The Empress's Harem and Other Unwanted Side Hustles

Lucien woke up with a flinch.

His little body trembled, his breath came in quick, shallow gasps, and for a moment, he didn't know where he was. The room was unfamiliar. The air felt different. His mother—where was his mother?

His gray eyes darted around in panic.

Was he alone?

Was the nightmare real?

The memory of the assassins, of his mother's blood-stained nightgown, of the acrid stench of acid burning through their bed—he couldn't breathe.

Mother?

His small hands gripped the blankets as he scrambled to sit up. But just as he was about to jump off the bed, a warm hand caught his wrist, firm but gentle.

A scent—chamomile.

"Whoa there, kiddo."

Lucius.

Lucien turned his wide, teary eyes up and saw his teacher's familiar golden hair and violet eyes. The tension in his tiny shoulders eased, and without thinking, he threw himself into Lucius's chest, burying his face in the older man's coat.

A soft sob escaped him.

Lucius let out a small sigh, his free hand coming up to ruffle Lucien's messy black hair. "Geez, you're such a crybaby," he muttered, but his voice wasn't mocking. It was warm, reassuring.

Lucien clung to him tighter.

He thought he was alone.

He was really, really scared.

"Where's Mother?" his voice came out muffled against Lucius's coat.

"She's out handling some business," Lucius replied lazily, leaning back against the couch with Lucien still clinging to him. "She left me in charge of you, so no running around, alright?"

Lucien sniffled but nodded obediently.

Lucius let him be for a moment, allowing the boy to calm down. Eventually, Lucien loosened his grip and wiped his eyes with his sleeve, embarrassed by his own tears. He looked up at his teacher—really looked at him—and blinked in surprise.

Lucius… looked different.

His usually pristine appearance was a little more homey. His golden hair was tousled, as if he hadn't bothered fixing it properly. He wasn't wearing his usual high-collared coats and elaborate accessories. Instead, he had on a simple dark tunic with the sleeves rolled up, looking more like a laid-back older brother than the Underworld King.

"You look weird," Lucien mumbled.

Lucius quirked an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

Lucien quickly shook his head. "No! Not bad weird… just different."

Lucius smirked, amused. "Well, forgive me, Your Highness. I wasn't aware I needed your approval before getting dressed."

Lucien pouted but didn't argue. He wasn't sure why, but seeing Lucius like this made him feel… safe.

Still a little shaken, he quietly followed his teacher around, helping him prepare for the day. He watched as Lucius made tea—tea that was way too sweet, but Lucius still drank it without complaint.

It was comforting, in a way.

Maybe this morning wouldn't be so bad.

*****

Meanwhile, Diana walked through the streets of the capital, her silver hair tucked beneath a simple hood.

She rarely came out like this, but today, she needed to see.

Her steps took her down an old street—one that she knew would suffer the most when the First Calamity struck. The buildings here were old, the people weary. Children played in the dirt while their mothers bartered with vendors for scraps.

She clenched her fists.

In her past life, this street was one of the first places to fall. Fires spread, buildings collapsed, families were torn apart. And yet, in that life, she had been too blind, too caught up in her love for Cassian to see what truly mattered.

Now, she saw everything.

Her golden eyes swept over the crowd as she reached the central plaza, where a grand fountain stood. The water shimmered under the morning sun, but Diana's reflection in it was grim.

Had she done the right thing?

Had she been foolish to let Liliana take everything without a fight?

Her son was in danger.

She thought that by stepping away, by letting go of her past grudges, she could focus on what truly mattered—saving the world from the three calamities so Lucien could live peacefully.

But Liliana had crossed a line.

Diana had always been painted as the villain. The foolish Empress who couldn't compare to the innocent, kind-hearted Queen.

She didn't care about that anymore.

She didn't care if the world thought her a villain, a monster, a heartless woman.

But she would not let them touch her son.

Her hands trembled slightly as she remembered a particular moment from her past life—when her emotions had boiled over, and she had pushed Liliana down the stairs in a fit of anger.

The news had spread within minutes.

Cassian had slapped her.

She had been imprisoned for days.

And yet, back then, she had still been blind.

She had still loved him.

She had still hoped—foolishly hoped—that he would see her someday.

Diana closed her eyes.

She had no time for this anymore.

Liliana would have to pay the price for this transgression.

But how?

Do I take revenge? Do I make her suffer?

No.

No, that was her old self talking.

There was a better way.

A warning.

A clear, undeniable warning.

She had been so focused on avoiding her past mistakes that she had overlooked something crucial—justice.

Her golden eyes flickered with resolution just as a shadow fell over her.

A man in an elegant suit sat beside her.

The reporter.

He adjusted his glasses, glancing at her with curiosity. "I must admit, I never expected to be called by the Empress herself," he said calmly.

Diana said nothing at first.

Then, with a steady breath, she spoke the words she should have said long ago.

"The Marquis Evermont," she began, "was chosen to lead the Northern Plains Expedition. He was given enough funds to build shelters, provide food, and ensure the safety of the people there."

The reporter listened intently.

Diana's voice remained calm, but every word was laced with cold truth.

"But only a quarter of that money ever reached the people," she continued. "Half of it was embezzled. The remaining funds were used to support his mistress and illegitimate child outside the capital."

