frustration, then back at Jiyin. After a moment, he steps smoothly forward, accepting the prince's offered arm.

  Wang Lee: "Of course, Your Highness. Let's take our leave."

  As they move toward the exit, he can still feel Lord Xiāo's gaze boring into his back, filled with both anger and humiliation at being humbled so completely

  Prince Jiyin leaves the scene, flanked by his dutiful maids, with Wang Lee following silently at his side. Once outside, the cool night air seems almost a blessing after the tense atmosphere indoors. Wang Lee steals a glance at Jiyin, trying to gauge his mood as they walk down the deserted street.

  The only sound the soft slap of their footfalls against the cobblestones, and the far off call of an owl in the darkness. The world feels strangely quiet after the drama of the restaurant.

  Prince Jiyin leans in slightly as they walk, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for Wang Lee's ears—low, deliberate, and laced with something dangerously close to amusement.

  "So you finally touched royalty... darling." The words are light but weighted—a tease wrapped in velvet threat.

  Wang Lee stiffens imperceptibly at the unexpected closeness of his breath against his ear. The realization hits him like an arrow: this game just escalated beyond dance practice and stolen glances.

  Upon returning to the palace, Prince Jiyin turns sharply toward his maids, his voice carrying a quiet authority that brooks no argument.

  "Attend to him," he commands, "See that he's properly tended. His hands... and anything else."

  The maids bow immediately before guiding Wang Lee away—though their movements are careful now, almost wary after witnessing the prince's earlier protectiveness.

  Prince Jiyin suddenly reappears in the corridor, his footsteps silent as he steps directly into Wang Lee's path. His voice is dangerously soft—too calm.

  "Why didn't you come?" he asks, "A week ago at night. When I called for you in the Imperial Study."

  The question hangs between them like a blade poised to drop. The air chills further as Jiyin leans slightly closer, his gaze boring into him with an intensity that feels more like interrogation than curiosity.

  Wang Lee tenses, a million excuses, a hundred lies dancing at the tip of his tongue. But Jiyin's eyes are unyielding, and he finds himself trapped in a web of his own making. He owes an honest answer, at least.

  He takes a breath, and his words come out surprisingly steady despite the adrenaline racing through him.

  Wang Lee: "There were... other duties to finish."

  The lie tastes bitter on his tongue. He keeps his gaze locked with Jiyin's, daring him to challenge the half-truth.

  Prince Jiyin narrows his eyes, not buying the excuse for a second. His expression hardens, suspicion clear as day.

  "Other duties." he repeats, the word dripping with sarcasm. "More important than the prince's summons?"

  He takes a step closer, closing the distance between them until their faces are only inches apart. His voice is low but sharp as daggers, each word cutting through the tension.

  "You're a terrible liar."

  Without another word, Prince Jiyin turns sharply on his heel and walks away—his robes swirling behind him like a storm given form. The silence left in his wake is heavier than any scolding could ever be.

  Wang Lee stands frozen in the corridor, watching the prince's retreating figure until he disappears around a dist

  ant pillar. The weight of what just happened settles over him: this isn't over.

  It was never going to be.