The Prime Minister tucked the heavy memorial securely into his wide crimson sleeve. He turned toward the door, absolutely buzzing with the anticipation of his impending victory.
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder at the Third Wife.
She had managed to drag herself up off the floor, kneeling submissively by the foot of the bed. Her head was bowed so low her tangled hair brushed the floorboards, hiding her bruised, swollen face from view. She was violently trembling, clutching her torn robes together.
"Clean yourself up," the Prime Minister ordered coldly, adjusting his jade thumb ring. "If any of my servants or the household staff see you looking like a slaughtered pig, I will take a knife to your face. Keep the doors locked, and have the kitchen brew my morning tea. It had better be sitting on my desk the exact moment I return from court."
"Y-Yes, Master," the Third Wife rasped, her voice a broken, pathetic whisper.
