My parents looked at me as if I had grown a second head. But I had to take into consideration that it hadn't even been a week since I told my father that I'd rather die than marry anyone other than Satan reincarnate.
"I know how this sounds, and I know I said I would never marry him," I paused, lowering my head in shame—the kind I couldn't fake because I truly felt it. "So if you've already turned down the proposal, I underst—"
My father's hand came down on the table, cutting me off.
"I haven't!" He jumped up from his chair earnestly, causing it to fall backward. "I will send word to the King right now—"
I grabbed his hand to stop him before he left the table.
"Wait. I think maybe I should go personally accept the proposal, don't you think? As his future daughter-in-law, of course." I offered a sheepish smile as I clasped his hand in mine.
His surprised eyes fell to where I held him. I could see it then—he couldn't remember the last time I had initiated affection toward them.
"W-well, I will request an audience with him today!" He patted my hand, then gently stroked my head before leaving the dining room, purpose in every stride.
"What's going on, Rowie?" My mother peered into my eyes with grave concern. "I thought you loved Alistair."
"Loved," I emphasized, crossing my arms over my chest. "I'm done fighting for his pathetic love."
My words brought satisfaction to my mother. Her expression softened as she reached out and took my hand in hers.
"Alistair never deserved your devotion, sweetie. I'm glad you realized that."
My heart ached for my parents when I thought about everything I'd put them through over that fool. I squeezed my mother's hand, then pulled away, blinking back the wetness in my eyes.
"I must be on my way then," I cleared my throat as I rose from my chair. "The King awaits."
—
"I hope I'm not intruding… I simply cannot help myself, but is it true, my lady?" Lulia grabbed my shoulders, gazing into my eyes as if she were trying to call my bluff.
"Yes, Lulia—and before you ask, no, I haven't lost my mind." I chuckled, tossing my hair over my shoulder as I gestured for her to carry on with her work.
"But surely you've heard the rumours about the Prince, haven't you?" Her hands resumed their task, but concern etched her face. "There's no woman in the kingdom who has ever accepted a proposal from him, no matter how much money or power they offered."
"What is the chatter amongst the maids? Please, enlighten me." My ears tingled, interest piqued. Though I knew quite a bit about the Prince's demise, I knew little of the man himself. Not that rumours were reliable sources.
"They say you should never fall in love with a dead man. Prince Lucien handles all military affairs, which is why he became the sole successor to the crown over his older brother, Prince Lionel, who was meant to be next in line." Lulia puffed her cheeks and released an exaggerated breath. "Prince Lucien is a great asset to the kingdom. That's why they call him A Dead Man Walking. There have been many threats and assassination attempts against his life. There's no telling when one might succeed."
Of course, that was the one piece I already knew.
Lucien died five days after his coronation—three months before my execution.
A fact etched into my memory with cruel precision, because I was accused of his murder despite never having met the man.
In reality, I hadn't met him, nor cared for him, consumed as I was by my pathetic, undying love for Alistair.
Though marrying Lucien would save my father's business from bankruptcy, I didn't want to endure the hassle and shenanigans of marriage.
I had heard whispers through the grapevine. While Lucien was A Dead Man Walking to some, he was a Eunuch to others. In that sense, he was the best option—one that would allow me to survive and live peacefully.
I turned back to the mirror, studying my reflection—the calm expression, the careful composure.
"Then it's fortunate love has nothing to do with this."
Lulia's eyes widened. "You truly mean to accept?"
"I do," I said evenly. "Lucien requires a wife willing to risk being a widow. I require a marriage that demands nothing of my heart."
Nor my body, if the rumours were true.
After all, they claimed the Prince was either incapable—or unwilling—to touch a woman. Either way, it suited me just fine. A husband married to duty alone was far less dangerous than one who desired devotion.
Especially after Alistair.
Especially after everything love had cost me.
—
On our wedding night, I waited for him.
I sat on the edge of the bed long after the candles had melted into waxy puddles, my gown heavy against my skin, my hands folded so tightly in my lap they ached. Every sound made my heart stutter—every footstep in the hall, every creak of the house—until I learned to stop hoping.
When Alastair finally entered, he didn't look at me.
He shut the door behind him and stood there, as if bracing himself for something unpleasant.
"You may take it off," he said, nodding toward my dress. "I have no desire to watch."
My fingers trembled as I stood. "If you're nervous," I whispered, desperate to salvage something, "we don't have to—"
He laughed.
Not warmly. Not kindly. It was a sound stripped of mercy.
"Don't flatter yourself," he said. "This isn't about nerves."
I swallowed hard. "Then… why are you angry?"
"Because," he replied, finally meeting my eyes, "every time I look at you, I remember who I was forced to give up."