A sharp intake of breath.

The reporter's eyes widened slightly.

Diana turned to face him fully, her golden gaze unyielding.

"You will write it," she said. "Every detail. Every number. Every crime."

The man swallowed. "Your Majesty, this is—"

"The truth."

A heavy silence hung between them.

The reporter studied her for a long moment before nodding slowly. "I understand," he said, voice quiet but firm. "I will write it."

The reporter sat stiffly, his hands clasped together, listening intently as Diana continued speaking.

"Lady Odelle," she said, her voice steady, "once served in the Queen's palace as a seamstress. She was accused of stealing a sapphire brooch and was sent to the mines as punishment."

The man adjusted his glasses. "Was there evidence of her crime?"

Diana's golden eyes were cold. "None. The brooch was later found in another maid's possession, but by then, it was too late. Lady Odelle lost her sight in those mines. She's blind now."

A heavy silence settled between them.

"Take me to her," the reporter finally said.

Diana nodded. Without hesitation, she led him through the quiet, winding streets of the capital, her hood drawn low to conceal her identity.

When they arrived at a small, crumbling house on the outskirts of the city, Diana knocked gently on the door. A moment later, it creaked open, revealing a frail woman with clouded eyes.

"Who is it?" the woman asked warily.

"A friend," Diana said softly.

Lady Odelle hesitated before stepping back, allowing them inside. The home was sparse—only a simple wooden table, a few chairs, and a single bed pushed against the wall. The air smelled faintly of herbs, likely a poor attempt to ease whatever pain lingered in her broken body.

The reporter sat across from Lady Odelle while Diana remained standing.

"I'm sorry for intruding," he began, his voice polite. "But I was hoping to hear your story."

Lady Odelle's lips pressed into a thin line. "What good would it do?" she murmured. "The Queen sits on her throne. No one cares for the words of a blind woman."

Diana stepped forward then, her expression unreadable.

"I care."

Lady Odelle turned her head toward her, her unseeing eyes searching.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, as if something within her had cracked, she let out a weary sigh.

"I was twenty-three," she whispered, her hands tightening in her lap. "I had just been promoted to the Queen's personal seamstress. It should have been an honor."

The reporter scribbled notes as she spoke, his face impassive, but Diana could see the slight tremor in his hand.

"One day, the Queen claimed her brooch had gone missing. I swore I hadn't touched it, but it didn't matter. The other maids accused me. The guards dragged me away. No trial. No chance to defend myself."

Her fingers trembled.

"I spent five years in the mines," she continued, voice hoarse. "The dust destroyed my sight. By the time my name was cleared, it didn't matter anymore. My life was already ruined."

Diana clenched her fists.

It wasn't just about Odelle. It was about all the others—the ones who had suffered, the ones whose lives had been shattered.

And yet, she had been blind to it all in her past life.

She had killed for Cassian.

Killed for the Emperor.

She had wielded her sword without question, never stopping to wonder if she was on the wrong side.

Her nails dug into her palms.

Not this time.

Not ever again.

"Thank you for sharing your story," the reporter said gently, setting his quill down.

Lady Odelle let out a soft, bitter laugh. "It won't change anything."

Diana met her gaze. "It will."

The older woman scoffed. "And how do you plan to fight the Queen's influence? You think anyone will believe the words of a disgraced seamstress?"

Diana tilted her head, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips. "It doesn't matter if they don't believe it."

Odelle frowned. "Then why bother?"

Diana's golden eyes gleamed.

"Because doubt is more dangerous than the truth."

The reporter inhaled sharply, understanding dawning in his eyes.

She didn't need people to immediately turn against Liliana. She didn't need them to believe everything at once.

She just needed to plant the seed of doubt.

Because once cracks formed in an image—once suspicion took root—it would only be a matter of time before the truth forced itself into the light.

They visited more places that day.

A mother whose son had been imprisoned for speaking against the Queen.

A former noble whose family was executed on false charges.

A servant who had been whipped nearly to death for spilling tea on Liliana's dress.

Each story, each testimony, carved itself into Diana's soul.

Each one was a reminder of how blind she had been in her past life.

By the time they reached the last house, the reporter's hands were shaking. His once calm, professional demeanor had cracked.

"I—" he hesitated, his throat dry. "Your Majesty… this is…"

He didn't finish. He didn't have to.

The weight of it all pressed down on him.

Diana, however, remained composed.

"You don't have to publish everything yet," she said. "Just write a copy for me."

The reporter looked up at her in surprise. "You…?"

"I'll handle the rest."

Her voice was steady.

The reporter hesitated for a long time before nodding. "Alright," he murmured.

She reached into her cloak and handed him a slip of parchment. "Tomorrow," she said. "Send a letter to the Empress's palace directly. I'll be waiting."

He took the paper from her, staring at it as if it carried more weight than a simple instruction.

"Do you really think this will work?" he asked quietly.

Diana smiled faintly.

"It doesn't matter if they don't believe it," she repeated. "The cracks have already begun to spread."

She turned away, walking down the dimly lit street, her silver hair catching the moonlight.

Because at the end of the day—

The truth always reveals itself.