From the shaded corridors overlooking the pristine water pavilion, a pair of furious, bloodshot eyes watched the entire exchange.
The Prime Minister's Third Wife stood completely rigid behind a decorative wooden pillar. Though she was too far away to hear a single word of the conversation, the visual alone was enough to make her blood boil. She watched her husband—the man who had brutally beaten his first wife just days ago—smiling warmly and pouring tea for a beautiful, unmarried young noblewoman. He looked like a gentle, attentive immortal, completely captivated by his guest.
The Third Wife's hands clenched so tightly into fists that her manicured nails bit painfully into her palms, threatening to draw blood. She crushed her expensive silk handkerchief, her chest heaving with suffocating jealousy and outrage.
"This bastard," she whispered, the venom in her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
