Empress Handbook

Chapter Eighteen | Risen Pheonix

A black and white photo of Yeoreum is suspended in a bejewelled photo frame at the centre of the stage, reminding the mourners of the true intention behind the tearful circus. Taehyung has his head lowered like he is trying to suppress a ferocious sadness. Yeoreum squints to scrutinise the grief in his light-trapping eyes that compels people to punish the person who caused such intense sadness. A laugh nearly escapes Yeoreum.

"The funeral for the beloved late Empress Yeoreum now begins."

A voice thuds through the booming speakers, just as it did at the semi-final round of The Selection. Except this time, Taehyung follows its directions instead of Yeoreum. He rises from his seat and ambles to the microphone stand below her photo in a solemn wave of applause.

"I'm starting," Yeoreum utters at her earpiece before she stashes it beneath a cabinet.

Yoongi has planned for every single possible scenario. He got Yeoreum in the venue with a flower cart, the earpiece she speaks to is connected to a secret earpiece inside his tragus, and he only responds to her via taps in case Taehyung records his other earpiece's activities. All Yeoreum needs to do is dash inside the funeral hall and scare the fuck out of those bitches. She is ready.

"Good morning, everyone. I stand before you today as the representative of a grief-stricken family for a mourning country, as this monarchy's Emperor and as Yeoreum's grieving husband. Through television and internet live streams, we are all united not only in our desire to pay our respects to Empress Yeoreum but also—"

"Your Majesty."

Yeoreum's voice rises from the opulent doorway. Everyone shifts their gaze to the doe-eyed woman who stands amongst the waves of black and white in a daring red dress that shatters the perfect, crystalline world of feigned sobs and muffles. The crystal chandelier sheds a glistening beam over Yeoreum's figure, setting her in a scintillating silver square.

Yeoreum's arms are slightly arched, and her hands are perfectly folded in front of her abdomen. With the light haloed around her, Yeoreum looks perfect, almost too perfect to be real.

Audible gasps and whispers erupt amongst the mourners like crashing waves that grow violent at the sudden change of wind. Yeoreum purposely prolongs her stay at the doorway to leave an impression on every single set of eyes before she strides down the timber floor with a motion that is slicker than her wedding aisle stride.

Yunhee's mouth falls agape as she grips the sides of her chair. Rage smoulder in her eyes like firecrackers set aflame, abruptly flaring the last speck of colour away from her face. That is the first time Yunhee has ever lost her practised calm.

Song Yeoreum is walking. One step, two steps, three steps. Closer and closer to her. She is not dead.

Jungkook shoots up from his seat. "It is Her Majesty—"

"No, Empress is dead," Yunhee snaps with her nostrils flaring at the rate of her quickened breathing. "This is impossible."

Quickly, the shocked reporters begin to press their camera shutters. A blinding torrent of sharp white flashes flushes through the venue, stirring the budding chaos amongst the mourners to grow louder and louder.

Yeoreum's eyes grow sore at the camera flashes, but she does not bat a single eyelash. With the weight of the world's gaze, she mounts up the stairs to the stage of her own funeral to bid her old self a well-deserved farewell.

The guards on the two sides of the stage falter as they watch Yeoreum approach Taehyung, dithering over whether or not they should stop her. Her tall crimson pumps crack against the timber floor like they are playing a triumphant tune to her new battle, one she is determined to win.