The words landed like a slap.
"I will try harder," I said quickly, shame crawling up my throat. "I can be better. If you tell me what you need—"
"I need you to be someone else."
He crossed the room then, close enough that I could smell the wine on his breath. For a moment—just a moment—I thought he might kiss me.
Instead, he grabbed my wrist.
"This marriage ends tonight," he said quietly. "In every way that matters."
I shook my head. "Alastair, please—"
He turned me toward the bed and pushed me down.
"Don't pretend this is love," he warned. "You wanted to be my wife. This is the cost."
I stared at the ceiling as he took what he wanted, biting my lip until I tasted blood, counting the cracks above me so I wouldn't have to feel the weight of him—or the way my name sounded wrong in his mouth.
When it was over, he stepped away as if I'd burned him.
"Do not expect tenderness," he said, fastening his coat. "You will never have my heart. And you will never have my loyalty."
Tears blurred my vision, but I didn't let them fall.
"Then what do I have?" I asked.
He paused at the door.
"My resentment," he said. "And your silence."
The door closed behind him.
I lay there long after, my wedding dress ruined, my body aching, my chest hollow in a way I did not yet have words for.
That was the night I learned love could be used as a weapon—and that the love I once learned of was a another tall tale.
—
The following morning, a summons arrived sealed in black wax.
The Light of the Kingdom, King Endmund Blackwell V, requests your presence this late afternoon in the main palace.
No title. No warmth. Just obligation.
The corridor leading to the throne room was colder than the rest of the palace, its stone walls bare of tapestries or finery. Every footstep echoed too loudly, as if announcing my intrusion into a place not meant for comfort—or mercy.
Two guards stood outside the doors, hands resting on their swords. They did not look at me with curiosity, nor disdain.
They looked at me with pity.
I lifted my head, feigning confidence as I entered.
"I would be lying if I said the King's anticipation wasn't making me nervous."
He stared at me with immense expectation.
"Thank you for granting me an audience, Your Majesty," I curtsied, lowering my gaze to avoid appearing ignorant.
"Rowena! I haven't seen you since you were the size of a walnut." The King roared with amusement, his laughter booming. "Your father tells me you wished to speak with me?"
"Yes," I cleared my throat, straightening my shoulders. "I wished to humbly accept the marriage proposal to Prince Lucien—personally."
Before I could finish, his face lit up.
"When I received your father's letter, I expected a rejection. My niece claimed you'd seek a betrothal with that Grant boy instead."
The cringe crept from my toes to my stomach.
"Oh—Lady Montclair was mistaken, Your Highness," I laughed nervously. "While I was once infatuated with Lord Grant, it was nothing more than a childish crush."
The King sighed deeply, gaze drifting to the floor.
"I know what they say of Lucien. Most of it is true. But the notion that he brings misfortune to families is nonsense." He turned back to me. "So tell me—why accept, when every woman before you refused?"
"They also say I'm a difficult woman," I scoffed lightly. "So it seems the Prince and I are made for each other."
The King laughed heartily. "Well said! I look forward to what you will bring to this kingdom as Queen, my child."
A shiver ran through me. Hearing him say those words out loud almost made me reconsider my decision to take my life down this route.
"Your Highness," I said carefully, "might Prince Lucien be available for a word?"
"I admire your eagerness," he replied, stroking his beard. "You may wait for him in the drawing room."
As I was guided through the halls, I felt countless stares—pity and curiosity alike.
"The Prince will arrive shortly, my lady," the attendant said, bowing before exiting.
I wandered the room, searching for some sign—some truth about the family I was about to marry into.
One of my greatest mistakes, aside from meeting Alistair Grant, was expecting more from him after marriage—never realizing it would be the beginning of something I couldn't escape. This was because, as much as I loved him, I knew nothing about who he was, or what kind of man he would be.
—
The doors pushed open, their weight forcing me onto my heels.
For a second, the room spun, and I had to steady myself as a man stepped inside. The air felt heavier the moment he entered, as though the room had shifted around him.
It was almost as if our eyes locked instantly. The tension tightened without warning, leaving me painfully aware of my own breathing and the sound of my heart in my ears.
Before he could introduce himself, I already knew who he was. His demeanor—calm, controlled, certain—gave him away.
He didn't rush forward. He took his time, his dark gaze traveling from my face, down to my feet, and back up again. I would be lying if I said it didn't make my stomach flip.
The doors closed behind him with a dull thud, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.
He stopped a few steps away. Close enough to be felt, but not close enough to touch. I searched his face for something—anything—but his expression gave me nothing.
For a long moment, he simply looked at me.
Then he spoke, his voice steady, almost detached.
"So," he said, "you're the one who said yes."