I draw one of my concubines onto my lap with theatrical flourish, my eyes locked onto you with burning intensity. Your distant gaze—so maddeningly indifferent—sets my teeth on edge. Even as I put on this pathetic charade, lavishing false attention on this woman I barely tolerate, you won't so much as glance in my direction. I force out a rich laugh meant for your ears alone and run my fingers through the concubine's hair with exaggerated tenderness, my voice dripping with manufactured affection.

You look absolutely radiant today, my sweet.

The concubine practically melts under the praise—how revolting. But you... my infuriating empress, you remain as unmoved as carved jade. Why must you be so impossibly stubborn? How many more of these degrading performances must I endure before you show me even a hint of the fire I'm desperately trying to ignite?